I thought it was ok. I could understand the reasons. They said there might be a man or a nervous child seeing this small piece of flesh that they weren’t quite expecting. So I whispered and tiptoed with nervous discretion but after six months of her life sat sitting on lids, sipping on milk, nostrils sniffing on piss– trying not to bang her head on toilet dispensers. I wonder whether these public loo feeds offend her. Cos I’m getting tired of discretion and being polite. As my baby’s first sips are drown-drenched in shite. I spent the first feeding months of her beautiful life feeling nervous and awkward and wanting everything right. Surrounded by family till I stepped out the house It took me eight weeks to get the confidence to go into town, now the comments around me cut like a knife, as I rush into toilet cubicles feeling nothing like nice. Because I’m giving her milk that’s not in a bottle Wishing the cocaine generation of white powder would topple us see, pyramid sales pitches across our green globe and female breasts banned. Unless they’re out just for show. And the more I go out the more I can’t stand it. I walk into town, feel I’m surrounded by bandits Cos in this country of billboards covered in tits and family newsagents full of it W H Smith top shelves out for men, why don’t you complain about them then? In this country of billboards covered in tits and family newsagents magazines full of it. W H Smiths top shelves out for men I’m getting embarrassed incase a small flash of flesh might offend. And I am not trying to parade this. I don’t want to make a show. But when I’m told I’d be better just staying at home and when another friend I know is thrown off a bus and another mother told to get out of a pub even my grandma said maybe I was “sexing it up”. And I’m sure the milk-makers love all this fuss. All the cussing and worry and look disgust as another mother turns from nipples to powder. Ashamed, or embarrassed about comments around her, and as I hold her head up and pull my cardi across and she sips on that liqueur made by everyone’s God, I think for God’s sake Jesus drank it so did Siddhartha, Mohammed, and Moses and both of their fathers Ganesh and Shiva and Brigid and Buddha and I’m sure they weren’t doing it sniffing on shit as their mothers sat embarrassed on cold toilet lids in a country of billboards covered in tits. In a country of low-cut tops, cleavage and skin and in a country of cloth bags and recycling bins. And as I desperately try to take all of this in I hold her head up, I can’t get my head round the anger towards us and not to the sounds of lorries offloading formula milk into countries where water runs dripping in filth, in towns where breasts are oasis’ of life now dried up in two for one offers, enticed by labels logos and gold standard rights claiming breast milk is healthier powdered and white. Packaged and branded and sold at a price so that nothing is free and this money-fueled life, which is fine if you need it or prefer to use bottles where water is clean and bacteria boiled but in towns where they drown in pollution and sewage bottled kids die and they knew that they’d do it. In towns where pennies are savoured like sweets, we end up paying for one thing that has always been free. In towns empty of hospital beds babies die, diarrhea, fueled that breast milk would end so no more will I sit on these cold toilet lids no matter how embarrassed I feel as she sips. Cos’ in this country of billboards covered in tits I think I should try to get used to this.