Duck You - part 1

‘There will come a time when blood will gush out from between your legs, fresh and fragrant like Sunday roast gravy’. This was how Mum had chosen to start that all important talk with her eldest daughter Donald. Dad – who had taken time off work for the occasion –sat, nodding, his hands folded annoyingly over his crossed legs.
Today was the eve of Donald’s thirteenth birthday, and Mum and Dad had thought it appropriate to talk to their pubescent daughter about the changes she should expect in her body.

Mum’s bosom was heaving. Not in an attractive way. But rather like her famous orange and Madeira soufflé, slowly rising, golden and promising, then breathing out (or flopping) with a bubble and splatter. She did that when she felt purposeful, pacing herself to unravel juicy bits and practicality. She’d followed her initial statement with:

‘expect your boobs to grow like melons. That’s if you take after me of course. If you’ve inherited your father’s sisters excuse for tits, then the progress will be slow and the results dissatisfying.’