More fuckwittery

One of the enjoyable things about being female and of a certain age is the ability to shock by uttering a few well chosen expletives. I love swearing, always have and always will. I know that a lot of people aren't fond of the c word, but there are circumstances when only cunt will do. Unfortunately my love of all things invective almost cost me my practicing certificate during my first year of work. I was completely out of my depth with a dispute over a will, and was being masterfully manipulated by a pompous arse of a solicitor representing one of the other parties. He he was afflicted with short man syndrome, and since I had the audacity to be newly qualified, female and tall I seemed to bring out the Napoleon in him.

One Friday afternoon just as I was about to leave the office he rang and demanded I fax him some document immediately. These days I would tell him to fuck off, but in the infancy of my career, before deference had been subsumed by the realisation that being a lawyer is ninety-eight percent fuckwittery management, I submitted to his bully boy style. I stomped back up to my office on the third floor, retrieved the relevant papers, and stomped back to the fax machine on the ground floor whilst chanting, you cunt you cunt you cunt... Somehow, in my haste to get to the pub, I managed to address the fax header page - Mr Cunt - and only spotted it when the page came out the wrong side of the fax machine. Oops. Mr Cunt, I mean, Mr Carter was not impressed, and threatened to report me to The Law Society who, on the whole, take a dim view of the use of the c word in interpartes correspondence, and are not, as an institution, renowned for a ribald sense of humour. Fortunately the Senior Partner of my firm devised a cunning tourettes defence, and secretly agreed that the the whole matter was complete fuckwitism.

The next time I used the c word unwisely has lead to a situation where I can't be honest with twin 2 when she asks me what her first word was until she's at least twenty-one. The girls must have been about eighteen months and we were house hunting. It was raining, and we were waiting for the spotty teenage estate agent to pull up in the BMW peeping over the steering wheel, and show us around a prospective new home. Spouse and I were carrying a twin a piece, and I was grumbling, and grumbling and cussing is one and the same thing for me. At some point it was inevitable that I would say cunt. Up until this point Twin 2 had been mute apart from random gurgles, but, sadly it was at this precise moment that she chose to find her voice - cunt was her first word. She found the word fascinating, and once the acne faced chino wearing estate agent finally arrived, she repeated the word at five minute intervals throughout the tortuously long viewing. Acne face pretended he hadn't heard and feverishly pointed out original features and cupboard space like a toad on speed. I desperately wanted to ask him if I looked like the kinda cunt that would teach my babies to swear, but resisted.

Despite having true badmother credentials, I rarely swear in front of the Little Darlings. Fortunately Eve forgot the c word before she started nursery, and although they are aware these words exist they appreciate they are strictly for parental use. Last night Boychild told me that he is no longer friends with Oliver because he swore at him. I asked what he said, and Jack whispered, he called me an idiot. This struck me as funny since in scramble chat, the game I've mentioned before, you can call someone a wanker, but you can't call them an idiot. More fuckwittage, if you ask me.