Against Her Better Judgment

In which I swear off men

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 21 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

It was two years and several months ago that I swore off men and dating. Not like I’d done before, in fits of ill-tempered pique after various men-are-from-Mars misunderstandings, but in resignation and exhaustion and despondency. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that there was any possibility of things improving, so I went cold turkey on the dating. No more men; no more dates. I had Colin, and frankly I got more sense out of him than most of my male dalliances, so that was that.

In a very brief foray into online dating, I’d exchanged messages with a few potential dates that Spring. In between changing jobs and trips to New York to meet new colleagues, I wasn’t really giving it an enormous amount of attention. One chap, though, seemed nice enough to schedule a dinner with on my return from NYC. He was tall, his profile claimed, and relatively handsome, from what I could make out in a couple of bad quality photos; into food and travel; and his messages were perfectly spelt and punctuated. How bad could it be, thought I, and so we arranged dinner near his office in St. Paul's one weekday evening.

Standing in the shadow of the cathedral, the inevitable disappointment of the online date made itself known: the man who walked up to me really wasn’t what I’d been expecting. Wearing a vast red, scruffy anorak, he was a good five inches shorter than his 5’10” claims. Not wanting to be too prematurely judgy, I put a slight sinking feeling to one side and, not being familiar with the area, nodded along at his suggestion of dinner at “a little place he knew”.

I was enormously confounded when we stopped outside what wasn't a particularly “little place”, our destination apparently being the St Paul's branch of STRADA. A surprising choice for someone who professes to be into his food, I thought, but probably bad form to bail now.

I should have bailed.

We sat down, and my date proceeded to gripe about the hideous a day he’d had. We ordered. He told me how much he hated his job and his colleagues, who just didn’t give him the recognition he deserved. I gripped the stem of my glass wine, and prayed he’d lighten up when he’d had something to eat. He didn’t. Throughout the meal, he went on to be relentlessly negative about every facet of his life – he didn’t get on with his family; his commute was awful; he didn’t like his housemates. He was most remarkable in his apparently all-consuming inability to ask me a single question about myself. Not how my day was, what I did for work, or whether I was enjoying my pretty bog standard plate of pasta.

“We’ll just get the bill, shall we?” he said as he practically licked his plate clean having inhaled the meal. Not wishing to be stuck for any longer than I had to be, I agreed, enormously thankful for an excuse to scarper.

When it arrived, he picked it up. “I’ll get this.”

Well, that’s something at least. “Thank you very much, that’s very kind.”

He fumbled in his pocket for a raggedy bit of paper. He opened it at the table, and compared it to the bill. When the waitress came to take his card, he handed her what was, less to my amazement by this point than my resignation, a 2 for 1 voucher (I’m all for thrift, but there’s a danger in pulling out a 2 for 1 voucher on a first date that you’ll just come off as cheap).

I went to drain the dregs of my wine glass, disappointed to find I’d got to that stage much earlier in the evening. We shrugged on jackets, and I pled an early meeting, as relieved as I’ve ever been to scamper off into the night, some 45 (long, oh so long) minutes after I’d met him.

I returned home thoroughly glum. “That’s it,” I said to Colin, as he chirruped round my ankles in the kitchen. “I give up. There is just no point in dating. From now on, it’s you and me, my boy.” He wailed forlornly at the tin of cat food on the kitchen side.

The next morning, I was on the train into work as my phone bleeped.

Hi, was really good to meet you last night. I had a great time! Fancy doing it again soon? X

At a complete loss as to how two people sitting at the same table could have such wildly differing experiences, I texted back my polite but decisive decline and leant my head back on the seat, vowing that the disappointment just wasn’t worth it.

Fate, of course, in her ever-amusing way, had other ideas. My strict, lifelong boycott lasted all of two months before I met The Writer – a man who, to this day, hasn’t once suggested we have dinner at a STRADA.

In which Angelina Jolie deserves the praise, and cancer isn't a battle

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 15 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Whatever some angry and misjudged pieces might say about Angelina Jolie’s op-ed in yesterday’s New York Times was a brave and important piece from an enormously high-profile woman about a really difficult decision. Leaving aside the fact that gene testing isn’t available to everyone, and that a lot of women don’t have the choice, and that her piece probably doesn’t have any demonstrable effect on anyone’s actual life, the piece itself was a first.

(As an aside: urgh. Is it inherently evil to make use of your resources to ensure your children grow up with their mother still alive, and then write about the – I imagine – enormously complex emotional process of having one’s breasts preemptively removed as a safeguard against a disease you don’t yet have in order to spark a wider discussion about that disease and women’s health? No, I don’t think it is. Famous people get ill too, and celebrity doesn’t make them less human, something that I honestly believe some people are unable or unwilling to grasp. )

But what struck me as well as the bravery of a woman who partially trades on her looks and her sex appeal, as all actors do, in openly discussing the unusual decision she’s made, was her language.

In her piece about having a faulty gene that increases her risk of getting breast cancer and ovarian cancer, she says that her mother “died at 56”. She doesn’t say that her mother passed away, or lost her battle with cancer. She says her mother died – which I found enormously refreshing, although she still says that it was a disease that her mother “fought”.

A while ago, the inimitable Jenni Murray wrote a piece for the Indy on why the imagery around “fighting” cancer, and the phrase “to lose one’s battle” with it is so vastly inappropriate. Because it is, and enormously so, even if you do have to stop and consider it for a moment.

Saying that someone “lost their fight” gives, as Murray puts it, “the impression that death from cancer is somehow an indication of failure to have the moral fibre to fight and defeat it.”

Frankly, I find it insulting – if not downright repulsive – to suggest that the people who have died from cancer have railed against it, but just not enough, and had they tried a bit harder, and put just a bit more welly into the project, then they just might have pulled through.

Cancer isn’t one of those projects you can succeed or fail at by putting a few extra hours into; it’s not something you can put your mind to and have a good bash at flushing out of your system. It’s a horrid and life-destroying disease. People don’t ‘fight’ it: if they’re lucky, they have treatment and live with it, or after it. The alternative is that it kills them.

Jolie has been faced with an awful choice – and has done a brave thing. Cancer is vile, and dealing with it in any form – including the near-90% chance of its arrival – takes a metric fuckton of mental and physical fortitude. Her decision to speak out about how she’s dealt with it and the drastic steps she’s had to take is admirable. Here’s hoping that the added awareness she’s given to the cause will mean that it’s a decision that some women will, at some horrid moment in their lives, find it easier to make – but not a battle they have to fight.

In which the RSPCA's prosecutions are enormously misguided

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 13 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Way back when, I used to be a big fan of the RSPCA. I was about eight years old, had passed through the short-lived phase of wanting to be a professional showjumper, and moved on to wanting to be a vet. I remember spending a lot of time in which I could have been doing something far more productive watching Animal Hospital after school, with its heart-warming tales of RSPCA vets fixing hedgehogs with broken toes and patching up sickly cats.

The ambition lasted for about six months (so, also short-lived) until Ma Blonde gently pointed out that I didn’t really like blood, and it would thus be tricky to progress in my chosen career. I’ve never got over the squeamishness, so unsurprisingly, I got over the career idea instead.

I do still have a soft spot for a good animal welfare charity. Colin was adopted as a tiny wee (given his current stature, unbelievably wee) thing from Cats Protection, and I can’t fault the dealings I’ve had with them during the process and since. But I’ve come to the conclusion that the RSPCA actually isn’t a good animal welfare charity.

It undoubtedly has a great cause at its heart. Ostensibly they’re about making sure that animals don’t suffer at the hands of people. Great. Not got a problem with that at all. But largely that’s not what comes across – and the feeling has recently only increased that their raison d’être is being forgotten.

Since the arrival of their new chief exec, Gavin Grant, at the beginning of 2012, I’ve had an overwhelming sense that the RSPCA has been pursuing issues and legal cases that, taken in conjunction, have started to look an awful lot like a campaign driven by a political agenda, instead of focussing on genuine cases of animal wellbeing.

There have been numerous allegations of politically motivated prosecutions – all of which have cost tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of pounds. The case against the Heythrop Hunt for illegal fox hunting cost £320,000 - something the judge involved described as “staggering”; and a case dropped at the last minute against members of the Vale of Avon Hunt has been variously reported to have cost between £50,000 and £100,000.

Because of its status as a charity, where prosecutions fail, the costs are borne by both donors and taxpayers. If I’m donating to a charity, I don’t want my money spent on spurious, politically motivated prosecutions if I expect the cash to be spent on rescuing sticky seabirds; and as a taxpayer… well, my cash goes on a variety of things I’d rather it didn’t, but I’m almost certain that there are better uses for it than specious and failed legal cases, where animal welfare isn’t the main issue at stake, especially when legal aid is being cut in other more deserving areas.

In the interests of fairness, it’s probably worth noting that a large proportion of the criticisms have come from Conservative MPs whose constituencies cover the areas of the hunts involved, as well as the Countryside Alliance; and the majority of the reporting of the cases outside the trade press has been by The Daily Telegraph – all parties who’re opposed to the Hunting Act anyway.

But I don’t think this should invalidate the criticisms being levied at the RSPCA, because it’s not just small- and big-c conservatives who’re concerned. The Charity Commission is assessing formal complaints against the RSPCA for its behaviour around the issues of badger culling (where it’s been accused of intimidating farmers participating in the scheme); one barrister has publically labelled it “irresponsible” and behaving “like a bully”; and the Charity Commission’s CEO has also written a letter to Grant, asking him to review the charity’s prosecution policies. A former Executive Director of the League Against Cruel Sports has said (in an excellent piece, the full version of which is well worth a read) that “to take prosecutions under [the Hunting Act] it as if by doing so one is achieving a valid welfare outcome, is as misguided as it is wasteful and deceitful.”

I have no doubt that the frequent and sensationalist headlines must pluck at the heartstrings of many, and at the pockets of more. But when the money is being misspent, the honesty of the motives is called into question, and the reputation of a once-admirable institution is being driven into the ground, it’s simply an indefensible course of action.

In which Barbara Hewson is enormously, horribly, catastrophically wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 10 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Sometimes, I can’t muster the energy to be cross. There’s so much happening in the world that’s deserving of an enormous tantrum that if I were to get angry about all of it, there’d be no time to do anything else, and I need to work and pay rent and mix good gin and tonic and stuff.

But sometimes, there are things worth being angry about.

Like women who are apparently so far detached from the innate human capacity for empathy that they opine really quite ludicrous things like, the age of consent should be lowered in order to prevent the persecution of old men.

I just...

No.

In no particular order, because I’m so cross that this is just a spew of thoughts onto a page, rather than a coherent analysis:

“I do not support the persecution of old men,” writes Barbara Hewson, a senior human rights barrister at a London chambers (oh, oh, the irony). Well no, neither do I. But I also don’t support people escaping justice for crimes they might have committed, however long ago; and I sure as hell don’t support the abuse of young girls.

“Taking girls to one’s dressing room, bottom pinching and groping in cars hardly rank in the annals of depravity with flogging and rape in padded rooms.” Murdering someone is far more serious than beating them up – so the justice system shouldn’t bother with trivialities like assault? Obviously not.

“Touching a 17-year-old’s breast, kissing a 13-year-old, or putting one’s hand up a 16-year-old’s skirt, are not remotely comparable to the horrors of the Ealing Vicarage assaults and gang rape, or the Fordingbridge gang rape and murders, both dating from 1986. Anyone suggesting otherwise has lost touch with reality.” People aren’t suggesting that. But taking advantage of young and vulnerable people when you’re in a position of power is still nothing other than wrong.

“We should focus on arming today’s youngsters with the savoir-faire and social skills to avoid drifting into compromising situations.” Because it’s a victim’s fault, when she’s abused, just as it was the fault of Amanda Berry and Gina DeJesus in Cleveland that they got into the assailant’s car, not the assailant’s fault for KIDNAPPING THEM AND CHAINING THEM UP IN A BASEMENT?!

IT MAKES ME SO BLOODY ANGRY.

Victim blaming is rife, and needs to stop. Crimes are the fault of no one other than the perpetrators. Telling people not to go out at night, or not to wear short skirts isn’t doing anything other than contributing to the – wrongly – received wisdom that you can avoid being a victim of crime. Sometimes you can’t – but perpetrators can always avoid committing it.

Convictions for rape are so enormously low as it is. Changing the law to make it easier for rapists to get away with what they’ve done several years ago is vile, just as it would be vile if we were to change international laws so that genocidal maniacs who go into hiding would at no point have to answer for their crimes.

We fetishise celebrities in our society, and it needs to stop. They can’t be held up in a rarefied position above the law. There’s no excuse even to countenance changing the law so that people already in positions of power are exempt from answering for their behaviour.

In yesterday’s Independent, the publication’s student editor, Tom Mendelsohn, wrote an excellent piece about the burgeoning ‘men’s rights’ movements in British universities. He, all too rightly, took apart the arguments some students are making in a debate about whether York University Students’ Union is right to refuse to ratify a feminist society – an argument that boils down to “it’s unnecessary.”

I can’t help but think when senior women in positions of high regard are making such vile and foolish statements as these, that people fighting for the rights of all people to be heard and treated equally has never been more necessary.

In which our neighbour is naked

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 08 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

One of the adjustments I’ve had to make since moving out of my little house in Home County and into a littler flat in Brixton is the fact that we live in very close proximity to our neighbours. We can hear when the washing machine is on in the flat upstairs; we can occasionally hear German radio through the wall from next door; and we can see from the bay window in our sitting room whether the chap in the flat over the road is smoking out of his window. But the beginning of this week provided a stark reminder, if one were needed, about just how much can be seen through the windows from the other side of the street.

The Writer and I were lazing on the sofa at 10am on Bank Holiday Monday, watching old episodes of Frasier and eating crushed avocado on toast (possibly one of the best breakfast foodstuffs known to man). Not paying full attention to the television, movement in a flat over the road caught my eye. One of the girls on the second floor a few doors down had clearly just got out of the shower, and was wandering around her kitchen in a bright teal towel. Thinking no more of it, I returned my attention to my avocado.

Thinking no more of it, that is, until the next thing to catch my eye wasn’t the teal towel, but an Eastern-style tattoo next to her left breast.

Her naked left breast.

“Um… Is that… is she…?” I put my plate on the coffee table, and pointed at the window. “Is she doing the washing up naked?”

“Er,” TW peered out the window. “Yup, seems that way.”

She must have had a barrelload of washing up, because she stayed there, flashing her tattooed boob and naked left side of her body to the inhabitants of the street for the next 20 minutes.

Being British, and therefore not au fait with public displays of nudity, I am flummoxed as to why you’d stand at your kitchen window, in full view of the street, without your clothes on.

Maybe she’s happily oblivious to the fact that standing at your window means you can be seen by the entire street, even though that fact should be glaringly obviously to anyone who’s ever, you know, looked out of their Victorian terrace window.

Maybe she assumed no one would be up and about at 10am on a bank holiday, and therefore there’d be no one around to see her.

Maybe, postulated TW, she had a guy in the flat and, “walking round and doing things naked is more acceptable when you’ve got someone else in the flat who’s naked.”

Maybe she’s European and just doesn’t care.

Maybe Friends holds a special place in her heart.

Maybe she’s particularly proud of those Chinese symbols next to her left boob and wants to show them off to a wider audience.

Maybe she likes the fact that the inhabitants of the street can see her naked.

Whatever the reason, it’s a stark reminder that it works both ways. More care will be taken from now on, by both the occupants of our flat, to have clothes on in front of windows at all times.

In which I read through April

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 06 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

14. Title: So Much Pretty

Author: Cara Hoffman

Recommended by: India Knight on Twitter, and chosen by members of the #LondonBookClub as our April book; bought from Amazon.

Read: 4 – 9 April

Two points to note: I would never have picked this up if it weren’t for LBC, which is doing its job in expanding my reading repertoire; and, I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be reading anything else that comes recommended by India. Ever. It’s a thriller about a young woman who goes missing in very-small town America. The characterisation isn’t brilliant; nor is the writing. The way Hoffman flips between third and first person narration annoys the crap out of me. The story has potential but isn’t handled well enough to be truly suspenseful or shocking. And yes, I get the political point she’s trying to make, but that’s not done powerfully enough to make a real point either (in fact, it just comes off as a deep hatred of men, rather than anything else). To be brutally honest, I just wanted it to end so that I could get on with something else. In short, it’s not worth reading unless you’re at the airport and the only remaining choice in WH Smith is between this and Jordan’s latest “autobiography”. And if that’s the case, I’d go for a newspaper instead.

Score: 3.5/10 (some points for effort)

15. Title: The Heart Broke In

Author: James Meek

Recommended by: Amazon, and bought from the same.

Read: 10 – 21 April

This, I liked. I liked it more and more as it went on. It started quite slowly, but by the ending, I was completely hooked. It’s rare a book can balance love, sex, underage sex, adulterous sex, celebrity, a show presumably based on the X-Factor, death, revenge, science, terrorist-committed assassinations, a protagonist that may or may not be based on Brian Cox and poetry in a really pretty compelling novel that’s beautifully written with some memorable turns of phrase, but this one manages it. One that’s earnt its permanent place on the bookshelf.

Score: 8/10

16. Title: On the Front Line: The Collected Journalism of Marie Colvin

Author: Marie Colvin

Recommended by: The Sunday Times, which gave away an e-edition on the anniversary of her death in Syria

Read: 16 April – 2 May

Colvin was, frankly, awesome. I’m not a great reader of non-fiction, but having done a Politics / IR degree, I am enormously interested in things other people might not be about current affairs and international relations and how the whole system hangs together. This is a collection of the late Sunday Times war reporter’s journalism: each piece is a few hundred words on a subject, and enormously easy to dip in and out of. It gives a brilliantly evocative picture of some of the most important moments in recent world politics, given an extraordinarily human edge. A snippet, talking about East Timor 1999:

[I]… had the most irritating conversation with my foreign editor. “What do you mean everyone’s left and you’re staying?” he asked. “Don’t know. I’m staying.” “Well, why have all the men left?” In exasperation, I said: “I guess they don’t make men like they used to.” To his great credit, and my embarrassment, he printed that comment in the paper. It’s been tough getting dates ever since. One word of warning, though: the last section, inevitably, nearly made me cry.

Score: 9/10

In which a dinner party isn't to taste

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Thu, 02 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

The dinner party is one of my favourite forms of entertaining. You don’t have to leave your house; you can eat well and get enormously hammered without having to spend an absolute fortune in a restaurant or overcrowded London bar; and you can see several people in one go, making it hugely efficient without the feeling that you’ve not got round to speaking to everyone properly, as at any other party.

The Writer and I had a few people over on Saturday, less a dinner party than just dinner, but with five of us around a table, it still merited a little more thought than often goes into a midweek supper of Fridge Lucky Dip.

There’s the cleaning that happens so that no pants or other sundries are left in full view of an unsuspecting guest; the necessary call upstairs to borrow a chair so that everyone has somewhere to sit; and the pondering of the menu to ensure that people don’t get fed the favourite Wednesday fallback çilbir and a bit of stale whatever’s left in the cake tin.

We got up not enormously early on the Saturday, but enough so that Borough Market wasn’t quite yet a heaving throng of sweaty, slow-moving tourists (although the amateur photographers with vast DSLR cameras, gigantic lenses and absolutely no sense of peripheral vision were out in force, buying nothing, snapping everything and generally getting in the way).

We loaded up on a variety of goodies: bulbous, sweet-smelling fennel; a few bunches of deep green wild garlic; a bushel of blood oranges (for which, my mental arithmetic later suggested, we were embarrassingly undercharged); fat, juicy Portobello mushrooms; and a few other bits and pieces including the requisite chunk of banana and walnut cake – complete with plastic fork – to sustain us on the way back home, much to the envy of the other Northern Line day trippers.

After the aforementioned blitz of the flat; the procurement of a chair; and the preparation of an initially ominously sticky but resultantly delicious blood orange and Campari cake, I’d showered and dressed, and was standing in our bedroom trying to backcomb my hair into submission. The Writer was in the kitchen, singing along to Al Green and wrestling the starter – carefully – into submission with the rarely-touched mandolin.

Suddenly, the singing stopped, and he appeared in the bedroom.

“I’ve come to a conclusion,” he said, holding a thin piece of fennel in his fingertips that he was chopping for the starter.

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“I was thinking as I was chopping that I don’t think I’ve ever cooked anything with fennel before, and I thought, well, that’s odd. Why wouldn’t I have cooked with fennel? I’ve cooked with most other things. And then I realised.”

“What did you realise?”

“Well, I put a piece in my mouth, and I realised that I don’t like fennel.”

A trip round Borough Market manhandling the things; a discussion in Tesco about what apples to use in a fennel, apple and goats’ cheese salad; another discussion about whether the white Pecorino in the wine rack would be worth chilling to have with the starter; and several hours in which recipe books with large, styled colour photos lay strewn across the kitchen side had apparently not been enough to remind TW that he didn’t like the main component in a dish that we were some 60 minutes away from serving. Getting down to the wire and only eating that which should have been going in a bowl that reminded him.

Best laid schemes, ‘n’ all that. Still, at least we had enough chairs.

In which PRs don't get down time

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Being a PR professional by, er, profession, a lot of my time is spent thinking about, dealing with, and otherwise consuming and being consumed by the media in its various guises. It’s one of those jobs, like so many these days, that you don’t necessarily leave at the office once you’ve left for the day, because the thing you do between the hours of 9 – 5.30pm (HAH! Because those are the hours PRs work) is actually all around you, all day, every day, demanding your attention and opinions whether you’re being paid for it or not.

Which is what I thought to myself as I sat next to the radio in the kitchen one night last week, full to the brim with butterflies as I waited for the broadcast of an interview.

I’m not normally particularly nervous ahead of interviews, generally because my spokespeople have been first media trained, and then briefed to within an inch of their lives before I let them anywhere near a journalist, let alone a journalist who’s going to point a microphone at them and then broadcast what they have to say live to the nation on an enormously well-respected and well-listened to nightly news programme.

But then, the spokesperson isn’t normally my non-media trained or briefed to within an inch of his life boyfriend.

Going to be late tonight, The Writer texted as I was having drinks with one of my most-worked with journalists, and he was out at a restaurant review. I’ve been asked to go on the radio to talk about [news item] – I’ll be on some time after 10.

Given that this was the first time TW had been asked to swap sides of the desk, and be interviewee rather than interviewer, my inner PR immediately took over. Congratulations! Want me to come and keep you company?

No, I’ll be okay. Will just have to hold off on the wine.

Panic. When you’re done with dinner, CALL ME.

Which is how, at 9.45pm last week, I came to be sitting on my sofa, giving the very briefest of media training sessions that I’ve ever conducted over the phone to TW who was in the back of a black cab on his way to the studio.

45 minutes later, I was sitting in front of the radio in a state of gently building anxiety. The worst bit about the media relations side of PR is that at the salient point in the project, you really have very little control. You can equip the journalist with all the information in the world but they’ll write what they want to; and you can brief the spokesperson until you’re blue in the face but they have ultimate control about the words that fall from their tongue.

Naturally, the nerves were entirely superfluous, and the ten-minute slot in which TW gave his views on one of the “and finally” topics of the week went off without a hitch.

He got back half an hour later, and came through to the bedroom where I was snuggled under the duvet with a book.

“You did really well!” I said, as he wandered into the room for my obligatory professional post-mortem. My eyes wandered down to his shirt. “What’s that?”

“Oh, beetroot,” he said, looking down, and wiping at it with the palm of his hand. “I must have spilt it at dinner.”

I stared at him with mild incredulity.

“What? It’s not like it was telly, or anything.”

Just as well, really. I feel there is much work still to be done.

In which I'm chatted up on the tube

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 12:30:00 +0000

I’d clocked him, just momentarily, before we got on the tube. He’d hit my arm as he’d walked past and apologised before moving on further down the platform; I barely registered him in the middle of the conversation I was having with PolitiGal, and thought no more of it.

Post-book club, PG and I were waiting for a tube at King’s Cross, making our way back to Brixton. Lugging two enormous bags of leftover books that people had brought to be swapped and that had gone unclaimed, when it arrived we slumped into two seats and continued nattering.

I was so engrossed in the conversation about PG’s search for a pair of shoes for her wedding that I hadn’t noticed that Mr Bump had sat down opposite us. At some point, again without my noticing, he must also have picked up a discarded copy of the Evening Standard, ripped off a corner, and written a name and number on it, because when he got up to get off, he stopped momentarily in front of me.

“You should call my friend,” he said, thrusting the piece of paper into my hand. “He’d like you.”

I looked up. Looking a little sheepish and scurrying off the tube was a much older and rather portly man in a slightly-ill fitting suit and glasses; his long, white, unkempt hair giving him a look that was more than a little reminiscent of a much less attractive Simon Rattle.

Then I looked down. Written on it, in a sloping italic the likes of which I’ve not seen since Grandpa Blonde died, was a name and mobile number.

I turned to PG, and we both burst out laughing.

“Ooh, you’re in there,” said the woman next to PG.

“Did it just happen to you too?!”

I looked up across the carriage. At the other end of the seats, a guy in his late twenties was holding a business card looking thoroughly bemused.

“That woman…” he motioned towards the doors, which had just slammed shut. “She just gave me her number. She must have been… what, 20 years older than I am…”

“Maybe you should set them both up,” PG suggested, peering at the piece of paper in my fingers.

“Maybe there’s something in the air in here,” I said, looking around the carriage for a hidden camera.

We pulled in at the next stop. The woman who’d been sitting next to PG got up to leave. “Enjoy your date!” she trilled as she stepped off the train.

“I’m not sure I like this,” said The Writer when I got home and mentioned that I’d pulled on the tube.

He’s in no danger. Unlike anyone on the Victoria Line at Green Park, apparently.

In which More! is no more, but crowing about it isn't cool

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Moderation in everything, my Sixth Form classical literature teacher used to be enormously fond of saying. It was veering off the path of moderation that angered the gods, and we all know what happens when you anger the gods.

The closure of More! magazine was announced on Monday. I’m not sure I’ve picked up a copy in, ooh, about 15 years. From what I remember way back in the distant mists of my early teenage years, there was very little in the way of a substantial article, and a lot in the way of dubious ‘real life’ articles, cheapy make-up products and the infamous “Position of the Week.”

On hearing the news, The Vagenda magazine tweeted:

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this sparked an enormous outcry from most of the journalists ever to sit whiling away their mornings on Twitter, shouting down the Vagenda team for being so callous and cruel that they could rejoice in the demise of a print publication – all of which are fighting for survival – and the loss of jobs for a whole team of journalists, now looking for employment in a field where there are very few jobs going.

It was so long ago that I saw a copy of More! that I don’t remember if there were horrid, Heat-style “circles of shame” where a celebrity daring to go out in public with a slightly sweaty armpit, or a less-than-flawless thigh was held up for humiliation; or dubious sex tips; or the endless “Five Ways To Get A Beach Body in a Week” and “What He’s Really Thinking” features – although I imagine there were, given the content of almost all women’s magazines currently on the market.

There was cyber-shouting on both sides: celebration that a magazine full of stuff to make teenage girls ever more insecure about themselves and their bodies is no longer available to buy; and revulsion that anyone could be gleeful about a situation when it’s adding to the ongoing demise of the printed media and the heartbreak of a team.

But being glad teenage girls aren’t going to be able to get hold of one more outlet that reflects and magnifies their insecurities doesn’t mean you’re incapable of being upset for a team of people who’ve lost their jobs; just as the fact that because the journalists at the mag were producing some pretty questionable content doesn’t make them evil and responsible for all the ills of patriarchy.

A little less shouting, and a little more consideration; a little less knee-jerk reaction and a little more acceptance that life is all the hues of grey in between black and white would have made the whole situation far more palatable. In ranty online arguments about emotive situations as in life – moderation in everything.

In which I'm asked for ID

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. If you’re single, you’d rather be in a long-term relationship; if you work full-time, you fantasise about having endless days with nothing at all to do (at least if you’re me, you do); and if you’re under 18, you always, always, always want to look older than you are - but once you hit your mid-twenties, you’d give anything for a fresh face.

The Writer and I were ambling around the supermarket last weekend doing the weekly shop, inexplicably buying yet more crunchy peanut butter and forgetting to buy the ginger. We’d done the usual meander round, ending up in the wine aisle to grab a couple of bottles of something to drink during the week and headed to the checkout.

“Oh, do we want to grab some bread to have with the fish stew tonight?” I said as we started unloading bits and pieces onto the conveyor. TW loped off in pursuit of a loaf, and I – being the good citizen I am – unpacked our recyclable bags.

I’d only put a couple of things into them before the woman on the checkout said something to me that I was sure I hadn’t heard right.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m sorry, do you have any ID on you?”

I stopped for a moment, completely perplexed by the request. She waggled the wine bottle at me.

“OH! Oh, er…” I scrambled through a pocket, to find only my cards, my keys and my phone. “I’m really sorry, I don’t, actually. But, er, I am nearly 30. I promise! And to be honest, you’ve made my week.”

She looked at me for a moment.

“Okay then. Sorry.”

The last thing she needed to do was apologise – which I think I told her, profusely, and possibly several times.

I honestly can’t tell you the last time that I was asked for ID. It’s conceivable it happened at university, but I don’t remember it (arguably because of all the booze I was never questioned about drinking). I’m not sure that since hitting 17, I’ve ever looked anything other than vaguely twentysomething. Which is a little disheartening when you’re 20, and you can sail through your local Sainsbury’s buying a single bottle of vodka and four limes and have the sales assistant not bat an eyelid. But when you’re staring down the barrel of 30, in the throes of the snottiest cold ever seen since that bout of swine ‘flu in 2009, buying a trolley full of sensible things like falafal and parsley, and wearing a scruffy gilet covered in horse slobber and approximately no make-up, it’s good to know that maybe you’re not quite as haggard as you sometimes fear.

Which makes the grass on this side pretty damned green, actually.

In which I am not broody

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

I’m not, and to the best of my recollection never have been, a baby person. Give me a puppy or a kitten, or even a lamb or an otter cub and I’m yours. But whilst other people will coo and cluck over small human infants, I’ve never been able to drum up faint enthusiasm, let alone an appropriately fawning response. I’m not that great with children in general: until they’re old enough to be able to conduct an engaging conversation, I’m not interested. Four legs good, two legs bad is my general rule in any situation involving juvenile mammals, frankly.

I have more than a sneaking suspicion that Ma Blonde would like me to change my tune and start sprogging instantly; and the aunt has spent the last 15 years telling me that I’ll change my mind one day because children are the best thing you can ever do which frankly, I think is superlatively rude. Her delight in small people has no bearing on what I consider to be the achievements in my life, and I’d thank her not to belittle what I see as important merely because our views differ. So there.

So it was admittedly out of character for me to start a conversation with The Writer about Gin Operated’s new baby with the phrase, “They put pictures on Facebook today; she’s cute.”

TW stuck his head round the bedroom door from the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth.

“What?” he said, with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“GO’s new baby – she’s really cute.”

“No, I heard that. What I mean is: you’re cracking…”

“What do you mean I’m cracking?! I’m not cracking. I just meant that normally brand new babies all look like potatoes, and this one doesn’t. She’s cute, and she looks like GO. I think it’s the lips.”

“You are! You’re coming round to them. The ice queen is melting!” He sang triumphantly as he headed back into the bathroom.

I’m not sure I’d go that far.

Broodiness is not something I think I’ve ever experienced. I still get supremely nervous when a small child in a coffee shop or on a train comes at me with a beaming smile and distressingly sticky fingers. There is no sound I like less than a brat having a screaming tantrum anywhere in the vicinity, be that a supermarket aisle, a restaurant, or a wide-open space. And I highly suspect could keep a baby alive just as long as I could an exotic houseplant (approximately a week, give or take whether Ma Blonde has put it in compost first).

But I am, apparently, now at that stage of maturity where I’m able to admit when a baby looks like a (really quite pretty) baby, and not one of Waitrose’s best King Edwards. Which, at the moment and despite what my female relatives might think, is quite enough progress for me.

In which someone pinches my post

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Ma Blonde used to say when I complained of a classmate who’d turned up with a brand new pencil case identical to mine, a week or so after I’d proudly shown a new acquisition off. I’m not sure I quite understood, aged six, what she was on about and why I shouldn’t be cross about it. Some twentyish years later, I understand what she was getting at, but don’t like it now any more than I did then.

I used to work in consumer PR: I’m well aware that there’s no such thing as an original idea. Taking inspiration from other people and their work is something that has happened since there were people having good ideas and other people around to be inspired by them. But it’s one thing to be inspired by other people, to use their work as a starting point for your own; and entirely another to shamelessly pinch their stuff.

Irritatingly, the internet makes it alarmingly easy for unscrupulous types, lazy types who can’t be bothered to have their own ideas, and the really should know better but that’s not a valid excuse types to pinch other people’s work and pass it off as their own.

There was, a while ago, a blog that seemed to come enormously close to the line where using my blog as ‘inspiration’ was involved: everything about it was recognisable, from the photo she used, to the titles of her posts, to one particular post that aped one I’d just written so closely that coincidence would be hard to believe. I couldn’t quite buy the fact that she wasn’t doing it consciously – but there wasn’t ever quite enough cause to take it up with her. So I just seethed in silence, and stopped reading.

But last week was different, when I discovered that a French blogger had taken it upon herself to translate a post of mine and reproduce it on her site. Instead of ignoring it, I got quite cross, and made my feelings known.

Because, dear people of the internet, it just isn’t cricket.

It isn’t cool to lift an entire piece from one place and republish it elsewhere. If you want to write, great – but have the decency to have your own ideas. If you’re using something that someone else has written as a starting point – which I do, constantly – then fire away, but don’t just copy and paste what they’ve already thought about and written.

And no, I’m afraid it’s not good enough to suggest that it’s okay “because you’ve linked back to the original”. I’m pretty sure doing that doesn’t negate the fact that using something in its entirety doesn’t fall under “fair use” (copyright lawyers, feel free to correct me on that one).

And it’s definitely not on when you use your site as a commercial entity. I don’t make money out of this one; that’s not why I write, and that’s my choice. But I’m sure as hell not going to provide writing for you – for free – for you to make money.

Thankfully, after much cajoling (two ignored emails, one comment posted to Facebook and deleted, another Facebook message, a comment left on the blog and then various tweets at her from a whole hoard of people), she removed the post – but not without a few snipes about my being humourless.

If it’s humourless to ask that people don’t pinch the writing of others, just as they wouldn’t pinch their car or their wallet, then frankly *Gallic shrug* so be it.

In which I make a recommendation

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Recommending anything to anyone is a game fraught with low-level apprehension. That doesn’t stop me sharing the things I love with the people I love, but it does sometimes put me into a slight state of self-doubt that there are a lot of people out there who must think I’m both absolutely barmy and enormously lacking in taste.

The level of apprehension felt is directly proportional to the commitment that people have made to the item in question.

I don’t feel too bad if people don’t like a book I’ve suggested (unless I completely adored it, in which case I question their tastes). They’ve put in some time, but it probably only cost a few quid, and I think it’s a good thing occasionally to read books that are outside your normal reading comfort zone.

Beauty products are a bit further up the scale, but not by much – not only do I believe wholeheartedly in the magical properties of pony shampoo, it’s not expensive, and if you don’t like it, you can stop using it. Of course, when people spend enormous amounts of money on expensive aftershaves based purely on what I’ve said, I do get slightly more nervous.

But when it comes to restaurants… well, for some reason they’re different. I don’t know whether it’s because, by and large, people tend to spend rather more when they go out to dinner than they do when they go into a branch of Foyles (unless they happen to be The Writer, who can happily spend a month’s pay inside half an hour in a bookshop), or whether it’s because restaurants can be the scenes of celebrations for special occasions with the people they love – or all of the above.

And of course, responsibility is felt all the more strongly if the person you’re recommending the restaurant to has some expertise on the subject.

Ma TW is a professional food person. She’s cooked for some pretty illustrious people, and has written more about food and drink in more places than I would be able to fit on our bookshelves. And while I can pull off a passable cod on braised lentils, that doesn’t mean there’s any way on God’s green one that I’m willing to cook at home for a professional. Which means a particularly fraught recommendation on my part when she’s in town.

So far, we’ve eaten with Ma TW – to enormous success – at pretty much every establishment Russell Norman owns, as well as a few bigger names (Sheekey’s) and a few smaller, local ones (Franco Manca). So, with TW being a member and having thoroughly enjoyed it previously, we thought last week that Quo Vadis would be a safe bet.

It wasn’t. Cocktails were (as ever) great. The starters were great. And then the main courses arrived and the whole thing fell apart when both Ma TW and I had cod that was so insipid and entirely lacking in flavour that I wasn’t sure it had ever been a life form, accompanied by aioli so bitter and strong that it couldn’t possibly have been developed by the same chef. The entire dish wouldn’t have been out of place on the first round of Masterchef where people who think they can cook but clearly have aspirations beyond their skill level serve up plates akin to the dog’s supper.

The staff when we told them were enormously gracious about it, and puddings afterwards were free. But the whole thing left a very bad taste – both literal and figurative – and a sense of disappointment that an evening we spent with someone we don’t see very often wasn’t as special as it could have been.

I’ll stick to singing the praises of pony shampoo from here on in.

In which horses are great levellers

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Misbehaviour? What misbehaviour?

If there’s one thing to say about horses, it’s that they’re great levellers. You can have all the ego and arrogance about yourself and your capabilities, but a few seconds on the back of a horse who doesn’t feel quite like playing ball today, thanks, is enough to shake the pride right out of you.

With a few days off work over Easter, I headed back to the parents’ in Home County to put in some serious cat-hugging, in front of fire-sitting, wine-drinking, pony-wrangling time.

Two thermal t-shirts under a hoodie under a gilet, and tights under my jodhpurs, I still found myself thankful for the warmth of Delila as we trotted round the school in the on-off snow of an unseasonably cold Easter Saturday morning.

Quite whether she objected to the wind up her tail, or was capitalising on the enormous fitness she’d built up over the hunting season that with its end was now going unused, I don’t know, but she was in what my instructor euphemistically described as rather a “fizzy” mood.

Everything was exciting, whether it was other horses quietly leaving the yard on hacks; ponies being taken across to the fields over the road; or the flapping black plastic on the large bales of hay on a trailer by the lorries, all of which apparently necessitated blowing, neighing and spooking. Then, to really make sure I was awake, she decided that the corner of the school by the gate was frankly terrifying, and lions and dragons were lurking just inches under the surface. There was quite a bit of sideways dancing and leaping, just to make sure she wouldn’t get eaten, which required quite a lot of concentration to anticipate and stick on (I shall always be grateful to Best Mate for the awesome riding tip that is full-seat jodhpurs).

But stick on I did, and having managed to calm Delila down sufficiently, the rest of the lesson went really rather well, with my managing to get a lovely bend out of her round one of the many serpentines; a few thoroughly successful indirect transitions; and one particularly good extended canter, which is no mean feat for someone who’s spent more time hacking out and picking up bad habits than is probably wise. I dismounted at the end of the lesson feeling really rather pleased with us both, to untack Delila and then stuff her full of Polos.

I quite obviously shouldn’t have been anywhere near so satisfied.

A couple of days later, I got back on board hoping to make progress on the previous session. It was not to be. The lions and dragons had clearly dissipated, leaving in their place a puddle of quicksand, judging by Delila’s all-consuming disinclination to do anything, and especially anything faster than a walk.

Far from the overly energetic horse of the previous lesson, I was faced with a beast of enormous lethargy that looked at me as if I were interrupting a deep and much needed slumber. Everything, but everything, was an effort. When kicking and the whip didn’t work, I resorted to actually growling at her just to get her into canter.

I came off that day sweary, aching all over and just a little bit convinced that there was an entirely different horse under a visage of ‘butter wouldn’t melt’.

Pride does indeed come before a fall. In this case, I was just grateful it wasn’t a literal one.

In which I didn't join the celebrations in Brixton

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Windrush Square, early on Monday evening

I was walking through Brixton at about 7.45pm on Monday evening on the way home from the gym. It was the first time I’d been since being knocked over by a bike some four weeks earlier, and it was my first day back at work after 10 days off. I was, understandably I think, tired and grumpy.

So the large mass of people who’d gathered in the square near the flat to celebrate the death of Margaret Thatcher with music and drinking wasn’t something I wished to contend with.

I understand that she was a divisive figure; I understand that she did a lot of things that people feel enormously angry about; I understand that she left a controversial legacy that remains in place some 30 years later. I get all that. I do. And I don’t agree that, just because she’s died, it’s fine to gloss over the uncontroversially unpalatable things she said and did – Section 28; South African sanctions; her friendship with Pinochet for starters.

But being honest about your dislike, intense as it may be, of the previous Prime Minister and her policies isn’t the same as revelling in the death of an old, ill woman; and being glad that she’s no longer in office isn’t the same as being glad that she’s died.

One woman stopped me on my way through to ask what was going on. “They’re celebrating the death of an old lady from a stroke,” I said, rolling my eyes. The media had camped out, and I was enormously close to sharing my thoughts with them, the only thing that discouraged me in the end was my vanity that I couldn’t possibly appear on camera in my gym kit.

The Writer arrived home at about half past nine, just as disgusted as the situation as I was.

“I was asked to join in by a group of young guys,” he said. “I asked them why I should join them when they were celebrating the death of an old woman from a stroke. I asked them if they’d be proud to tell their kids that they were there, celebrating that. They said they just wanted an excuse to party. They left after that – I think I killed the mood for them.”

By all means say you disagreed with everything she stood for; write columns about how you think her shifting of the centre of British politics to the right was an ongoing disaster for the country. But don’t gather in the street to celebrate someone’s death in the form of a public party: it’s tasteless, crass and inappropriate. And it’s the very antithesis of caring and progressive – something the Left so prides itself on being.

In which the London Book Club is founded

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 07:00:00 +0000

Little ideas and throwaway comments can be dangerous things. Somehow and without it being one’s intention, they seem to change shape and sprout tentacles, taking on a vibrant life of their own.

The thought occurred to me, not for the first time, on a recent Tuesday night, as I sat in a pub in Clerkenwell with 20 other people and one dog munching on reindeer antlers.

McNulty. Who could resist that face?

About two months previously, PhotoGirl and I had been nattering away on Twitter – as is our wont – about the books we were reading, and those that we recommended the other should pick up. It’s a conversation I have with people a lot, and Photo Girl is one of the usual participants, so the discussion itself was entirely smack bang in the middle of the blue. What was less anticipated was what happened next.

“We should start a book group,” PG said. I’m not sure how serious she was about it at the time, but thinking ‘why the hell not’ and with a vague notion of ‘if you want things done, ask a busy person’, within an afternoon, we had a site and contact email, a pub to meet in and a book to discuss.

But it was only at the first meeting of what we’ve rather presumptuously called the London Book Club that the impression that we might have started something took hold.

Having been fully prepared for the LBC’s inaugural meeting being nothing more than PG and I (and McNulty, obviously) sitting in the pub, getting drunk and talking about boys, I was pleasantly taken aback to find that we weren’t the only ones.

Gradually, people trickled through the door – those we already knew, as well as those we hadn’t met before – and sat congregated around the table. Several people had brought along old books that they no longer wanted, which were eagerly snapped up by book fiends around the table. We talked, lots and enthusiastically, about the book; we drank, er, lots and enthusiastically; and McNulty received the adulation she rightfully expects.

The ensuing enthusiasm and live-tweeted hangovers seemed to convince a few more people that they might like to get involved, and on the aforementioned recent Tuesday night, PG and McNulty and I found ourselves in the pub with 20 other people – including some brand new faces.

There were lively opinions about the book – by no means unanimous; lots of laughter; and, at risk of sounding all hippy drippy, I think rather a lot of new friends made.

Casting an eye over the #LondonBookClub hashtag the following morning, it was enormously warm’n’squishy-making to know that from a little idea and a throwaway comment came something that sprang to life, and brought a few people a little bit of joy.

In which I read through March

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 15:22:00 +0000

Yes, this post is late. I know. Sorry.

10. Title: The Diaries of a Fleet Street Fox

Author: Susie Boniface

Recommended by: @photogirluk who gave me her copy

Read: 28 Feb – 5 March

I wasn’t entirely blown away by this, but that’s possibly because of what I do for a living. If you don’t work with the media in any capacity, I imagine some of the anecdotes about life on a national paper would be quite amusing; at the other end, if you’ve worked on Fleet Street and know the specific characters that Foxy’s talking about in the book, I imagine it’s brilliantly gossipy. Being familiar with the day to day workings of the media, I didn’t find anything in there particularly surprising or compelling, and it reminded me a bit of Piers Morgan’s diaries in its tone. That said, it’s easy to read and conversationally written. Definitely one for the “beach read” file.

Score: 6/10

11. Title: The Marriage Plot

Author: Jeffrey Eugenides

Recommended by @photogirluk who gave me her copy

Read: 6 – 13 March

Essentially a book about a love triangle between three university graduates in the 80s. I’ve given this some thought, and decided that I probably did like it – just not as much as his other two. It’s Eugenides, so it’s exceptionally well written, and beautifully crafted. But I didn’t find the characters at all sympathetic (I don’t know whether they’re meant to be this way – I do hope my friends and I weren’t like this when we left uni); I thought a lot of the content of the book was there purely to show how clever Eugenides either is, or wants us to think he is; and the whole thing could have done with a bloody good edit. Still, worth a read.

Score: 7/10

12. Title: Elliot Allagash

Author: Simon Rich

Recommended by: me, having fallen in love with his other stuff, as the March book for London Book Club, and bought from Amazon

Read: 13 – 14 March

Elliot Allagash is the son of one of the richest men on earth; Seymour Herson is the least popular kid in school – until Elliot takes him on as a project. It’s a cross between Election and Pygmalion; enormously cleverly written and funny. It wasn’t a unanimous success with LBC members, but I’d urge you to ignore the UK version of the front cover, which is disastrous, and doesn’t do justice to an excellent book.

Score: 9/10

13. Title: The Fault in Our Stars

Author: John Green

Recommended by: Amazon, and bought on a whim when I was buying Elliot Allagash.

Read: 14 – 17 March

The story of Hazel Lancaster, a 16-year old with terminal cancer, who falls in love with Augustus Waters, whom she meets at her cancer support group. Admittedly, that doesn’t sound like a laugh a minute. But it’s a gorgeous book. It’s sweet, it’s funny, there’s a bit of philosophy chucked in there – and yes, it is really quite sad (it made me cry. Although I was on an EasyJet flight at the time, so it’s entirely possible that the tears would have happened anyway), but don’t let that put you off.

Score: 8/10

In which I cross the road

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 12:36:00 +0000

I’m not a particularly nervy person in general - give or take my terrible peripheral vision which leads to an unfortunate tendency to jump violently if I’ve not heard a person come into the room, I’m pretty calm about life.

I’m happy speaking in public, or travelling across various bits of East Africa all by myself, or careening round the countryside on the back of a hunter of disproportionate size to my sub-5’4” stature (“16.2hh and a gnat’s whisker,” as one woman at the yard describes Delilah, my usual steed).

But recently, I’ve found myself unseated not by a spooky equine who doesn’t like the look of a bit of flappy litter whilst out hacking, but by the most mundane of everyday occurrences.

Instead, I’ve developed a disarming fear of crossing the road.

A few weeks ago, I was on a zebra crossing when I was ploughed into, and knocked to the floor by, a cyclist. The whole thing happened so quickly that I didn’t have much of a chance to think about it, and in the weeks that followed, I’ve been so doped up on co-drydamol and anti-inflammatories for a desperately painful back that I’ve barely been able to form a coherent thought about anything at all.

But since getting up off the sofa and heading back into work and general everyday life, I’ve noticed a subtle shift in the way I conduct myself in public.

A bicycle whizzing past on the road at high speed will give me the shivers. I don’t particularly like walking on the kerb side of the pavement. And I won’t set foot on a road unless I’m at a crossing. Even then, I have to see the green light before I even think about crossing over – whether there’s visible traffic in the vicinity or not. The streets can be completely dead: there’s no way I’ll step into the road unless I’m absolutely sure everything has come to a complete standstill. I’m like Tufty’s best ambassador – but one that’s in permanent danger of some sort of low-level anxiety attack. Pathetic, no?

This behaviour is entirely alien – to me and those around me. I’m pretty sure The Writer thought I’d gone completely mad when I refused to cross a perfectly empty street on the way back from the supermarket at the weekend.

I hate that I’m nervy about such a simple, everyday thing. I hate that as a grown woman with a decent job and a life I thoroughly enjoy that I’m made to feel like a small child every time I come to the end of the street. And I hate beyond all articulation the fact that someone else’s callous lack of consideration (if the lack of thought can ever actually be deemed such, which I’m not sure it technically can, but from this side of the painkillers it certainly feels like it should be), has changed the way I conduct myself in such a basic manner.

In which one man gets it

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 08:00:00 +0000

It’s not often that I read something that makes me slam the iPad down on my lap in enormous agreement, and less so that the hearty agreement-inducing thing is published in The Spectator. But stranger things have happened, and thus it was that, one afternoon last week, I slammed my iPad down on my lap in enormous agreement with a piece I’d just read in The Spectator.

I’m not alone in having bitched and moaned and written about the incessant and insidious harassment of women – loads of people have done the same thing. But, by and large, very few of them have been from mainstream media outlets, and they’ve all been women. This piece, in The Speccie, was by a man. Not only that, it’s by a man whose writing screams that he gets it.

Hugo Rifkind, on whose writing I’ve had a bit of a crush on for a while, if I’m honest, says in his piece that he’s recently started following @EverydaySexism – the project that chronicles everyday occurrences of sexism experienced by women.

Individually, often, they don’t seem a big deal. ‘Quit moaning,’ you might say. But Christ, so many of them, one after the other, day in, day out. Like a Chinese water torture.

OH MY GOD, THANK YOU HUGO. YES, PRECISELY THIS.

Frankly, it’s depressing that this was my immediate reaction: it shouldn’t be the case that so few men seem to understand what we’re complaining about that when one of them does, it’s akin to a magical epiphany of unicorns and rainbows (I might be over-egging that a bit, but only the smallest of bits). But I’m a big girl, and life – as my late Grandpa used to be so fond of telling me – isn’t fair, and I’ll take what I can get.

One could argue that it isn’t the Hugos of the world who are the problem: as he says himself, Hugo wouldn’t have ever sidled up to a stranger and told her she was pretty. He’s not the type to lean out of a white van window and holler at a passing woman’s tits; or, God forbid, ejaculate on a woman on the tube. He’s not part of the problem.

But whilst he – along with the majority of intelligent, decent, normal men who don’t think it’s acceptable to spunk on a stranger’s leg on their commute to work – might never actually contribute to the problem that is persistent harassment, his recognition of the sheer existence, let alone the scale of it, is important.

The more the decent, normal men become – or are made – aware of the problem, the better. The more they’ll take note when the less decent ones are haranguing women in the street. The more they might even step in and do something about it. The more they’ll write about it, and the more other men will realise that it’s not just women making a fuss about nothing, and maybe, just maybe, little by little, things will start to change.

In which I am whisked away

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 08:00:00 +0000

I was reminded at the weekend that scents have enormous power to transport us to another time or place, far more powerfully and viscerally than anything else we sense, be they sounds or sights or tastes.

With The Writer’s mother currently living in Switzerland, TW and I have taken the opportunity to see her whilst landing ourselves a nice pre-Easter European city break, spending the last 10 days or so scrabbling stuff together for a hastily-planned trip to Geneva. Finally it seems, if the planets align and I pack enough codeine, I’ll have run out of excuses why TW shouldn’t teach me to ski.

Not being a seasoned skier, I’ve begged and borrowed various bits of kit to take with me – mostly from The Equestrienne, whose initial experience on the slopes several weeks ago was a roaring success and gives me some vague comfort that I might not kill myself headfirst down a mountain – given that buying anything new for myself will almost certainly jinx the entire escapade and land me in hospital for the second time in two weeks.

And so, back at the parents’ for a weekend of cat snuggles and recuperation, I went through the bits and pieces I still have there on the hunt for anything that might be useful. Digging through my riding kit, I pulled out a thermal, long-sleeved t-shirt, and a fleece-lined waterproof jacket, both of which I thought might come in handy (I thought I’d save the poor, unsuspecting Swiss the sight of me in jodhpurs).

As I collected all my belongings to lug to the station after lunch on Sunday, I pulled on the jacket. Ostensibly, it’s bright red – not that you’d be able to tell these days, because actually, the left sleeve and most of the front is covered in mud and crud from a faster-than-sensible gallop through the snow back in January. The other half is smothered in a vaguely greenish slobber where the mare I ride nudges at my pockets for the Polos she knows are there when we get back to the yard after our hacks.

Normally when I’m wearing it, all I can smell is hay and hot horse. But as I pulled it on this time, I caught a faint, sweet scent that reminded me I’ve not washed it since I brought it home from my uncle’s house after a funeral last summer: the perfume my late aunt wore every day still lingered in the fleece at the neck.

Instantly, I was whisked out of my parents’ hallway where I was surrounded by weekend bags, and into the light, airy kitchen of my aunt’s Cheltenham townhouse, where I spent several half term holidays as a child, playing with my cousins and chasing the ducks around the garden; and Christmas holidays when the whole family descended. Pushing the collar up to my face and breathing in deeply, I could almost hear her calling us in for tea, or suggesting everyone play a post-dinner round of Sardines.

I was suddenly enormously thankful that – rather lazily – I hadn’t bothered to put the jacket through the wash. A bit of dried-on horse slobber is a small price to pay for such clarity of memory.

In which I consider what feminism means to me

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 08:00:00 +0000

Last week, Woman’s Hour had a discussion about ‘what feminism means today’. Some of the callers’ opinions reflected the fact that it’s a word loaded with meaning, and a term that seems to make some people, men and women alike, enormously squeamish. I know several women whom I’d absolutely paint with the ‘feminist’ brush, despite their clamours to the contrary – all of which leads me to believe that feminism could do with a rebrand.

Because my form of feminism isn’t about not shaving my legs; it’s not about not wearing a bra (gods above, not); or about going make-up free. It’s not about being a part of an angry, militant clique who tell people they’re doing feminism wrong. It’s not about hating men, because I don’t: I love the men in my life –they’re awesome. And it’s absolutely not about wanting to be ‘better’ than them – whatever that means.

It’s about being paid the same salary for doing my job as a male colleague in the equivalent role.

It’s about being able to walk down the street without feeling violated.

It’s about having women in public life I can look up to – without their being publicly patronised for their clothes or for leaving early to pick up the kids.

It’s about being able to go to a bank to talk about my mortgage without being looked at askance for not having a husband or father there with me.

It’s about more films passing the Bechdel test, and treating us as three-dimensional figures in society.

It’s about being taken seriously by male clients when I talk to them about media strategy. It’s about not having them make lewd comments about “horse-women’s thighs”, or refer to their ex-wife as “The Bitch” in meetings.

It’s about being able to read The Economist without being given funny glances on the tube.

It’s about not having topless women on the pages of national newspapers.

It’s about women being represented - in politics, media, business.

It’s about having the freedom to stay at home and look after the children – if I want to. It’s about having a job to come back to if I don’t.

It’s about sticking on a pair of high heels and a lot of eyeliner when I’m going out, and not being raped “because I was drunk and dressed like I was asking for it.”

It’s about being able to use the tube or give blood, without being felt up or ejaculated on.

It’s about my daughters being not just able, but unafraid and proud, to study maths, computing, physics.

It’s about being able to get home safely at night, even if I’m on my own.

It’s about journalists focussing on what a woman’s saying, not what she’s wearing.

[EDITED, morning of 13 March] It’s about the BBC choosing not to focus on the “problem” of false rape claims, when the overwhelming conclusion of a report from the CPS is that these claims are few and far between.

It’s about women around the world being given the same access to education as men. It’s about them being allowed to drive cars, being able to make their own choices about whether or not they have children, and not having parts of their genitalia customarily sliced off.

It’s about being able to do what men do. And that, pretty much, is it. And I can’t for the life of me see how that can be seen as scary. By anyone.

In which I'm grateful for the kindness of strangers

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 08:00:00 +0000

It’s fashionable to say that everyone’s too busy for each other these days; that no one has any time to help anyone else, much less a stranger; that no one thinks to stop and help, people will turn a blind eye and continue on their way.

Last week, I found the truth was completely the opposite.

I was on my way to work on Monday morning when I found myself on the receiving end of a fast-moving cyclist. Almost from the second I found myself staring up at a grey London sky from the asphalt, the kindness of everyone around me, friends and strangers alike, was overwhelming.

There were the two teachers who left their field trip class lined up on the pavement and scooped me up from the road and into the school opposite. There was the woman, whom I have no way of contacting but wish I did, who called both the paramedic and my office to tell them what had happened – and then called them the following day to find out how I was.

There was the paramedic, the picture of kindness and sensitivity, calming me down and ensuring me I wasn’t causing an unnecessary fuss, driving with enormous care so bumps in the road didn’t send shudders of pain through my back; and the radiographer who manoeuvred me with immense patience through the x-rays.

There’s The Writer, who rushed away from an immensely busy office to come and sit with me in A&E, talking to doctors who had my name down incorrectly on the paperwork, and helping me change into and out of hospital gowns without so much as a raised eyebrow at the length of time I was there, or the vastly unflattering nature of my attire. He’s since made me hot water bottles, brought me painkillers, made suppers and brought them to me where I’ve laid prostrate on the sofa, and been generally wonderful.

My colleagues have been enormously understanding and patient with someone who for a week has been dosed up on so much codeine she can’t remember whether or not she’s sent an email. Ma Blonde has been checking in several times a day to make sure I’m okay and not overdoing things, with Pa Blonde – the last word in all things pharmaceutical – giving me strict instructions on how best to manage the multitude of drugs.

The police officer who came round to talk to me about what happened was kind and caring and took time and pains to explain precisely what she was going to do, and why she was going to do it.

Friends have sent emails and messages, outraged on my behalf at other people’s conduct, including those who have been lucky enough to have their own recent weekend hospital stays, and The Domestic Slut sent a card that was 100% guaranteed to cheer me up the moment it landed on the mat.

And then there are the people I don’t really know and have never met – the strangers who took a moment out of their busy days to ask after me, and check I was ok.

And for all of them, without exception, for all the tiny and not so tiny shows of kindness that make the world a more pleasant place to be, I am enormously grateful.

In which people read over my shoulder

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 08:00:00 +0000

Being a voracious reader and the owner of what some might call an excessively large handbag, wherever I am, I always have a novel to hand (currently: The Diaries of a Fleet Street Fox) and an iPad full of ‘things to read later’ saved to Pocket. Give me ten minutes at a bus stop, or a tube journey, and there’ll be something in my hand almost instantly, as I fill the time.

But, due to the complete impossibility that is travelling in London without being pressed up against several hot, sweaty bodies, there’s very little reading privacy to be had on the capital’s transport system. Which is a bit of a pain, as I do like my privacy when I’m reading.

Because if there’s something that’s guaranteed to make me disproportionately cross, it’s strangers reading over my shoulder. I hate it. With a passion. A blistering, fiery passion. A usually-reserved-only-for-Piers-Morgan-and-cretins-who-yell-at-me-in-the-street type hatred.

When I notice someone doing it, I’ll react, and not particularly pleasantly. In fact, I’ll generally (over)react in as passive-aggressive and childish a manner as I can muster – turning the page with as much silent ceremony as possible; closing the book narrower, so that only I can see the text inside; turning my body to shield the writing; or, in the worst cases, putting the book away entirely.

It’s something that’s always bugged me, and I’m not entirely sure why: in other capacities, I love sharing what I’m reading, whether that’s pressing a book into someone’s hands once I’m finished with it, or reading aloud passages that I particularly love. And after all, it’s not as if words are a zero-sum commodity and that, by reading over my shoulder, someone else is doing me out of the words, that they’re a finite resource, being used up by a parasite sucking out the semantic nourishment. It doesn’t cost me anything: they’re not somehow increasing the cost of the book by taking in the words whilst I am.

And yet, once I’ve noticed someone doing it, it gets under my skin and stays there. Because somehow, it seems enormously rude; an invasion; a violation of my personal space.

When I read, even if I’ve only got one tube stop and four minutes in which to do it, I like to be on my own: it gives me the chance to be whisked away into a whole other world, away from people’s music leaking from their tinny earphones, their sweaty, unironed shirts, their hot, slightly boozy breath against my cheek. It’s also basic manners: the writer has, by and large and especially when it comes to novels, poured their heart and soul into the work. I want to repay them by giving it my undivided attention, which I can’t when some sweaty idiot, too disorganised or too lazy to bring their own book with them, is encroaching on the words that are, for the time being, mine.

So the next time you’re reading over a woman’s shoulder on the tube, and she snaps the book shut with a barely audible snarl, you should know that I’m sorry. You’re just really, really, really annoying me.

In which I disagree that complaints are out of proportion

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 18:35:00 +0000

India Knight, the columnist and commentator, seemed to have spectacularly missed the point in her piece in today’s Sunday Times.

Her piece focuses on the allegations that have been made recently against Liberal Democrat peer, Lord Rennard, and his purported harassment of women in the party. The allegations have been all over the media, new and old, over the past 10 days or so, and have led to a widespread discussion about what’s acceptable behaviour at work (including additional prominence given to the brilliant Everyday Sexism project, which can only be welcome).

But, says Knight, in best finger-waggling tone, this is all wrong and we all need a little perspective, because actually, if you’re a woman in politics, you should have a thick enough skin to put up with this sort of thing, and comparing Lord Rennard’s alleged handsy behaviour to that of Jimmy Savile does none of us any favours at all.

First things first: who the hell is comparing the Lord Rennard story to that of Savile? Because on that point, I agree with her: the two situations aren’t alike, and anyone who says they are is out of their little tree. But I’ve heard precisely no one do that, and to conflate the two simply muddies the waters of what is an important discussion that’s rarely given this level of attention.

But saying that you should put up with unprofessional and inappropriate behaviour simply because you’re an articulate woman in a good job is utterly ridiculous. Women in politics, according to Knight, are “empowered, confident and ambitious”, arguing that they’re capable of looking after themselves in situations of discomfort.

It’s probably a fair description; it certainly rings try of the women I know in politics. But I’d argue that one’s general outlook and demeanour has about as much to do with being sexually harassed as it does the price of fish. Yes, confident women might be better placed to rebut an advance – but they might not be. And why should confidence mean that they’re not entitled to complain about being harassed in their place of work? When faced with a much older, more powerful man in a position of authority and influence, I’d argue that you could have Boudicca-levels of confidence and still feel squeamish about physically removing his hand from your thigh.

Knight goes on to say that because the incidents alleged against Rennard aren’t criminal and because those making the allegations are “not…without power”, they’re doing women everywhere a disservice by having a lack of proportion. Choosing to work in a male-dominated environment, she says, calls for “some moral courage.”

So let me get this right. What she thinks is that women in politics should be prepared to put up with this sort of behaviour, because they’ve chosen to work in male-dominated environments; and anyway, they’re the kind of women who can look after themselves. And frankly, what’s a bit of groping when some women are facing persistent abuse at the hands of others?

Jeez. Really? The “hush up because you could have it worse” argument? Really? And yes, of course, of course, of course there’s a difference between sex crimes and harassment, just as there’s a difference between having your bag nicked from under a table in a bar and being robbed of it at knifepoint. But we still recognise that both of those things are entirely unacceptable.

So no, I’m afraid not, India: your arguments won’t wash. However confident a woman may be, and wherever she chooses to work, she’s entitled to do so without her colleagues – be they superiors or juniors – overstepping the mark. And when she’s subjected to behaviour that constitutes harassment, she’s entitled to complain about it – as loudly and publicly as she likes.