Varieties of Denialism

Bipeds that cannot accept facts because they don't fit their agenda, beliefs, or whatever have a way to make my blood boil.

With the film Denial coming to our screens, the number of Holocaust denialists has become more visible with these decerebrated bipeds flooding forums and comments threads.

Just this morning, I've seen a bunch of village idiots doubt that the Holocaust happened; one even found it fishy to not be allowed to doubt the evidence - and the testimonies of the survivors! There were also idiots adding the Holodomor to their list of denials.

As a historian, I understand that we can doubt that the battle of Agincourt happened exactly the way it is reported in archives - but we can dig up testimonies and get a fair idea of what happened. All one needs is hard work - and a working brain.

What I cannot understand is the collection of village idiots, from all over the rock, who can read all the documents we have in archives, and who can meet survivors or read their testimonies (be it about the Holodomor, the Holocaust, or even the sex slaves for the Imperial Japanese army), and who say, 'Nope! I don't believe it! It just can't be true!'.

They make me want to yell and make them sit down and educate themselves until their two and a half brain cells have a spark of illumination.

My introduction for the publication of Shakespeare's Sonnets for Éditions Aikyō is dealing with all the varieties of denialists about Shakespeare.

I ended up dividing contemporary denialists into two categories: prime and secondary.

Secondary denialists are the collections of village idiots who might well doubt that our planet orbits around the sun if it became fashionable in their circles to think so, or who do not have enough brain cells to understand facts and the truth. They're infuriating, but I fear most of them are just too stupid.

Much worse and twisted are the prime denialists. These are bipeds who, I think, do understand the archives and the testimonies, but who have decided to not believe them. These bipeds have decided to spread lies (not "post-truth", not "alternative facts" - let's call a spade a spade: they're LIES); maybe they're doing that to enjoy the chaos and pain their words will generate, and/or maybe they have some hidden agenda to promote - be it hatred for one subdivision of humanity, or be it to promote their own work.

If we take into account the scary number of secondary denialists, the prime denialists have a lot of quarterwits (I do fear we're talking about creatures way below the average halfwit) who are ready and willing to pay to buy their books or watch their films or documentaries.

We have ignoramuses and simpletons falling into the cunning traps of manipulators and profiters who would say and do anything to make money and become famous.

Both categories annoy me, but I have some compassion for secondary denialists... Prime denialists, not so much, as I see them as liars and dubious, devious, and unethical creatures who would deny that their own mothers gave birth to them if they could gain anything from spitting that lie.

I do believe that "Knowledge is power", and I will always fight against prime denialists who try to pervert what decent people know to be truths.

That Kind of Day, Eh?

I don't understand why so many bipeds feel the need to be so petty... and it's a festival on Earth these days.

There's a failed con artist with a fake tan, who got a million from his daddy to start a business (and who managed to lose almost a billion (!!!!!) in a year years later) who's trying to make gullible people believe that he could manage a country (when he's never been properly involved in politics before) - and he's just been caught on tape gloating that he's a predator.

There are politicos who help make money, thanks to all the horrors going on in the Middle East, whilst other politicos, in a kind of remake of the 1930s would like to know where the aliens are working in their country.

All that makes my blood boil, and today... the ugliness got personal (as I've lost a friend).

That this person has been forgetting my birthday (we're supposed to be good friends) for a decade... No problem. It's not that important (even though that person didn't forget to wish a "Happy birthday!" to... a sports coach met once a week for a few months).

That I'm always the one who has to keep in touch... I'll make the effort. No problem.

That this person played deaf when I talked about breaking down and thinking about suicide. No problem. It's my burden (and I understand it's not easy to know what to say [though a hug would have been frigging nice]).

That this person acted as if nothing happened when I said that I'd apostatised... Still not a problem.

My health is yo-yo'ing again, so I don't have time for pettiness (I've got fever, headaches, and most of my joints hurt, which is pretty scary - and painful).
As well, I'm drawing the line at pseudo-jokes.
I've never bought the 'I'm telling you something horrible, but I'll pretend it's a joke so you can't be mad at me'. People use 'I'm joking' when they've pushed you over the cliff, but they don't want the witnesses to tell the coppers what really happened.

I don't particularly enjoy having to get rid of knives in my back - and today's incident left me with my lower jaw on the floor, coz I didn't expect to be told something so low about my life - especially not from someone who I thought was a friend, but friends don't disparage you, your beliefs or your life.

I do have good friends who are lovely and kind, Merlin be praised. I won't be able to forget (or forgive) what that person told me, wrapped in a pseudo-joke, and I'm done being the only one making all the efforts. 

I'm nice, but life's too short.

Less pettiness, more empathy.

Dreaming of a Complicated Quilt

This is NOT a post about sewing at all.

It's about humanity, but using a pattern image.

The thing is, the recent events in Paris have made people start talking about community, and some people would like our world to be a piece of material with printed polka dots, in which the dots are separate communities that would have no contact with the next dot whatsoever.

Of course, that's one way to stay safe... but of course, with that, you never get out of your cave, and you die in the dark.

What I'm dreaming of is a lovely quilt. Different colours, different materials, but with defined limits so that "blue coton" doesn't "bleed" on "red satin" or "green wool".

I don't want a world of ghettos (my cave, my family, my tribe, my village, my street, my pub, my region, my country?). Whatever the size of these limits, I don't like them. I do understand that I'm not like a Zen monk or a farmer from... let's say Guatemala, but if we are civilized we can respect all our boundaries, agree to disagree on some topics, and live together in harmony (then again, I grew up a trekkyer, so I probably dream about the Federation too much).

If people insist on having polka dots on the fabric of humanity, we could have them close enough to talk to one another couldn't we? Or are most people so afraid of the mauve cashmere polka dot that just moved too close to them?

Are so many people really that afraid? Can't we talk and communicate and be better than frightened animals?

I'm probably too optimistic.

I know.

PS: I'd kick any polka dot/quilt square so hard that "it" would land on a polar bear if "it" told me to obey "it" and let "it" treat me like a slave. I'm optimistic, not stupid.

Opposable Thumbs Aren't a Licence to Kill

I'm quite furious, so don't mind the cosmic-sized growl (and do click back if you believe that bipeds are the crème de la crème on our planet - oh, or if you like politically correct crap).

I recently signed a petition to try to save a Mamma Bear who was accused of killing an off-trail hiker. I've just read that she was slaughtered.

This is what happened and here's a very good statement on the topic.

The first to say that 'she was just an animal, and a dangerous one!' gets Gibbs-smacked with a rolling pin to Kingdom come.

She was a good mother, who was executed (and her two orphaned cubs may be killed or sold to slavery).

The whole situation made me furious: the arrogance of the bipeds, who think they own the rock (no, you don't, Cupcakes; you share it with all the other lives on it), and the officials hiding behind pseudo-science in order to sell their 'We had to kill her' to the average sheeple who'll think "Oh, well, if there was no other way... They know what they're doing; it's their job" (I want to cuff the idiotic sheeple and bite the officials for resorting to slaughter).

And then, there's the first comment on the page of the second link I just gave you, where a delightful biologist resorts to comparing apple and cheese by mentioning a story where a bear, in town (fake gasp & Sarcasm font firmly on), invaded someone's house. Hashtag Crikey.

I find it revealing that the first comment talks about a completely different scenario.
If I were to find a bear in my flat, I'd wonder how he got in (we don't leave our doors open where I'm parked), and then I'd run outside before calling people equipped to deal with him (we don't keep firearms either - we have no need for them).

It must be cool to think that you're so special that you can invade an animal's territory and have it killed if it nibbles you, but the animal cannot visit your house. 'Oh, nooooo! It's an animal that must stay where it belongs!' Well, sorry, Cupcake, but it belong on this planet, just like you. You're not special because you can hold a can of soda or load a gun - not in my book, at least.
If I were to venture in Yellowstone, I'd be on the bears' turf, and they can do whatever they want. If I'm stupid enough to not follow the safety rules and I end up turned into bear snack, that's karma (and probably a spot of Darwinism).

Seriously, do read Dr Bekoff's page (still link #2); it's enlightening on many levels.

A very good mother was massacred because some bipeds wanted to punish her for being a bear.

All bipeds stepping outside (parks and forests aren't just enough, as the average plonker will go scratch the head of a cobra for a good selfie) should sign standard waivers to prevent future slaughters.

I really wish I could keep Curiosity company; things must be quiet on Mars!

Greed in Games

I've got to admit that I've never been a fan of the Olympics (not even historically speaking).

I loved visiting Olympia and had a lot of fun there with friends and my favourite teacher on school trips, but... that's it.

Recently, things have become slightly annoying. Olympics by Olympics.

I truly hadn't been paying attention until China got the Olympics, and I found myself with the Olympic flame in front of me - and blocking the bridge I needed to cross in order to go to work. By sheer luck, I managed to cross the bridge and reach my classroom, but I started paying attention to Olympic gossip.
What do I remember about the Beijing Olympics?
In my corner of the world, the Olympics nuts bullied people in town, and no one had the right to smack them in order to kick-start their brains.
In Beijing, people were evicted with practically no compensation, and people weren't allowed to protest.
Why? But in the name of the love of sports and for the love of humankind, of course! [I haven't located the Sarc font. Sorry]

Then... London! Or as we called it Londinium MMXII.
If there were things that were no surprise from the Chinese government, I was utterly disappointed when the new Olympics bully decided that no one, for whatever reason, could use the names linked to the Olympics. I particularly remember the shops that had to drop a part of the names that had been theirs for years because there was olymp-something in it.
The Olympic bullies were allowed to harass anyone who refused to comply and obey.

Now, let's move to the winter variety of the Olympics.
Next, we're getting Sochi, in Russia. Russia, where the government (ex-KGB and ex-lawyers) has decided that their poor policies needed to be hidden from the sheeple, thanks to scapegoats; and therefore, the Russian government has passed laws that discriminate against and criminalise the LGBTQ community.
Some artists who were invited to the Olympics have refused to go.
The athletes are divided.
Some people want the games to be boycotted. Others are against it.
Whilst I understand that it's properly heart-rending to not participate in something when you've been training for years, I know that I couldn't caution  the anti-human rights bullying of politicos who need a smokescreen.
As well, in this particular case, I can't help thinking that money is talking (I have no idea how much money is involved - I must have read something on the topic and forgotten everything about it - but I just bet it's a lot).
So, boycott or not boycott? Boycott!
Why? Because I cannot take the 1936 Olympics out of my mind. The world went to Germany and validated the Nazi regime.
It's no surprise that a lot of people have dubbed this one the "Nazi Olympics".
Of course, the athletes and the people from the Olympic committees all around the world, after considering a boycott, declared that sports had nothing to do with politics. <BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ!> Wrong, boys! By agreeing to go to Germany, you helped more screws get loose in Hitler's head, and that basically told him that he could bully his way to more power. Three years later: war, slaughters, death camps.
I'm not putting all the blame on the Olympics, but, bloody hell, that didn't help one bit.

A few years later, other Olympics people decided that what was going on with Apartheid in South Africa was not right, and the country was boycotted. Hurray!

Today, we're back to the square 'Let's not mix sports and politics'.
Why?
Because the Russians are not threatening the Jews, so they're not planning to kill the gays?
Chickenshit.
A scapegoat is a scapegoat, and if you don't fight for human rights now, History is going to kick you in the nuts and laugh at you whilst you roll on the ground calling for your mummy. Just saying...
No dictator (okay, the Russian boys may not be dictators yet, but, boy, how Vlad wishes he were) should be allowed to bully one minority in order to manipulate his sheeple - sorry, law-abiding citizens - to hide the holes in his politics.
1936, it was the Jews - and we all know (except denialists) how that ended.
2014, it could be the LGBTQ community next.

By solidarity with my Russian brothers and sisters, I (yes, I, tiny drop in this vast ocean) am going to boycott everything related to the 2014 Sochi Olympics.

People suggested to move the games to another, friendlier country, but I'm afraid that money talks (from the committee down to some of the athletes). Piece of news guys, when you kick the bucket, you won't take your money with you, so it all boils down to 'How do you want to be remembered?'.
It's quite easy: either you stay home in protest or you go stroke the Russian politicos' egos and you face the potential consequences. I'll help you: imagine that some dictator orders all sports to become illegal; wouldn't you like someone, abroad, with an international reputation, to defend you and your rights to do what you want? Now... Make a choice...

The Lost Child

There might well be a Sordid Fairy Tale in the making with this entry, but I first only need to say what I saw on my way to work last Wednesday.

I was on my usual bus (the direct one that stops two streets away from work), and I had one eye on my book, and the other on the scenery around me.

At one point, we drive by a smallish garden where there are two nice playgrounds for the many children who come there with their mothers or nannies.

First, I saw a young man near the smallish slide (it’s built for children no older than about 6, I’d say).

Since there’s a bus stop right next to the garden, I had about a minute to observe the young man. I saw him climb on the smooth surface of the slide (which was odd and made me take a closer look at what he was doing), take position on the small platform and then slide down it as if he were riding an imaginary static wave, run once he reached the ground, be stopped by the railings and smile like a Bedlam resident high on something.

My first reaction, with one eye still somehow on my book, was: ‘He’s nuts!’, ‘He should be stopped.’ And ‘Good thing there aren’t any children here today.’

And then…

Then I tried to really pay attention, and it hit me like a ton of latinum. There was one child: the “young man”.

I really looked at him, and, though he was somewhat tall, he couldn’t be older than 17 (my money’s on barely 16).

And then there was the way he looked: decent clothes, but somewhat dusty – the kind that’s given by charitable associations to people who need them and that's worn until they fall apart.

And he looked Afghan.

His game took an entirely different meaning.

I know that there are many Afghan boys, who fled their country and ended up in various European countries where they’re like ghosts. I know that they try to gather in groups at night in order to protect one another, but by day it’s a different story.

Of course, I could be completely wrong, but I bet this teen was a lost boy, and when I came to that conclusion, I was disappointed with myself for my initial reaction [and even if he’s a local boy who was having some fun, he wasn’t destroying the playground, and I was denying someone a bit of fun for being too “old”. I’ve already slapped myself, thank you].

I could well be a victim of my wild imagination, but his boyish grin is haunting me, and I fear I spotted some sad tragedy right in my district.

Now, I imagine this boy alone, miles away from his country, fending for himself all alone, and claiming bits of normal childhood even if he looks too old for that.

I’m going to sound like a fool, but it broke my heart. He was grinning after he slid down and reached the railings, but no one was there to share that with him. He may be almost an adult (and I have no doubt that the authorities would treat him as an adult), but, right then, he was such a child. A lost child, alone in a foreign country.

My bus drove on, and I’ll probably never see him again, but he’s changed something in me.

I’ve got just enough money to take care of myself – and my cat – but this is with encounters like this one that I wish I could protect a few children and take them in or something [Note to the universe: never make me Dictator of the World, or I’d treat all the children on the planet as “mine”].

We’ll be a good species when our children don’t have to catch up on their childhoods in their teen years (or later, if at all). We must fight so our children can be children, and nothing else.

Let's Fall in... The "Decent Human Being" Category

I just caught this about some uncontacted Awà: Let's help them.

That Unmentionable Summer Event This Year

a.k.a: *MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP*

a.k.a: We are not amused.

We were first made aware of the issue on Twitter, and then on telly (Cf: Have I Got News for You?), and we find the limitations on what can be typed, shared and shown about the Olympic Games utterly barmy (and quite frankly on the verge of bullying).

Believe us, we do understand the importance of copyrights and trademarks and protections, but when someone - and someone who pretends that they want everybody to enjoy the whole thing and participate! - forbids things that were allowed until now, we're sorry, but we think this smells like bullying at its worse.

Back in 2008, when the Olympic flame was carried through Paris, we found ourself almost stuck on a bridge on our way to work because the Chinese Security bullies were bossing everyone around.

By the way, we still haven't recovered from the fact that the flame was extinguished several times while there.

And to accompany this video, we recommend this page:  http://montagne-protection.org/ariege-pyrenees_0000c9.html

Well, after we managed to cross our bridge, we saw a great banner, and we're very happy to have taken a picture of it:

Today, we made this - because we're really not amused:

Not a Sheeple

I had a very interesting, if completely frustrating, chat with my mother tonight.

I post comments on another site where there are pages about anything and everything (from cool recipes to the latest political news all over the rock).

Earlier, I caught a page about a law that would allow the French government to put on trial anyone who'd visit extremists websites. It's only a project, but it's very dangerous.

Some people commented on the fact that if you're editing books, or writing, you can have a pretty funky web history, and that's true.

I pointed out that true terrorists are probably using things to hide (the really bad guys aren't stupid - if you think that, I hope you're not working in anything related to security - at any level!).

My mother gasped and asked if I'd posted that anonymously, which isn't possible on that site, in fact, and I told her so. She instantly reminded me of "ze war", back when walls had ears and the wrong word could get you sent to a camp, or shot to death.

Well, it's probably dangerous to tell (and type) the truth, but I'm still convinced that the real evil masterminds know how to hide.

That being said, monitoring the people who are fans of any form of extremism would be a good idea - if it didn't mean monitoring the whole wide web, which remains very totalitarian.

I told my mother I wasn't buying the smokescreen, and she gasped again, afraid for me.

What am I supposed to do? Roll over and obey blindly? *points at title* Sorry.

Second post of the day on the topic. Won't tell Mother this time, though.

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.

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.