Boots the family cat (or: Loving myself, and loving others)

"I'm going to make banana bread!"

If I wasn't single, someone might have been in the car with me when I excitedly said that aloud.
But I was on my own, which is something that having been single for 7 or 8 months now, I am getting used to.

And will perhaps continue to get used to as I contemplate how likely it is that I will ever find someone I can put up with (note I do not say someone who can put up with me).


**

There comes a time in every girl's (or guy's) day, where she (or he) doubts her (or him) self.

(For the sake of argument, and because I am female, I'm going to go with she.)

It may even be more than once a day. It could be once an hour. It could even be more frequently than that.

And I don't mean doubting herself about a decision at work, or whether she should run to try and get the next train or whether she should just stroll and get the one after that, because she might actually miss the next one and have run for no reason.
I mean doubting that she is good enough. Good enough compared to other women, good enough to attract a partner or keep a current one. Good enough to fit in and earn respect from her peers.

Me in the morning.

I don't iron my hair so much now.

I don't put a whole lot of effort into my appearance. Not tons anyway. Lately, I've stopped straightening my hair and you're more likely to see me looking like I'm trying to blend with the pride than hanging out with the emo's.


But even when I like the way I look when I walk out of my house in the morning, I will be confronted with women that I feel are much better looking, or much better dressed than I am, and doubting whether I'll ever be able to look like that and ever be good enough.

I will probably never be thin enough. I don't have the discipline to exercise all the time, or even on a semi-regular basis, and mostly I just walk quite fast and that's all the exercise I get. And recently, I have put on weight. I have put on about 3 or 4lbs.

When I see that number on scales, I worry. I think "Oh gosh, I must stop eating so many carbs, I should only eat bread once a week or every other day instead of every day and I should stop having pasta for breakfast".
And then when my weight translates to the mirror, I don't feel I look any heavier. I don't feel any heavier. I think I've been looking quite good lately.

So then, why do I still compare myself with all the women I see every day, and why do I still doubt myself? I felt good this morning, so why do I doubt my good feelings about myself by the afternoon?

And does anyone know how I can stop please? I am so bored of hating myself.

It's like I've been taught to be unhappy with myself. Magazines tell you that you can be sexy! Because if you follow this new diet, you'll fit into this amazing new dress! And these matching heels!

Well that's already not fair. I never fit shoes. Like ever. 4's are mostly too small, but then 5's are too big. If feet could be dumb, mine are dumber.

The way I feel about myself and my body influences how comfortable I am with intimacy, as I imagine it must do with most women. What woman hasn't had a day where she felt so unsexy she wanted to keep the lights turned off?

Lately, I've developed a nasty habit of plucking hairs from my legs. I have no desire to be intimate with anyone so why should I shave or epilate (because epilation HURTS). So I pull them out every so often with tweezers, and now my legs look abominable. Scabs and new scars forming. Red, angry and pot-holed.

So the insecurity I now have about my legs (which I feel before and after I sit down and pluck at them, not during) also encourages me to doubt myself.
Not a good idea to wear shorts with those legs.

I am striving for a day where I don't hate my legs. When I don't hate any part of my body. When I have learned to eat and live healthily, and not worry about being fat or putting on 4lbs because I like bread.
Bread is really nice!

But I have to learn that my comfort with intimacy is not dependent on bread. It is dependent on me loving myself. Because "You must love yourself before you love another".

**

The intimacy I crave is familial.
My dad and sister don't really do hugs. My sister is much more comfortable with patting me on the head. My dad looks like he's being kneed in the balls whenever someone, i.e me, tries to hug him. He hates kisses. So I kiss him goodnight a lot just to annoy him. He goes "oooooooh" but not in a good way, more like "ooooh why do you put me through this torture?!"

But hugging and kissing is just how I express my love for them both.
I like to hug my cats. Not all of my cats like to be hugged though. My cat Mosh, who I frequently refer to as my baby because she is the closest I will ever come to loving something like my own child, loves cuddles too. I couldn't bear to be without Mosh.
I've noticed recently a couple of posters on my route to the station for a missing cat called Boots. Boots is described as a beloved "family pet" with a black nose and other various traits that will help us, the general public, identify him should we see him.
Mosh went missing once. My mum worried about her, but I didn't. I should have done though. Mosh was shut in a shed in the next door's garden and my mum heard her meows when she was looking for her.
Now I worry, so I like to see her every day. I like to go to the lounge and check on her when she's sitting on the back of the chair, making it black with fur.

And I am so glad when I wake up with her curled up to me.
If I wasn't single, I'd have to share my bed with someone other than Mosh. And that would be sad :(

**

Reading this blog about street harassment, one line in particular resonated with me, particularly in relation to the Neil from Addiscombe situation:

"Didn’t this man getting off the bus that night realize that I was a woman alone on the street, in  the dark? Why would he feel that situation was the time to try to approach me, a complete stranger? How many rape scenes resemble that scenario?"

Page 3 and porn stars

My next blog was going to be about intimacy, and loving myself and my family. I've already written most of it.

But something was brought to my attention that I want to address, albeit in my teeny tiny, miniscule little bit of the interwebs.

And it's this, a new campaign against Page 3 of The Sun newspaper.

I never buy The Sun. If I am ever in the vicinity of one though, curiosity gets the better of me and I always, always, open the front page to read that tiny little box housing the "opinion" of today's topless model.

I am not saying, in any way, that these models do not have the ability to form their own opinions. I'm not saying they're idiots, who couldn't possibly have any insight to the economic instability of Europe, or the Lords Reform.
What I am saying is that those boxes are futile. Whether the models write them or not, the men who read the contents of that box are looking to find out this woman's name and age. They are not looking to find out whether they could have a lively debate with her (not because they are not capable of lively debate, but because that is not the purpose of Page 3).

My sister recently posted a link to this Guardian article to a friend of Facebook. The comments she got for it were quite varied. Instantly, the guy she posted it to referred to feminists as "femo-nazis" (not to be pedantic, but the popularized term is "feminazi", so if you're going to insult us and try to belittle us by comparing us to mass-murdering fascists, please spell it correctly. We would all really appreciate it.)

He also said that women got the vote because they didn't "bitch about it", but instead got on with the "important job of running the country while the men were sent off to war". Apparently, being the men for a bit proved that women were worthy of equality. Well done women!

So at the risk of simplifying what he's saying, and women's war effort, had the opportunity not presented itself for women to physically prove they were equal to men by looking after Britain while they were gone, would women not have proved they were equal? How would they have proved this? Do we need another war to prove it again? 100 years on from the Suffrage movement, if we had real, tangible equality, we wouldn't have to keep bitching* about it, would we?


Another thing we keep bitching about, is street harassment. 
Browsing Jezebel.com today, I read this article written by a porn star about street harassment.
And the first comment said "To turn around and say "don't touch me" is both hypocritical and immature considering your whole career is centered around being "touched". Having said that, it doesn't excuse what those scumbags do, but it does explain it."

This person had essentially missed the entire point of the article. This woman, whilst she did highlight some incidents at porn conventions, she was talking about the comments, the insults, the everyday experience of being a woman on the street. How many of these men targeted her because they knew she was a porn star? It's highly unlikely any of them knew that's what she did for a living. And even if they did, why should she be harassed on the street? Why should choosing a career in adult entertainment mean an open invitation to being harassed?

At times, I've enjoyed the wolf-whistles. I gleefully reported to people that when I wore what I can only describe loosely as a top that looked like this**, builders sang to me. To ME! Little old me! I was always the nerdy girl with frizzy hair at school. But I've always been slim, and suddenly I was being appreciated for that!

But the tame wolf-whistles, and the crappy renditions of "Do-wah-diddy" or whatever they sang, are the nice anecdotes. I've had people comment on my tits, I've had men shout from the car for me to talk to them, and then when I don't, call me a whore or a bitch. These men have, it appears, a feeling of entitlement. They feel like the women of the world owe them. We should be flattered they are talking to us, so we should respond. But why the hell should we? Out of politeness? In response to your oh-so-polite conversation starter of "You have an amazing rack"?
No thank you.

And it's things like Page 3 that perpetuate the availability of women, and the objectification of women, that ensures men (not ALL men) have that sense of entitlement. That sense of entitlement is something that can be found in rapists***, and it is something that desperately needs to be tackled.

Having just looked over the comments again (of which there have been 32), the last one reads: "Feminism is believing men and women are equal. Nothing wrong with that."

Exactly.




*we will only quit our "bitching", when we don't need to bitch about misogynists and inequality anymore. So get used to it, or do something to help us.

**the "top" I owned was nowhere near as modest as this. It was string, held by bits of material at the sides. In fact, the only bit of my upper half that got any modesty was my sides. Don't worry, I'm ashamed of myself too. But it was a learning curve...

***entitlement over a victim, as rape is not about sex, but about power, and feeling entitled to having sex (vaginally, anally or orally) with the victim. I am NOT, in any way at all, saying the men that read Page 3 are rapists. I am not saying all men who objectify women (which is a very high percentage (I'm not going to guess one) of men) become rapists. I am saying that things such as Page 3, and the general objectification of women on TV, in film, and most certainly in advertising, breeds a belief that women are available for mens desire and pleasure almost all of the time, and these women are so up for it, i.e. a sense of entitlement

On Divorce and Drinking

On BBC Breakfast this morning was an item about "alternative parenting". Today's society is made up of families that are very different from the "nuclear" family of mum, dad and kids that we were all taught about. This is not necessarily to do with "broken Britain", but in the rise of acceptance of unconventional families such gay families adopting or using surrogates. BBC Breakfast used the example of a gay actor and his single, straight, female friend having kids by IVF.

Families are often complex units, regardless of whether or not it consist of two straight people of opposite genders. Families can be fantastic and amazing, and sometimes terrible and destructive.

I am very lucky to have the family that I have. I knew all my grandparents growing up, and even some  great-grandparents, as well as great-aunts and -uncles. For ease of distinguishing between them, they would be named after things that we were familiar with when visiting them. Great-Nanny Lift used to live in a block of flats - and we'd have to take the lift to see her. Great-Nanny Collar wore a foam collar for as long as I can remember.

Granny and Grandad Ponds had a pond in the garden (which I fell into one time when they were looking after me - I had to return home in Granny's bloomers....) And Nana and Grandad Cats, well, they had cats.

I am lucky that I have never really fallen out with any of my family. I had a dislike for one of my relatives because he took me hostage in a wheelbarrow and went whizzng round his garden with me unable to get out. I wasn't impressed, and disliked him for many years. I was even rude to him on the day of his mother's funeral. But I was young, and I hadn't actually realised she was his mother too, she was just my Nan's mum, my great-nan. When you are young, it can be hard to work out who belongs to what side of the family, and why they are your aunt or uncle. I don't really have a massive family, but it's big enough that I still don't know who cousin Wendy really is. I think I went to her wedding though.

With the divorce, one of the things I've been trying to get my head round is that my family will no long be "a family". I'll no longer belong to a nuclear unit where the mum and dad love each other and love their kids and we have a nice house together with a garden and maybe a pet.

No. That's it, it's split, it won't recover... 

I'm reminded of driving to and from Derby and hearing several times a radio advertisement for a relationship counselling organisation. "If your relationship is breaking down, talk to a professional about what to do next." or something like that. I'd never heard one of these adverts before, and I wondered whether it was just because Derby had a higher rate of relationship breakdown (I can't find anything indicating that this is true), or it was just a sign of the changing times and "broken Britain". Or maybe just because the company had some money for advertising.

But even when we live in different houses I will still have a family, for which I should be very grateful. We will still be us, just in different locations.

My sister said to me on holiday that if we weren't sisters, we wouldn't be friends, because we are so different. This was evident when I started singing Taylor Swift's new song and my sister said how stupid and bad a song it was. But we are sisters. We are family. And I love my family.

**

There's currently a public consultation on divorce settlements and how judges hearing divorce cases should be prepped - see the BBC article here. Having seen how difficult is has been with my parents divorce to remain amicable throughout negotation about assets and support, anything that can make the divorce process clearer, easier and potentially less painful, is always good in my book.

**

On Monday night I watched a Panorama about the drinking epidemic facing the over-65s. Their varying stories were sad and troubling. 

My parents drink. My mum has recently quit drinking, and whilst I feel, well, slighty displeased about her reasons, I am still glad for her sake that she has quit.

My dad on the other hand, has not quit. He is 58 this December, so well on his way to retirement and that over-65 age group. I don't think my dad will ever quit drinking. His lips and gums are constantly stained purple, his teeth are yellow and black. I worry all the time about his health. When I asked him if he ever worried, he said "sometimes". Sometimes I think about something happening that will wake him up to the damage he's done and doing to himself.

What are his reasons for drinking? He started drinking wine because he was told his high cholesterol meant he could no longer drink beer. And red wine is meant to be good for you. Maybe a glass every now and again is good for your heart, but my dad regularly drinks a bottle or two a day. 

I hope that when he retires he doesn't start drinking more. I think that he drinks because work stresses him out and he wants to relax when he gets home and at the weekends. So in theory he'll drink less when if he has less stress. But then, when he retires, he has no hobbies except Sudoku and Freecell. Does that mean that he'll drink more as boredom sets in?

Preoccupation with surnames... and Christmas

One comment I remember from the hospital filming on Saturday was that the baby was labeled with mum's surname, which was different to dad's surname. This was in case of emergency they said, so they could match mum & baby up without a problem. "It's easier when you're married", said the midwife.

There is, it seems, a preoccupation with surnames. With having the same surname as your partner, or as your child.
Like a lot of opinionated people, I sometimes find it hard to take on board someone else's feelings about a subject, especially when it's one I feel so strongly about.
And surnames is one I feel strongly about.

A few weeks back I had a debate with my friend about surnames, and women taking their husband's surname when they get married. I've just gone through the legal process of changing my surname from Smith to Smith-Bodie, and the question I got asked most often when telling administrators my new name was along the lines of "So did you get married then?" This was exactly the way my doctor put it, but others simply asked Was I still 'Miss' or Is that 'Mrs' now? In fact I got it today, at work - could I bring in a marriage certificate or deed poll certificate. Well I can bring in my deed poll certificate...
Whilst it's great that people are aware that some women add their husband's surname to their maiden name, I don't see why women should have to change their name at all.

My friend said some women just wanted to have the same name as their husband and just because I didn't think that was right didn't mean these women are idiots.

But they must be idiots if only for the one simple reason that changing your name IS NOT EASY. Or cheap!
£43 for my Deed Poll certificates & fee.
£89 for a new passport.
I haven't done my drivers license yet, but that'll be what, another £20.

And the forms you have to fill in seem pointless, and the long list of people you need to tell seems never ending.
HMRC. Banks (I have accounts with 4 banks...) Doctor. Dentist. Optician.
Oyster Card. Mobile phone provider. Amazon. Ebay. Paypal (who want photocopies of your new Passport & Deed poll certificate...)

When I move house, I'll have to do it all over again, too.


Changing my name was for me, an identity thing. I was born a Smith. Christened a Smith.
But I am so close to my maternal grandparents that it seemed crazy that I wasn't a Bodie too. And with my parents divorcing, I don't know if my mum will revert to her maiden name, but she won't technically be a Smith anymore.

I guess, in the same way, taking your husband's name is the same sort of thing, for your identity. Creating a new identity for yourself. But to me it seems like it's taking your identity away. I look at my name change as an evolution of my identity. I'm still a Smith, I'm just a Bodie too now, officially, on paper. I see taking your husband's name as a loss of identity. It's your name, why should that be taken away from you?

(And let's face it - 1 in 3 marriages ends in divorce right, so why bother changing your name if you might be that 1 in 3?)

I came across this blog post whilst looking up about this subject, and it includes this quote:

To name oneself is the first act of both the poet and the revolutionary. When we take away the right to an individual name, we symbolically take away the right to be an individual. Immigration officials did this to refugees; husbands routinely do it to wives - Erica Jong.

My name is who I am. I do not want to get married, so I will never be faced with this dilemma. But I am imploring women not to give up their names just because it seems like standard practice, or because they think you'll look less committed if you don't, or because they worry their children will be disaffected by having parents with different surnames. Just give your children double-barrelled surnames, duh. Double-barrelled surnames are, like, so cool.

**

In a quick aside, my friend is going to a pub in Redhill tonight for their Christmas stalls. Yes, that's right Christmas stalls. It is September. My mum text me this picture the other day or Christmas chocolate calendars or whatever they are called that she saw in the shops.

Let me reiterate - It. Is. September. 

Are we all so desperately lacking in our lives that we need 4 months to prepare for one day of the year that costs too much and makes lots of people fatter and is essentially the epitomy of our consumerist society?

This year for Christmas, I have bought everybody charity gifts. And then when I get back from Trek America, I'll buy some chocolate coins to go with them.

I've only bought everybody's presents already because I like to be organised. Not because, I'm like, SUPER EXCITED FOR XMAS OMG!

I haven't liked Christmas for years, partly due to resenting the fact that shops fill with fake cheer and consumerist tat, mostly due to the way my mother gets miserable and drunk every Christmas because we don't care and her grandad died at Christmas.

Now I don't have a "nuclear" family, Christmas is going to be even more awkward. This year will be the first year I wake up in a home with only one of my parents.

I think birthdays are the special occasion you should make an effort with presents. Not Christmas. Christmas is Jesus' birthday, not mine. Or yours. Unless you are Jesus. I'm sure as hell not.

**

Lastly, in an even quicker aside, this morning I discovered is not easy to drive whilst having a nosebleed. Whilst it's hard enough to drive into London on a Monday morning, doing it whilst blood drips down onto your bare chest and stains your lovely magenta vest top, could result in disaster.

Good thing I'm an excellent driver then.

HA.

I'll let you know if the top survives...

20 hours later.

I love my job. I love it. I love the fact that I have in the past not left the office until 9pm. I love that I did a full day of work on Thursday, and then drove 3 hours to Derby. And then drove back from Derby after working on Friday.

And I love when you are put "on call" for something, that no one really expects to happen. And then it does.

I'm working on a show about pregnancy, and I have worked on it on and off since January.
And I have never really filmed anything before except test interviews. And once I did a pan down from the top of a shop to the door of it. Exciting stuff!

So being put "on call" for a birth in Milton Keynes, which is only an hour & 45 minutes drive away, didn't bother me. I had my overnight bag packed "just in case". I put my phone on loud by my bed on Friday night at 11pm as I settled down to sleep, having arrived home from Derby about an hour beforehand.

So when, at 3am, I heard the word "Labrinth, come in" I bolted upright and looked at my phone, luminous in the dark. I knew. I didn't know the number, but I just knew.

"Hello Emma speaking?"
"Hi Emma, it's [colleague] from work. I've just got the call - [contributor's] water's have broken."
"OK. OK. I'm on my way. I'll see you at the hospital?"

I jumped out of bed. I pulled on some clothes. I tied my already greasy hair into a bun and clipped back the remaining strands and fringe. I threw my phone charger in my bag and programmed the satnav.

I ran upstairs to my mum, to wake her up, and say goodbye. My mum went on holiday yesterday, so it was the last time I'd see her for a week. And I didn't even really see her.

I went back downstairs and said goodbye to my dad. And then I grabbed everything, including a bottle of coke, an old cous cous salad, an apple, and an open bag of pistachio nuts, and I was out the door.

I didn't even eat. I stopped at some services to wolf down the cous cous. I made good time - the M1 was empty, funnily enough. I had just got to the roundabout where the hospital was located, and I got a text message to say they were back at the flat. So I changed the satnav's instructions, and headed there.

We did some filming with the dad, as mum was resting on a ward at the hospital. We tried to sleep for an hour. Then we got up, did some more filming, and headed to the hospital. Then we waited, for the lead midwife and the communications lady to arrive.
And then we filmed.

I'm not going to tell you everything because that would be giving the show away.
But we didn't leave until about 10.30pm. We headed to the hotel that had been booked for us during the day, to find that it was located directly above a pub/club and there was no free parking.

I went to bed around midnight. I basically did a 20 hour day. I went to sleep very quickly.
And goddamn my arms hurt today from carrying that camera!

But what I really want to tell you is how I felt when I first saw that baby.

Nothing. I felt nothing.

I had wondered throughout the day how I would feel. Would I suddenly feel that supposedly "primal" instinct in my womb. Would it suddenly start screaming out "Fill me!! I NEED TO BE FILLED WITH HUMAN LIFE!!"
But it didn't.
It wasn't an ugly baby at all, but I didn't want to go "Awww!"
I just felt nothing.
Except maybe relief because the day was nearly over.

I watched this woman doing a very brave thing. Doing what women are "put here to do".
And I am telling you now, I have not been put here to do that. Nuh uh. No way.
If I suddenly one day feel like my life is missing something, and that something is not a cat, but a child, then I am adopting. Definitely.

People are always condescendingly telling me I'll change my mind.
But I saw a newborn baby. And I did not think, "I want one of those one day."
I'm fairly sure my mind's made up.

Get the hint...

I'm not really one for offering dating advice, because I've only been "dating" since I was 11, and 12 years isn't really that long.

But remember Neil from Addiscombe?

The other day I got a text message from him asking how I was. I ignored, and deleted, it.

And then today I got another one. And this time I replied. Here's how the conversation went:

Neil: hi Emma, wanna hang out next week?

Me: no thank you.

N: why not?

M: because I'm not interested. Thanks anyway.

N: why did you give me your number?

M: because you pushed me into taking yours, and then made me drop call you. It was 2am and I'd been drinking

N: did I push you? All I said was take my number. Then you gave me a miss call. Why aren't you interested?

M: because I have a boyfriend, like I told you, when you approached me, when I was alone at 2am. So thanks, but no thanks.

N: alright cool. Remember you said you a have obsessive bf, is that right?

M: yes. That is correct.

N: alright do you like having a obsessive bf?

M: yes.

N: I would have thought. You need some escapism, correct?

M: and that is why I work long hours. I can't see where this conversation is going, so goodbye.

N: just making a point thats all

N: you can chill round my place if you like

N: like if you wanna escape, you can chill here

N: if you change your mind. Text me.

This is copied word for word, and with any typos either of us made.

I'm not an expert at dating or love or talking to women, but I'm telling any men reading this, you should learn when to get the hint.

I may have lied about my "obsessive bf" (and does anybody EVER like having an obsessive bf? I know I don't, but it was the easiest lie I could come up with at the time) but if I did have a real boyfriend, why is he still trying it on? I haven't got the best track record but is that not sacred? What kind of man approaches a young woman on a dark street at 2am, and despite being told she has a boyfriend, continue to try it on with her?

Should I admire the fact that he tried? 

Should I have said to him that I only took his number to get rid of him? Because I was worried about that if I continued to say no he'd get aggressive? 

What would he have been like if I had said I was single but not interested?

Maybe I should have just said I was a lesbian? But then he'd probably say I wouldn't be gay after a night with him.

But now I'm making assumptions.

But seriously, 4 texts after I said goodbye.


*UPDATE 7.9.12* He text me again during the night, about 1am.
N: would you come and see me for one night?

I have not replied. I'm kind of hoping he just goes away eventually...

Colour me sceptical...

I went out clubbing last night for the first time in longer than my memory goes back. My memory is pretty terrible you see.

I was half-expecting to hate it. I sit in on Saturday nights, feeling like Emma-no-mates and wish I had that huge group of mates everyone else seems to have that they go out with every weekend to drink and dance and have LOADS of fun.
I was thinking on my way there, that maybe it was just dancing I wanted to do. And if that was the case, I could just start dance lessons somewhere.
I thought I'll probably hate how loud it is. I'll hate the way the floor sticks. I'll hate the leering men and the constant smell of Red Bull.

But I didn't hate it all. Yes the music was loud at times but you get used to it. Yes the floor sticks, but when you're a bit drunk and therefore uneasy on your heels that can be useful. And it didn't smell like Red Bull.

But the men. The guys. The boys. Urgh.

It seems that in clubs, women are meat. The men have come to the market, hoping to find something they can take home straight away.
These men try it on with EVERYONE. They'll try smiling or looking seductively at all these women. They'll try and cuddle up to you on the dancefloor or at the bar. You'll notice them staring at you, salivating slightly, when all you're doing is headbanging to Nirvana.

A few weeks ago I went to a midnight performance at the Globe, and was waiting at the bus stop in London with my sister at about 3.30am. I suddenly realised a guy was standing very close to me, and when I looked up at him, he immediately began conversation. How was I? Where had I been? Did I have a good time? On and on and on. Eventually he asked for, and I gave him, my number (I am NEVER quick enough to programme in a fake number. "Just change one digit" people tell me. But I never think quick enough!) He then moved on, while I was still standing waiting for my bus, to another woman standing around and started chatting to her.
Needless to say, I never heard from him, and funnily enough, I wasn't bothered.

But this is what men seem to be like, in clubs more so than anywhere. They try their luck, if they strike out, they move on. Kind of predator-like.

The ratio in the club last night was at least 4 males to every 1 female. Women would be dancing on the dancefloor, on a raised platform, at the edge of the bar, and there would be scores of men standing around, looking awkward, possibly pretending to dance, but mostly just staring. At the women. So it's inevitable that you get stared at. But cuddled up to, and in my case last night, randomly grabbed for a photo. Errr, kind of bemusing, little bit terrifying.

And then as I walked to the taxi rank, I suddenly have a guy walking alongside me. How am I? Have I had a good night? Where did I go? Was it good? Who was I with? What is my name? Do I want to share a cab (in opposite directions mate? Are you mental?! Oh wait, you meant to yours... no thanks...) Will I meet up with him next week? (cue shambles story about jealous boyfriend...) Take my number, he goes. Then, drop call me, he says. Text me when you're home safely, he asks.
(When I didn't, he text me.)

URGH.
How can I give out the wrong number if I have to drop call him?

Neil from Addiscombe, if you're reading this - you're not my type, sorry. I don't really like men who come on to girls walking alone at 2am. I don't want to visit your flat. I'm not sorry that I lied to you about being taken. But let's be honest, I was scared of you. I wasn't going to say, "No I don't want to come to yours at any point because I don't like the look of you". Because I was ALONE. At 2AM. 
 And I have been trained to be cautious because I am female and if I'm unlucky, I'll get raped.
But at least I don't have to worry about getting pregnant, as long as it was a legitimate rape. Or maybe it wouldn't have been, because he didn't jump out the bushes, he introduced himself.

Sigh.

Another thing that has been bugging me all week:

Marriage. (yes, still...)

The other weekend, when a couple I am friends with were talking about marriage, I sort of went on a rant about how I don't believe in marriage so don't expect me to be genuine when I congratulate them on their wedding day.
I'm sitting here in my bedroom, hiding from the situation I live with everyday - the crumbled and dilapidated marriage that once belonged to my parents.
Colour me sceptical, but on your wedding day, I will say congratulations, but I won't mean it, not really. not from the bottom of my heart. I will say "I'm so happy for you both", and really what I will mean is "I'm so happy that you are happy, but I'm sad that you felt you happiness depended on getting married."
I was sceptical even before my parents decided to call it a day, by the way. It just made me less "hmmm not sure marriage is my thing...", and my made me more "Marriage is not my thing."

A few months ago now I went out with two former teachers of mine, and the random woman I was introduced to turned out to be the new wife of one of them - they'd just gotten married 2 days ago. Later it was revealed the other teacher had just made the decision to get married, after having been with his partner for 6 years.
This latter teacher described it as being the "next step". Here were two grown men making what is considered to be the ultimate commitment.

And I just don't get it. If you are committed, why get married? Despite what people say, I think society plays a huge role in this. Even if you don't feel like society is trying to get you married, it still presents you with two of options: get married or be single. There never seems to be anything in between. Everyone sees moving in with someone as the step before getting married, not the "final step", just one of the steps. These steps, where did they come from? And how can I avoid them please?



I found also, last night, that I was judging EVERYONE on what they were wearing. Men included. Some outfits were a talking point with my friends, but often I thought "I don't like what she's wearing" or "She's brave to be wearing that."
I suppose it was an improvement that I wasn't lamenting how much better everyone looked compared to myself, but criticising everyone else in my head isn't much better.
But I'll keep working at that. I realised what I was doing, and tried to stop.

Worrying about what I look like comes and goes. Worrying about being healthy enough to run away from attacked worries me, even though it shouldn't do because I shouldn't have to run away from an attacker because no one should be attacking me in the first place.
I have gotten to a point where spending time worrying about my skin or my thighs etc is pointless. It's futile. Why am I sitting here worrying about my weight, when I am probably 4 times heavier than an African child who has only eaten once this week and has no fresh water?
Why am I fussed whether my thighs are too thick for skinny jeans when there are people being trafficked?

It's hard to negotiate what matters in this life. I can't stand the way the media and society try to make me believe that material goods are important, that marriage and kids are important, that money is important.

I would like, just for one moment, to be able to work out what is important to me.
I'll start with what isn't important to me: being able to suit prints, being tall, having glossy hair, and fitting size 6 dresses.