If you took a double-sided bulldozer, a really big one, put a tower on it so you could add a full size wrecking-ball which could take down a three storey building, added metal spikes round the track so you could downward destroy as well as front, back and above, and then, made it look like Amber Heard, all gorgeousness and exquisite and beautiful and softness, once you’d conceptualised that complex image in your mind, and only then, can you imagine life with our Joey. Oh, and this 27 tonne bulldozer falls over quite a bit too. And eats dirt. Pebbles. Earth. Anything.

You see I had two daughters. Then the Lord sent me a granddaughter. Not just any granddaughter but the best one He’d ever produced. And thus my experience of ‘babies’ was very girly-orientated. Which is fine, cos I just love little girls. And they play and they fall and they tumble and they break things, because babies do and they have poor co-ordination and they’re very excitable, particularly around me because apparently that’s what I do. Not saying its a good thing, just sayin’.

But then came Joey. And the world changed. And got broken. Along with most things in it.

No-one taught Joey to do that, its an innate skill. No one ‘programmed’ or ‘conditioned’ or ‘gender stereotyped’ him. Other than the boxing gloves I bought him at 3 weeks old and the samurai sword for his first birthday present. And I may be making judgments based on a very small sample size (for which I would crucify any and every ‘study’ guilty of such a crime) but I don’t care. Boys and gels are different. Just different. In the way they act. Of course, you get down-time with Joey. He’ll read a book with you for approximately 9 seconds before tearing a page off and jumping to the floor in search of things to destroy. Though he does relax (as you can see, during his busy working day) to attend to his… errr… correspondence, and of course he does sit still while he eats. Which is a large part of his day. Because he knows how to eat does our little Jo-Jo. His lunch. His sister’s lunch. My lunch. Your lunch. Lunch is not just for wimps; its just for Joey.

But heh, eating’s not a gender thing. Does Joey behave as he does (which is not in any way ‘bad’, just rather ‘dangerous’) because he’s conscious that his jeans are blue while his sister’s are pink? And thus has been ‘trained’ by un-woke, gender-binary parents to live as he does? Shame on them.

We’ll let Joey decide on his own gender, when he’s ready. Age about 4 should be fine. We’ll explain all the wonderful options available to him in the world of the NON-binary, the trans-options, and draw him pictures. If we can understand what the fuck they mean. Or who the fuck they mean, perhaps. Then he’ll have surgery, if necessary, as appropriate.

Yes, life in the post-woke world is easy. Just don’t choose to talk about it. Debate has been banned. Ask JK Rowling. I would, but I’ve ‘cancelled’ her.

Happy lovely day

A xxxx