How to make millions off mums (and dads, and grandparents…)

If you’re looking for a billion dollar business idea, my advice would be this: target the mums. Anything that makes life a little easier for a frazzled parent is a goer. 

They. Will. Buy. It. 

So why on Earth has nobody invented a one-handed wet wipe?

Let’s set the scene. A telltale whiff hits you in the nostrils and you know that something explosive is happening. So you make a pitstop at your nearest public loo to assess the damage. Then you realise your nappies are right at the bottom of the bag, buried under a half-open packet of rusks. So you dig one out and, in the process, cover the entire floor with crumbs of Farley’s finest. 

You’ve finally managed to get the change table down and the baby in the middle of it. Success! Except that last night’s puréed casserole has made a break for it, all down their legs, all up their back and into crevices you didn’t know existed. Cue full outfit change. You gingerly peel off the clothes that your child has been in for all of 3.4 seconds… and somehow, it’s IN THEIR HAIR.

Now they’re flapping their arms. Oh god, it’s everywhere. You’ve got both chubby little legs clamped in one hand and the other is desperately searching for the bumper pack of wipes… but it’s unopened. How are you going to get the seal off? You tear at the sticky tab with your teeth and the whole thing rips open. Yes, 140 wipes are going to go dry now, but this is an emergency. You decide you’re willing to forgo the £68 you spent on replenishing your stocks.

Your free hand dives in. You scrabble at the top wipe… you can’t get traction. You try pinching it between the nails of your thumb and forefinger, and because it’s the eco-friendliest bit of plastic-free poo-rag you could find, it has no structural integrity and it disintegrates. You wish you could stifle your scream but you have NO HANDS LEFT. 

You go back and try again. Yes! They’re yielding! Except you’ve managed to pick up not one, not two, but 27 wipes in one clump. You try and peel them apart, but they’re hellbent on remaining as one. 

Your baby breaks free of your left-handed grasp and it’s game over. No wet wipe is a match for the carnage that’s now spread all over you, all over them and all over the change table. 

You get your phone out of your pocket, wincing when you realise you went in with the wrong hand. You dial your best mum friend and they vow to bring back-up wipes, five changes of clothes and a stiff drink that you’ll have to gulp out of a Tommee Tippee sippy cup.

The end.

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