It’s not a biological clock. It’s Tim fucking Westwood blaring an airhorn through my cervix.

 

It’s all across my YouTube, Facebook and Instagram. When I turned 30, a flare shot into the sky to the data gods: “She’s ready, release the ads!”

 

Pregnancy tests, baby food, wedding venues, diet apps, yoghurt… never-ending yoghurt adverts with manic, grinning women rubbing their stomachs. Giggling babies coo on my timeline under a picture of someone I’ve forgotten from school. I can’t tell if everyone is having babies, or  if they all have a timeshare of the same one, because, to me, they all look exactly the same – a timeline filled with tiny bald Elton Johns.

 

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