(or “The Sad Story of Clancy Mugbucket”.)
Fading Hope – Pre-Menopausal Woman Freezes Her Eggs
(or The Sad Story of Clancy Mugbucket.)
Poor Clancy Mugbucket. When she was young, she bought into the lie that she could have it all. She had a fancy-pants career and was the boss, sitting on a load of men’s faces and feeling important, living the feminist dream. She put her career before EVERYTHING (of course.) She shagged quite a few bad boys back in the day, thinking how liberated she was but now the old body clock is ticking and the menopause beckons, bringing with it that inner feeling of panic that she might miss the boat where having children is concerned.
For some time she has let it be known that she is “ready to settle down with a nice guy” and it has taken her a while to realise that the nice guys don’t want her. Why should they?
Once she reached thirty, the men who were willing to bed her tailed off somewhat and it has slowly dawned on her that most men find her quite undesirable. There are too many younger women out there and what man in his right mind would want a feminist to be the mother of his children when the daft cow probably thinks that being expected to make the sandwiches is the height of oppression?
She’s deluded herself for quite a while that she is a good catch but the penny has begun to drop that nobody wants her so, naturally, she has been running around blaming the men and spouting tosh like: “If the men cannot handle a strong, independent, assertive woman, then that’s their problem.” and she has had plenty of feminist friends to cheer her on. They haven’t done her any favours. All their encouragement has merely delayed the moment when it finally dawned on her that Mr. Sit-On-My-Face Right is unlikely to turn up before the menopause takes any last remaining possibility of having kids away.
So here is poor Clancy Mugbucket, paying a small fortune to have her eggs frozen in order to keep her options open in spite of her bad, life decisions, but the truth is that nobody wants her and nobody is GOING to want her, let alone her cryogenic spawn. She is old, past it, clapped out, used goods and the prospect of motherhood is fading fast.
She is quite deluded as one would expect. Her eggs might just as well be in fecking Narnia given that she has more chance of Aslan coming along and breathing on her eggs and turning them into babies so they can do a conga round the throne room at Cair Paravel than finding some schmuck who will be happy to do as he is told and willing to enter into fatherhood via a doorway which is effectively the equivalent of wanking into a petri dish (and mum being in her seventies by the time the kid reaches 18.) No, there are younger women out there – and with better personalities.
Unless there is a tragic, medical context which would probably entitle her to a walk-on part on a reality show like Embarrassing Bodies, by the time a woman gets round to freezing her eggs, it is usually the last resort, a badge of honour which says: “Nobody wanted me” or “I was too fussy and thought I could do better until the menopause gave me my rude awakening.”
She did get pregnant many years ago but “Supermum” chose to have it ripped to pieces and dropped in a bucket, unaware that she was throwing away the one crack at motherhood that life would afford her. She will have neither children nor grandchildren to visit her in her old age. Still, perhaps the spirits of her beheaded and dismembered offspring will visit her in her dreams – but, let’s face it, such a thought is unlikely to give her the warm fuzzies.
She did get one thing right: She can look at those female-supremacist, sexist tee-shirts which read “The Future is Female” and know that indeed, her future is very female. Just her, lonely, maybe with a cat.
The only value the poor cow has now is as a warning to young girls how not to live their lives as she wanders about wailing: “I would have been a good mother. I would have been a good mother.”
No dear, you weren’t. You butchered yours in an abortion clinic.
WILL MOBBERLEY FINE ARTIST 