I never thought breastfeeding would be hard. When I thought about it at all, my mind conjured beatific scenes suffused with a sort of religious glow. There I was, genteelly offering the child a nipple in the manner of a renaissance Madonna, which the child accepted politely and cherubically. What a pretty picture we made.
Well, those preconceptions were – excuse my language – complete horseshit. These days I envisage more of a triptych: the infant Jesus spluttering at the breast, face purple with hangry fury; the infant Jesus possetting milk down Mary’s front; the infant Jesus and the nappy explosion.