My Village Idiot (Mobile Weirdness, Take 2)

Travels can be so strange.

On the train last week, I found myself stuck with a teen in hoodie. That bloke was a walking cliché… not in the way he dressed, but in the way he behaved.

He was listening to some music on his phone… without earphones (he even managed to annoy girls who were his age!).

At one point, I considered asking him:

-         if he was an orphan and had never been taught to behave properly in society

-         if he’d just lost his earphones, but was addicted to music and couldn’t survive without a few songs until he reached his destination

-         if he was just too poor to buy earphones

-         if he was deaf and didn’t realize that his taste in music was appalling

-         if he’d been smoking things and was unable to behave like a decent human being living amongst brothers

I kept my mouth shut… for several reasons.

I wasn’t afraid (yes, I am that stupid); the teen was not very tall and looked like a matchstick. As well, since he knew that he was behaving like an idiot (he turned the sound down when the conductor came), he’d probably have turned the bloody thing off if asked.

Then, and this is more important for me, I tuned the teen out (bless Zen!) and I took down notes to use him as a character in some story. I don’t have a plot yet, but come one day, he’ll be in one of my stories… all the more since he was attempting to sing along (attempting is a keyword here, the poor kid couldn’t carry a tune to save his life!) and he was nodding like a stressed chimpanzee. He was utterly ridiculous.

I don’t know that kid, and I’ll probably never see him again, but I almost giggled when I saw that he got down where I stopped.

I knew I had barmy neighbours, but this one’s a winner (silver medal, I’d say).

Painting Update

The whole work will require a lot more time to be finished, but it's time to share the first layers of colours...

'Spoilers and Spoils' Hic Sunt

I don’t mean to write only about those annoying bits of info that ruin a book, a film or a series. I’d like to include the variety of plonkers who spoil our fun with selfish acts (this includes spammers and hackers).

Sometimes, it’s very easy to spoil things for others, and it can even happen by accident. Sometimes, all it needs is us having seen, or read, something and chatting about it with friends, and then you’re overheard (or read online by chance) by someone who didn’t know and… spoilers. When that happens, it’s annoying, but it’s an accident.

Then, you’ve got the stupid twat who, because s/he’s seen or read something, believes that everybody’s on the same page. Again, that’s annoying, but when you end up dealing with such people, spoilers may happen (you may be tempted to slap the guilty one, but we all have to deal with weird bunnies from time to time).

Now, there are trolls who enjoy ruining the fun of others and who are working hard to spread spoilers as far and wide as they can.

I’ve been lucky up to now, and I had to deal with very few spoilers, and all were thrown at me by accident.

Now… malice isn’t the same thing.

We could see the rise of trolls when telephones no longer went through switchboard and the connection was direct, phone to phone; then some twats started phoning at odd hours just for the sake of annoying people and waking them up or such childish things.

The song changed when private computers and the Internet spread.

I don’t really know if spammers appeared first or if it was hackers, but they can be annoying. Granted, most spammers can now be blocked with efficient filters and appropriate programming, but there’s spamming on a bigger scale: spamming that can send so many messages to one recipient that it’s going to make the recipient’s servers crash. (Looks eastward) Yea… that’s common with some people/nations.

That particular variety of spam is more than annoying. It’s criminal; not less than that bloke writing from Africa, asking for your bank refs before he can send you millions of dollars or the Russian casinos selling drugs online, but those are more visible (and we’re not even aware of the size of the tip of the iceberg when it comes to massive spamming!).

That kind of spam is just as nasty as the people who invent computer viruses. A few years ago, I was working in some IT nest, and I knew there were virus-makers in the building; good thing for them (and me!) that I never located them because I’d have sorely been tempted to make one of my boots connect with a very specific part of their anatomies (yes, the one that could turn them into professional sopranos). I know that they were having fun creating viruses… Pardon me, but where’s the fun when you damage someone else’s work (or fun, or whatever)?

The species I really find despicable, too, is the hacker kind. Do we get to hear about Robin Hood hackers? No, mostly not… Some of the ones who work for the police are hackers who were caught red-handed doing something illegal and were offered one way out (points at IT nest mention: we had one caught that way).

What do we get today? Well, mostly things like the Leveson Inquiry, where people working for the media hacked famous people or families who had been victims of crimes.

That’s not a spoiler, but that’s a spoil.

I really don’t understand what some people get from spying on others and ruining their reputations, or… whatever. Just this week, I heard about someone who got hacked; then, the hacker proceeded to impersonate the hacked victim. What for? Some twisted fun? Some idiotic belief that the rest of the world would fall for it? I’m afraid, that just like the cases we get to discover in the current Leveson Inquiry, it’s just people who know how to do it, think they’re entitled to do it, do it, and see their victims squirm and enjoy the show.

In my book: that’s despicable and low, but, what’s worse, it potentially spoils (back to spoiling, in a rotten way) my fun, and just for that, I’m ready to get the aforementioned boots ready to annihilate some soft tissues if given the chance.

I’ve never been interested in fishwrappers (and I’ll never be now), but when some plonker’s targeting people I enjoy reading and is preventing me from getting into contact with them, I get the boots and the Voodoo dolls ready.

Just like when people plagiarize works and pretend some excellent creation is theirs, even though the world (all right, exaggerating a tad on that one) knows they’re lying, I’m angry on the victims’ behalf. While the thief who plagiarized some work is easy to find because s/he’s bragging, the common hacker is a rat in the shadows (my apologies to actual rat, who are useful).

You’ve got to be better than the hacker to catch him, or her, and in the meantime, the hacked victims are left in limbo.

I know that spoiler-trolls and hackers must have brains wired in a very specific way, but that won’t stop my brain from growling at the mere mention of people who were raised in barns (my apologies to barn, which are useful) and don’t understand that revealing plots is poor etiquette (or netiquette), or who hack nice people to steal bits of their lives because they’re jealous (or anything just as nasty).

I don’t want to know what’s going to happen in the crime novel I’m reading, or the film I’m going to see next week, or the series that’ll be back on telly next month. Somehow, it’s a very good thing that I’ve had to deal with mild spoiling only because I know the boot threat is not a threat. It’s an omen. Spoil my fun, and face my wrath if I catch you.

If most hackers are anything like the twats who were creating viruses where I used to work, they’ve got an ego the size of the sun, and they love playing gods. That’s when I’d like someone to hunt them down to give them a dose of their own medicines. I’m not sure they’d realize how wrong they are to play with other people’s lives, but perhaps the message would reach the brains of some of them (I’m being super optimistic here).

Now… I can’t use gaffer tape to shut the mouths (or stop the hands) of spoiler-trolls, and though I’m not too bad in IT, I can’t track hackers down.

I can’t.

But for spoiling my (or my friends’) fun when they do, I can wish them some very, very, very, very interesting karma! I’m not sure it works, but a gal can dream.

Spoiler-spreading and fun-spoiling plonkers should really get some potent message from the universe, be it from an Inquiry or from one of my boots come one day. This is one of the many forms of bullying, and it should be denounced as such.

[goes to polish boots, for when…]

Weapon of Choice? Mobile!

Perhaps the title should be "Killed by Mobile"...

[Okay, general disclaimer for this post: I’m going to swear a lot, so pardon my French, or hop to another page]

Let's start with a confession: I don't have a mobile.

Most of the people I'd like to chat with are in other countries or on other continents, which means that I can't afford the kind of package that’d allow me to reach them on a mobile (all the more useless since my landline does have a package that allows me to call them at no extra cost), and if I had a mobile, it’d mean that my relatives could reach me 24/7, which is something I cannot allow to happen.

Besides, there’s perhaps one time a year when I’m stuck in a traffic jam and I’d need to call the person I’m meeting to say that I’ll be late, but that’s so rare that it doesn’t justify the purchase.

So, I don’t have a mobile, but I get to be bugged by the ones around me who do have one.

At the supermarket, I don’t care if some twat (male or female – both do it) is chatting on the phone about what to buy, the weather, the kids, or if they gossip about sordid stuff.

Don’t care.

I can tune them out.

But when some twat is queuing in front of me and is still chatting on the phone as s/he reaches the checkout counter, I want to scream: ‘Use both hands to empty your basket, you moron!’

Since I was too well educated (no kidding, just bump into me, and I’ll be the one apologizing, if that’s not conditioning I don’t know what is!), I say nothing. I don’t even growl or glare, but my brain’s usually yelling strings of insults that’d make a sailor blush like a virgin on her wedding night.

On the bus (or tube, or train), sometimes we all can follow chats about things that we simply shouldn’t be hearing.

Just today, there was a bloke on my bus who shared the medical condition of his daughter with the rear section of the bus. No fun, but that won’t beat the time when a gal quit a job on the bus after a heated talk with her, by then, former boss; she must have thought she was in her office, but she was in a public space!

At work, one day, I’m going to get in trouble because I work with a few people who just can’t turn the bloody thing off, and then right in the fucking middle of a meeting (that they called because they need to hear their own voices about some pseudo-important topic), they take a call and leave the room – or not!

If you look at them as if to ask ‘Where you raised by wolves?’ they glare at you because they just don’t understand how ill-mannered that is.

I’ve even got a friend who can’t refrain from checking her voicemail and e-mails as we’re supposed to have a chat!

I understand that the world is changing.

I understand that a mobile can be really useful (to call for help, to stay connected, to book something on the internet while stuck in a traffic jam, etc…), but it should come with some etiquette and proper education.

When I see someone unable to put the device down, I want to find the address of a rehab centre or something. If you’re in a meeting, you turn the mobile off, except if you’re expecting the Queen, herself, to call, and even then, you have the courtesy to warn the people with you that you might have to take an important call. If you’re getting an OBE, it’s okay, but if the dry cleaner calls to tell you that your tie’s ruined for good, it can bloody go to voicemail!

Of course it’s a useful tool, but it’s not the boss of you. It’s a tiny box with chips; that’s all.

What the two ladies I overheard on the bus this afternoon said sums it up quite nicely. They were commenting on the loud bloke and came to the conclusion that people with a bad education and somewhat selfish were loud and uncaring, while the ones who hadn’t been raised in a barn on a desert island knew how to behave in society.

These examples are annoying and drive me up the wall, but that’s all, it’s just annoying.

Yet, mobile addiction can be dangerous.

After work, I took my usual bus, got down at my usual stop and walked up my street to reach my building.

Thank Merlin for winter because, thanks to the night, I saw the lights of the car that was approaching suspiciously slowly. That particular street is rather quiet, but the way it’s numbered sometimes puzzles people, and I thought I was dealing with someone looking for his/her way.

I stopped on the zebra crossing, protected by a parked car, and the moving car moved closer, but very, very slowly. It was so incredibly slow that I leant to check if the driver was looking for a spot to park, but no…

No, it turned out that that wanker was looking at, you guess what… his mobile. Eyes firmly on the tiny screen, not on the road, not on me. No, looking at the almighty mobile. The important mobile.

When he reached the end of the street, he looked ahead (at fucking last), but that’s because he was about to drive into a bigger street. He finally looked at me, and by then I must have looked quite flabbergasted by his nerve and utter stupidity (I feel like turning “moronitude” into a word), and he realized that I was waiting for him to see me and allow me to cross the street, as in, you know, the Highway Code (‘Thou shalt not turn the poor pedestrian into marmalade’, or something).

He mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ and turned onto the bigger street, and that was it.

I crossed the street in one piece and headed home, and it’s only there that I realized that I was so shocked and surprised that I forgot to note his registration plate down. Drat!

If that had taken place in broad daylight, I might have been distracted by something.

If I’d been more tired than I am, I might have ended up under that SUV (who needs that kind of car in town, by the way?!!).

I could have been injured or killed because some prig wanted to check something on his mobile.  Swell.

I guess my conclusion is going to be, yes, by all means use your shiny mobiles as much as you want, but you’re living in society, you’re a part of it, and a piece of technology doesn’t make you King or Queen.

Respect is one thing; as in, you’re not bloody alone on Earth, keep that in mind, you selfish twat.

As well, if you’re walking or driving, the phone is turned off. Clear? If you break your leg or your nose or kill yourself, it’s your problem, but don’t drag me into your plonkerishness.

If you break one of my limbs, I can always go see you with my faithful rolling pin later, but if you kill me… not much to do then. Oh, I’m sure you’d feel bad… for five minutes or so, but today we can see that stupidity kills.

So, use your phone to locate the closest pub, but don’t behave like an animal and use your brain… and don’t be selfish; you’re not on a desert island.

A Lump of Coal in My Sock, Please!

I am, most probably, weird.

I try to be open-minded and tolerant, but I'll admit that I've got a hard time with bigotry and pettiness (oh, and with stupidity, but that’ll be for another post).

When I read a story about a teacher who’d told a whole class of children (in late November or early December!) that Santa doesn’t exist, I was saddened and shocked. [See: http://www.LoHud.com/article/20111202/NEWS03/112020353/Teacher-Scrooge-Nanuet-second-graders-reportedly-told-there-s-no-Santa]

Yet… I was in for a bigger surprise when I mentioned this at work. On about fifteen people, only two agreed with me and found that the teacher went too far.

Now… I’m an adult, and I know that Santa doesn’t exist, that it’s a tradition and a healthy dose of marketing, but in my mind it’s… childhood, dreams, fantasy, innocence.

Is this world, our dear blue ball, such a great place that we can afford to crush our children’s dreams right after nursery school? No. No, it’s not. Life’s tough and nasty, and for some children, it’s nasty from the start.

I’m probably silly, but it breaks my heart to see adults so uncaring and bloody cold.

I’ve read quite a few heartless comments, which boil down to ‘since it’s a lie, it’s bad, and it’s best for the kids to know the truth as soon as possible; and the best would be to not tell them about Santa at all’. Blimey! Why not send them to the mine and tell them they’ll never make any of their dreams come true!

I vaguely remember reading articles that said that imagination and stories are important if we want children to develop in good conditions.

I reckon that I was shocked when I heard someone say that at that age it was high time that they were told the truth. I beg your pardon?!

All right, besides that ‘it’s a lie’ thingy, there’s, as well, the fact that a teacher did something that was against most of the parents’ will. When it comes to education, I’m all for sharing a maximum of knowledge with children (be it the danger of drugs or a complete and accurate lesson about Sex Education), and that’s where the ‘I’ve got to be weird’ comes back because I don’t understand that need to kill Santa.

At work, I tried to make a parallel about the angry parents using religion, saying that it was like telling a Buddhist that Buddha was a lie – for whatever reason. That didn’t go too well, and I got a ‘it’s not the same’. Okay, so parents can tell their children whatever they want about any religion, even a funky one (we've got a few of those around), and that’s all right, but allowing one’s own children to dream and believe for a few, bleeding brief years that there are bits of magic in our lives, it’s terrible.

Oh… All right. Sorry. My bad.

I may be biased because I remember how I felt when I was told (courtesy of a relative who thought it was high time I should know). It was before Easter, and I cried the seven seas all afternoon (all right, I’ve always had a very vivid imagination, and this was the first huge dream that my relatives slaughtered on the altar of their logic). The relative understood what kind of terrible mistake had been made (my mother wasn’t in on the truth-telling thingy), and that person attempted to bribe me with some Easter chocolate that had already been bought.

Of course I stopped crying. Of course I know it’s all a lie now.

Of course the little girl I remember, deep down in my heart, hasn’t forgotten how it bloody hurt to be told the truth.

Some children will understand all by themselves at four, while others will still believe at twelve. So what?!

This feels like some people wanting to control others, from what they think to how they live. What’s the harm in having children (even slightly older ones!) believing in Santa? They’re not worshipping Hitler, for Merlin’s sake!

We sexualize our children at younger and younger ages (toddlers & tiaras, anyone?), but it’s okay to kill their dreams?

All right, you know what? I’m weird, and I’m proud to be weird the way I’m weird, but even if I have to spin a lie so that a child doesn’t cry, I will, and I’ll give an Oscar-worthy performance, and if some people find me barmy, I don’t care.

I refuse to be a dream-killer.

Some truths can wait for a few years.

By the time I post this, we should be December, Tuesday, 6^th. In honour of my Germanic great-grandmother, I wish you all a happy St Nicholas’s Day! May you all get oranges in your socks!

I'm Not Afraid... But Should I?

Look at me, blogging about something that isn't even really in the list I posted a few days ago!

I could say, 'That's me!', but that'd be a lie - first of all because I'll end up writing about all the topics that I announced (even if I do so slowly), and there are bits of what I'm about to mention that are included in my list.

I'll blame this post on the season, or on karma.

I mean, the end of the year is the perfect time to look back and balance the latest events and our feelings, and the prospect of ending up with my family for Christmas is always making me feel introspective-ish.

As well, things have been improving a bit for me (recovering from a rather long illness at last, having more energy, people being nice and caring), and that makes me wonder if it’s something karmic (wheel turning and bringing me back up) or if I should expect the second shoe to drop and fall onto my poor head.

Another reason for these lines is my mother, and let’s not forget my neighbours, too.

Let’s start with what happened here at home.

The thing about my mother is that she forbade me to go to a feminist demonstration because ‘demonstrations can be dangerous, what with those thugs who go there just to cause trouble and hurt people’.

Right… I ended up not going, but because I had to go to work, and since I am the bread-winner, I had no choice but to skip that demonstration. It didn’t help the other ladies that I was there, with them – in my heart. They needed as many people as possible on the streets.

I may be barmy, or suicidal (or I don’t know what), but what I gathered from my History lessons is that if you don’t fight for your rights when someone (or a group) tries to turn you into a second-class citizen, you usually end up caught between a rock and a hard place.

I’m lucky enough to live in a democracy, in a (relatively) rich country; a place where I can live my life and make choices without having to ask my father/brother/husband/son if I can breathe… pretty please. I have wages that allow me to pay the rent, and eat, and not be frozen in winter, and I can even buy books if I’m reasonable. I pay my taxes, and I’m a good citizen.

I have two luxuries: time and independence.

My mother paid for my MA, but I got three jobs (paid peanuts) to get my MSt and my PhD. I’m proud of my theses and of my work (all the more since one of my teachers almost suggested that I leave college to start claiming unemployment benefits because I’d never succeed).

I wouldn’t change my life for all the tea in China, and I wouldn’t choose another career because I happen to love my job, and that even if I’m not working in my initial field. You see, the problem is that I became a specialist in something that gets one open position maybe once a decade, and the last job was given to… a man. I can’t even be angry or disappointed with the ones who chose that bloke over me because they, in their little brains, truly believed that I was married and didn’t actually need to work. In their heads, if I was doing what I was doing, it was just for fun, not because I had bills to pay. I’m writing this quite calmly because these people really didn’t think I needed the job, and when I explained the situation, my coordinator had the decency to pale and flinch because he’d been unfair and sexist.

I adapted my knowledge, caught a few googlies, got my sea legs in a neighbouring field that had more opportunities, and moved on.

I’m rather strong, but there were moments, as I was dealing with people who treated me like a silly little girl (just because I happen to be XX), when I almost collapsed. It’s hard to face harassment at work because you’re a woman and you work with men who went to school riding on dinosaurs.

My mother thinks I should be cautious, quiet and discreet. I should be unseen, not to attract any unwanted attention, as if this world weren’t full of plonkers who think they own you.

She’s my mother. Should she wish to protect and wrap me in a giant heap of cotton wool, or should she be ready to dress my wounds when I crawl home after a fight to defend my rights or my freedom? You can bet a quid on the latter if this were my script, but, as you can guess, she opted for the cotton wool, and she’d like to keep me in a box, as well.

Let’s have a look at my neighbours now, shall we? It turns out that I’ve known some of them for… well, too long actually. They saw me managing to pay for my last years of college, they saw me find a decent job (still temporary, but, hey! It’s a good job that looks gorgeous on my CV, and I’m proud of that job that I found all alone), and they saw me publish a handful of research articles in a respectable magazine.

Now, let’s play a game, shall we? What do you think they ask me when they see me?

Could it be ‘How’s work these days?’ or ‘Getting a permanent position soon?’?

Well… of course not. The two main questions that come back (and do make me feel slightly murderous) are ‘Still not married?’ and ‘Still not pregnant?’

Swell.

Just brilliant.

Go on, make me feel like chattel.

They completely ignore half of my life; whatever I achieve in my professional life is ignored, as if it were nothing. Yet it’s not unimportant, I fought to get my education and a job I love.

In their world, I’m not complete because I’m not married, or I don’t have a child - at least.

That makes me feel… like a second-class citizen.

Sometimes some of them, my mother included, say that it’s better to be alone rather than stuck with a twat, but you can see the pity in their eyes. Sorry, guys, but I’d rather swallow hot coal than be stuck with a plonker.

If I were to find someone decent, I’m not a complete misanthropist, I’d appreciate companionship. If I were to find a fellow writer, I’d have a whale of a time sharing plots and discussing books. I’m open to karmic twists, but I’m not looking actively (the reason will be shared in a future post – perhaps the next, I think).

As to becoming a mother, I’m deeply convinced that it’d be criminal to give a baby half of my DNA, and my Mary Poppins side is limited to her wardrobe. Were I to tell neighbours and mother that I’m planning to sponsor a child when I have enough money to do so, they’d probably go on pitying me because it’s oh-so-important to perpetuate one’s DNA (seven billion bipeds on this planet, people. Time to think and act like adults).

When I’m really tired and/or angry, I want the script to go that way:

Them: ‘Still not pregnant?’

Me: ‘No, I’m a lesbian.’

That would shock them, and I know they’re too slow to realize that, were it true, it’d prevent me from getting married, but pregnancy wouldn’t be impossible with today’s techniques.

Or there’s that one:

Them: ‘Still not pregnant?’

Me: ‘No, I can’t have children, but thank you for reminding me.’

That’s the nasty part of my brain that wants to make them feel bad for annoying me with their boring leitmotiv. With my luck, it’d backfire, and they’d become more invasive than they already are.

So I keep my mouth shut and I don’t yell at them, though I really, really want to because I may not have family portraits above the mantelpiece, but I’m doing some good things and I’m a curious, clever gal who’s learning as much as she can and is constantly amazed with our universe.

There are a few days when I feel low, but I try to cling to my books, to my ideas and to my dreams (I must admit that since I’ve stopped working for the place that I’d nicknamed Bedlam, my wish to slit my wrist is below zero). I’ve been training to write for years, and now that I’m working on stories of my own, these will be my legacy.

Since nothing is perfect in this world, I should be happy with my quiet, if imperfect, lot… but there’s a buzz in my ear, like a fat, hungry mosquito in the dead of night.

Mark Twain said “If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you're mis-informed”. Since the day I noticed that my favourite newspapers had websites, I started subscribing to one’s daily newsletter, and then to another one’s, and… so on and so forth.

Today I get e-mails from one newspaper from Japan, Russia, Ukraine, Sweden and France; I get three from the UK (plus regular visits to Auntie Beeb, dear old darling) and five from the US (more surface over there!).

I’m probably mis- and over-informed (thank Merlin, reading fast is one of my gifts!).

What I see in the world about the state of women’s conditions is scary, inhuman and makes me want to learn the ancient art of Chinese torture in order to make ‘an eye for an eye’ a valid way to avenge my sisters.

Reading the news is now what makes my brain start in the morning long before tea kicks in, because my blood’s boiling and I’m usually frothing at the mouth with anger and disgust long before I bite into my daily apple.

I’m not saying that everything’s simple and easy for men. I’m neither stupid, nor heartless, but it’s really not painless being a woman on Earth.

Of course, we get a few insufferable bratty princesses who throw temper tantrum if they don’t get the latest gadget – in platinum, but they’re red herrings for fishwrappers.

Open any newspaper and you’ll read about young girls being sold to brothels, refugees being gang-raped, survivors being beaten, lesbians being raped to make them ‘normal’, victims being told that whatever happened to them is something they deserved because they weren’t wearing the proper clothes (slut walk, anyone?), maids being assaulted in posh bedrooms and then disparaged, women being forced to wear burqas in order to be able to go out find food for their children, women being put to death by their State or their relatives because they were raped, teens forced to marry their rapists, women not allowed to go to school, to vote, to drive…

I could go on typing, and each story would become more heart-wrenching as I’d add details, names and faces to these ordeals.

The stories of the horrors happening on this planet make my heart weep. Sometimes they make me wish that I had a gun, knew how to use it, and were able to reach, in the wink of an eye, the ones who need protection and help.

The world doesn’t work like that, and I’m just a tiny little gal. In fact, I’m not sure I’d even be able to protect myself if blokes (or just a big one) attacked me, and that brings me back to my doorstep.

I somehow feel safe in my big democracy because I’m independent, I’m not living under a bridge, and I can even enjoy what I consider luxuries behind the solid door that keeps the pettiness and narrow-mindedness of my neighbours and relatives outside my life and soul.

I’m no one’s property. I can decide where to go, what to do (I’m learning to scratch play the violin, and I’ll be flying a Cessna before the next millennium), who to see, what to say and what to wear (minus a future hiccough with my mum about that bunny wool cap that she thinks I’m too old to even consider wearing). As well, my colleagues are good people, and I can make choices about my health.

Things look good, don’t they?

But, do they? Are they really, really good? Aren’t we about to enter some vicious cha-cha?

Look at the politicians saying that “mothers” have to make sacrifices (er, guys, what about the other half of the parental unit? You know… the fathers).

Look at the religious extremists (pick whatever flavour!), who brandish their lil’ books and want women to go back to a past that exists only in their tiny brains.

Look at that female MP who wants to limit access to abortion, pretending that she’s concerned about women’s health when, in fact, she’s the puppet of some religious group.

Watch Nina Hobson’s Dispatches and start whimpering (when a female police officer says that she wouldn’t bother reporting it if she were raped because it’d lead nowhere, you understand that things aren’t as good as you thought).

Check your wages and compare them with a male colleague’s and see for yourself that equal pay isn’t here yet.

That list could go on and on, as well.

I was allowed to think, was sent to school, wasn’t sold into slavery.

I can walk freely and blog about it, but just as I have to be careful when I head home late at night, I’ve got to be careful about my freedom and my privileges.

I’ve got to stand up to defend my rights as a human being. I’ve got to fight here if I want to be able to do something, however little it might be, for my sisters, wherever they are, who find themselves in ugly situations.

The next time there’s a feminist demonstration, I won’t speak about it, but I’ll go. To make contacts, to meet sisters (and brothers) who believe in the same things, in the same kind of humanity.

I’m not afraid, and I shouldn’t be because, otherwise, that’d mean that the bigots and plonkers have won, and they’ve turned me into a child who needs protection. I’ll be wary, but I won’t give in to fear.

I don’t want to have to fight, but I will if need be, because the alternative is surrendering my freedom to someone who’d become my owner, and there’s simply no way in hell I’m letting that happen.

I’ll start right at my door, and next time I get the annoying questions, I’ll tell them my truth: I’ll be a sponsor when I’m ready, but I’m not a mother, and I refuse to be tied to someone who wouldn’t be my equal intellectually and who wouldn’t treat me as an equal (not out of the wood here).

I bet I’ll have to hammer a few ideas in their brains.

One step at a time, starting on my doorstep.

Chin high.

Rolling pin at the ready.