In the midst of a sympathy-seeking Facebook post in which Clementine Ford admits her pre-birth estimation of the rigours of motherhood was totally wrong, she says she’s back to her normal article-writing schedule as of Monday past:

On Wednesday, my baby will be ten weeks old. Since the birth, I’ve launched a book and embarked on a (still going) interstate tour. I’ve written a few articles (but resuming twice weekly files from today).

Today’s Wednesday and nothing. Perhaps the whole motherhood thing is overwhelming her. Or maybe she’s having difficulty coming up with a way to weasel her way out of the corner she’s painted herself into. Just imagine the possible behind-the-scenes communications between Ford and Fairfax editors:

Fairfax editors: Clem, you misled us and our readers; the guy on the tram isn’t autistic but he does have a mental disability.

Clementine Ford: So what? His 85 IQ doesn’t excuse hassling females for high-fives. And anyway, fuck you, you’re male and an obvious tool of the patriarchy.

FE: You have no choice but to admit you were misleading and apologise.

CF: Fuck you.

This would all be funny except that Ford’s son, Frank, is Ford’s son.



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