I am shocked. Today after deseeding my big pumpkin I received a call from my fabulous friend George Willow-Mochasian inviting me to a wonderful old pagan-esquire ceremony in Devon (I know!) that involves throwing tar barrels down a hill. I think fire must be involved somewhere... Anyhow. WOMEN CANNOT PARTICIPATE.
I. Know.
So we're not having any of that are we? I have hatched an acerbically planniscious plan to fool them all. I am strong, I've picked many apples in my time; I have carried sacks on them down the path from Aunt Lilly's orchid into the kitchen. I have made jam, I have made crumble, but damn it- I picked the apples!
I therefore shall be assuming the disguise of a man, I shall perform in the competition, win and then reveal my true identity shaming them all! And just in case you're thinking "She can't do it. She's is too weak. How? Impossible! A little woman against all those strong men?" Well readers I have one word for you: steroids.
You wait, you see I will have them ALL: the steroids and the barrels (maybe some men too)
And don;t worry they're not that dangerous- I got some herbal ones from Holland and Barrett.
So I've got my lovely warm jumper ready from good old Aunt Lilly and some sparklers- but most of all I cannot WAIT to toss some barrels. I will be just like Zena Warrior Princess! Well not really like her (awful third waver) I'd like to stick the (post-) in her feminism: Silly bitch.
Sorry. Anyway, here's the link check it out gals!! Will let you know how it goes...
http://www.tarbarrels.co.uk/
P.S. I think steroids might cure thrush, that or cranberry juice.
30 Oct 2008
27 Oct 2008
Silly me...
http://fwsa.org.uk/CFP211108.doc
almost forgot the link so you can all see how talented I am.
I am a writer. Here is the proof.
almost forgot the link so you can all see how talented I am.
I am a writer. Here is the proof.
Award Winning Writer, Moi?
Hey chics! Bet you're wondering where I've been? Well I have joined a little something called Facebook. It's all the rage. Look me up and become my friend - there are lots of HILARIOUS photos up there and a very special one of the vagina cake I baked for my friend Germaine's birthday!
It's just me and all my young feminist contacts, hanging out, sharing thoughts and relflections. It seems that some people are a little too old for 'FB' (unlike moi), like my friends Melody Wittgenstein and Jackie from the hospital (who's still in the hospital. She was thick, but I was in dire need of self-gratification), who consider Facebook a childish endeavour. But not I!
ALSO you will never guess what has happened? I, me, Posie bloody Rider has been nominated for a FWSA book prize for the ground breaking set of essays "The Suffragettes- Why?"
It's so exciting and such a great testament to the strength of those incredible women. I hail ye all!
If I win I'm going to take the money to make a film about Mary Wollstonecraft and the artistic realisation of the period using grapefruit. I've been planning it for ages it could be the next big thing (I think...)
Love to you all and get online! Stop being such techno-slugs!
Posie and out.
It's just me and all my young feminist contacts, hanging out, sharing thoughts and relflections. It seems that some people are a little too old for 'FB' (unlike moi), like my friends Melody Wittgenstein and Jackie from the hospital (who's still in the hospital. She was thick, but I was in dire need of self-gratification), who consider Facebook a childish endeavour. But not I!
ALSO you will never guess what has happened? I, me, Posie bloody Rider has been nominated for a FWSA book prize for the ground breaking set of essays "The Suffragettes- Why?"
It's so exciting and such a great testament to the strength of those incredible women. I hail ye all!
If I win I'm going to take the money to make a film about Mary Wollstonecraft and the artistic realisation of the period using grapefruit. I've been planning it for ages it could be the next big thing (I think...)
Love to you all and get online! Stop being such techno-slugs!
Posie and out.
16 Oct 2008
Gerald, or Why I Hate Men
Do you remember Gerald readers? He was coming round for dinner to eat venison when Paramount called and I…well, I DID NOT cook the very expensive venison.
Gerald is a writer, only well, he’s not a writer because he’s never written any books. In fact the only things Gerald writes are Bob Dylan song lyrics on his bedroom wall when he’s sad.
Usually I would maintain silence, as with most things it speaks louder than words. It is far more dignified, but as you’ve probably guessed by now dignity and me are like chalk and cheese.*
No reader I am no pervert, but in order to write my recent collection of poems ‘Bloodsoaked Tampon et al’ (I have included some in the blog), I needed to do some serious ‘investigating’. I wanted to trace my sexum-ego back to the roots of my sexuality. That is why I embarked upon an affair with the 17 year old Gerald.
We dated for a few months, went to the cinema, Tate Modern, Pizza Hut that kind of thing. Condoms; you know. It only lasted for a few dates and, to be honest I didn’t care much for him, but I did manage to write some of the most breath taking poetry paper has ever known!
SO you can imagine my surprise when I yesterday discovered that Gerald is in fact 26 and works in brand management!
I KNOW. My work is wasted, all those poems are fake; just like him! So, I am now going to break him down to size, to un-craft the craftiness of his deception. And what a deception it was…
Gerald is an extremely tall teenager. In fact I was seduced by his spotless skin. But the truth of the matter is that Gerald is NOT a teenager. I KNOW; this makes him duplicitous.
Gerald would often cut himself, that’s how we met actually; we would meet up in the Sainsbury’s car park in Islington and stab pins into our bellies. But I soon began to realise that Gerald really was a tortured person (he wasn’t doing in the name of ‘character research’ as I was).
In fact he was almost obsessed with being tortured. This was probably what tricked me into assuming he was a teenager. (Come to think of it I never actually asked Gerald wht he did. I mean I just assumed that with apersonality like THIS he had to be a teenage... Anyway that's not the point!)
To continue...
Gerald would drink too much, take too may drugs and too many liberties with the people he was closest to. He would worship men who had fallen by the wayside, like Bret Easton Ellis and Jason Donovan, but these men were mavericks who managed to craft beautiful art from their suffering. I have a feeling he too thought he was maverick. But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
This is all easily done. Gerald decided to go and live in a warehouse (not the shop, a real factory warehouse, but it was smart and they paid rent and were all Oxbridge educated, how else could I have coped?)
Come on Gerald! Anyone can take drugs and drink more, live in a shop and say bashful things in an askew attempt to be cutting; I personally use a razor. He thought he could achieve great things. But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
You see the thing with torture readers, is that it infers there is some kind of mystery and within mystery lies great, untapped potential. Someone is only tortured because they prevent themselves from reaching their full potential. BUT it turns out Gerald has no real potential at all!
And do you want to know why reader? He would need incredible sensitivity. For a loser is not tortured, a shop assistant is not tortured, poets and artists are tortured. He seemed to assume he was one of the latter (a dreamer JUST LIKE A TEENAGER). But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
He worked at Nickelodeon and had the sensitivity of dead processed fish.
He was astoundingly arrogant without any of the necessary intelligence to back it up. It was pitiful when he never relented in arguments, nor showed any curiosity in areas he didn’t understand, which were an awful lot of areas.
FYI (And when he did learn something from someone of superior mind, he had to dress it up in the framework of ‘having lessons’ like a little baby, so embarrassed he was by encountering a superior brain)
His obsession with seeming clever also materialised in his writing style, scrambling words so that it made no sense in the hope that people would assume their own stupidity had prevented them from understanding. But Gerald there is no excuse for bad grammar!
He would also shout and lot and talk like a chaffinch on heat. He thought that I, Posie le Rider, might fall for it? But unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
I AM FAR MORE INTELLIGENT THAN HIM!
He was destructive and raucous, he demanded my constant attention, like baby (once gain, the duplicity comes in here).
All these things are unconscious of course. Gerald has no idea of them, but I have had too many cognitive therapy sessions not to understand all these signs.
Gerald often thought me unaffectionate and bossy, but I would rather be a demon through and through than sport the gloss of concern as he does.
The one small comfort I take with me is the knowledge that Gerald shall never be the great writer he dreams of being. Do you know why readers? One word: empathy.
A great writer breathes empathy; it’s her life-blood. It brings the world not only into her mind, but into her heart. A great writer needs a great heart filled with the complexities of fears unknown, loves unknown, pains unknown. She needs eyes that see more than people, ears that hear more than sounds and instincts that speak louder than thoughts.
Of course I too had to pretend to be 16. I bought glasses, wore leggings. But you cannot blame me for not being more than honest about my great writing ability. I am INDEED a talented author so I tell you this from experience: first and foremost a writer needs empathy. But unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
*IN FACT it has always been my Aunt’s opinion that men are generally too small. Therefore it is morally unjustified for women to fight the insatiable anger they feel towards them. Just like chocolate.
Gerald is a writer, only well, he’s not a writer because he’s never written any books. In fact the only things Gerald writes are Bob Dylan song lyrics on his bedroom wall when he’s sad.
Usually I would maintain silence, as with most things it speaks louder than words. It is far more dignified, but as you’ve probably guessed by now dignity and me are like chalk and cheese.*
No reader I am no pervert, but in order to write my recent collection of poems ‘Bloodsoaked Tampon et al’ (I have included some in the blog), I needed to do some serious ‘investigating’. I wanted to trace my sexum-ego back to the roots of my sexuality. That is why I embarked upon an affair with the 17 year old Gerald.
We dated for a few months, went to the cinema, Tate Modern, Pizza Hut that kind of thing. Condoms; you know. It only lasted for a few dates and, to be honest I didn’t care much for him, but I did manage to write some of the most breath taking poetry paper has ever known!
SO you can imagine my surprise when I yesterday discovered that Gerald is in fact 26 and works in brand management!
I KNOW. My work is wasted, all those poems are fake; just like him! So, I am now going to break him down to size, to un-craft the craftiness of his deception. And what a deception it was…
Gerald is an extremely tall teenager. In fact I was seduced by his spotless skin. But the truth of the matter is that Gerald is NOT a teenager. I KNOW; this makes him duplicitous.
Gerald would often cut himself, that’s how we met actually; we would meet up in the Sainsbury’s car park in Islington and stab pins into our bellies. But I soon began to realise that Gerald really was a tortured person (he wasn’t doing in the name of ‘character research’ as I was).
In fact he was almost obsessed with being tortured. This was probably what tricked me into assuming he was a teenager. (Come to think of it I never actually asked Gerald wht he did. I mean I just assumed that with apersonality like THIS he had to be a teenage... Anyway that's not the point!)
To continue...
Gerald would drink too much, take too may drugs and too many liberties with the people he was closest to. He would worship men who had fallen by the wayside, like Bret Easton Ellis and Jason Donovan, but these men were mavericks who managed to craft beautiful art from their suffering. I have a feeling he too thought he was maverick. But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
This is all easily done. Gerald decided to go and live in a warehouse (not the shop, a real factory warehouse, but it was smart and they paid rent and were all Oxbridge educated, how else could I have coped?)
Come on Gerald! Anyone can take drugs and drink more, live in a shop and say bashful things in an askew attempt to be cutting; I personally use a razor. He thought he could achieve great things. But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
You see the thing with torture readers, is that it infers there is some kind of mystery and within mystery lies great, untapped potential. Someone is only tortured because they prevent themselves from reaching their full potential. BUT it turns out Gerald has no real potential at all!
And do you want to know why reader? He would need incredible sensitivity. For a loser is not tortured, a shop assistant is not tortured, poets and artists are tortured. He seemed to assume he was one of the latter (a dreamer JUST LIKE A TEENAGER). But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
He worked at Nickelodeon and had the sensitivity of dead processed fish.
He was astoundingly arrogant without any of the necessary intelligence to back it up. It was pitiful when he never relented in arguments, nor showed any curiosity in areas he didn’t understand, which were an awful lot of areas.
FYI (And when he did learn something from someone of superior mind, he had to dress it up in the framework of ‘having lessons’ like a little baby, so embarrassed he was by encountering a superior brain)
His obsession with seeming clever also materialised in his writing style, scrambling words so that it made no sense in the hope that people would assume their own stupidity had prevented them from understanding. But Gerald there is no excuse for bad grammar!
He would also shout and lot and talk like a chaffinch on heat. He thought that I, Posie le Rider, might fall for it? But unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
I AM FAR MORE INTELLIGENT THAN HIM!
He was destructive and raucous, he demanded my constant attention, like baby (once gain, the duplicity comes in here).
All these things are unconscious of course. Gerald has no idea of them, but I have had too many cognitive therapy sessions not to understand all these signs.
Gerald often thought me unaffectionate and bossy, but I would rather be a demon through and through than sport the gloss of concern as he does.
The one small comfort I take with me is the knowledge that Gerald shall never be the great writer he dreams of being. Do you know why readers? One word: empathy.
A great writer breathes empathy; it’s her life-blood. It brings the world not only into her mind, but into her heart. A great writer needs a great heart filled with the complexities of fears unknown, loves unknown, pains unknown. She needs eyes that see more than people, ears that hear more than sounds and instincts that speak louder than thoughts.
Of course I too had to pretend to be 16. I bought glasses, wore leggings. But you cannot blame me for not being more than honest about my great writing ability. I am INDEED a talented author so I tell you this from experience: first and foremost a writer needs empathy. But unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.
*IN FACT it has always been my Aunt’s opinion that men are generally too small. Therefore it is morally unjustified for women to fight the insatiable anger they feel towards them. Just like chocolate.
14 Oct 2008
Sally, or an Independent Woman Chapter 2
More treats for you! Writing is so theraputic, and important. Particularly when you've had the weekend from HELL like poor Posie! Enjoy!
****
“I found a really big moth in my wardrobe last night, only I didn’t know what to do with it!” Fran was crying into her skinny latte, “So I just put a big glass over it and watched it flapping around in there all alone…just like me!”
Lunch was nearly over and Sally sat fixated on her new shoes. They were fluffy and pink and far more interesting than Fran.
“And then I thought of David because he always used to catch the moths you see,” Then with panic surfacing in her eyes, struggling against the puddles of realisation she asked, “Whose going to catch the moths now Sally? I’m not! I hate moths!” Fran erupted into hysteria, banging her head against the table, spilling the bowl of balsamic vinegar and olive oil from the beginning of the meal all over her head.
“Calm down, you’re making a scene,” Sally said, trying to subtly mop up the grease.
“But whose going to catch the little moths?” Fran sobbed, “Who will release them into the wild?
“I’m sure David will move back in soon,” she threw down the browned napkin and wanted to give Fran a good slap round the face but decided against it.
“Why is she yapping on about moths?” Sally had no idea. Now it was silent and she would have to say something, again.
“Now Fran,” she tried to look serious by putting the palms of her hands together as if in prayer, “That woman is too old to have children. Now, all men want is food and children. They are all just like David Beckham- extremely simple. He’ll be home soon, you’ll see.”
Fran smiled and a little bit of olive oil trickled down her face.
Sally quickly added “I didn’t mean David Beckham was coming home of course, I meant the other David. Imagine: you with David Beckham!” Sally burst into a fit of laughter and starting beating her fist on the table. She had cracked a fine joke and would have given herself a pat on the back if she hadn’t been wearing such a bulbous gillet that day.
When the laughing was finally at an end, Sally dried her eyes and Fran pushed away her food. She was looking thin and Sally was jealous. “When was the last time you ate?” she asked, “You haven’t touched you’re nicoise salad.”
“David always said that it was bad to eat tuna,” she replied. “Now that he’s gone, well I thought I was strong enough to eat it but…I’m just not!” The tears came crashing back down onto the tablecloth and Sally seized the opportunity to start talking about herself.
“It’s my anniversary today. Aren’t you going to wish me a happy anniversary?”
“Hap-py anni-vers-ary Sally,” Fran sniffed.
“Well done. Now that wasn’t too hard was it? Kindness doesn’t cost you know, pleasantries don’t charge.”
Fran tied back the hair from her face and blew her nose. Deep black lines encircled her eyes and she had never been paler. She had to pull herself together; her life was less important than Sally’s. “How are you going to celebrate?” she muttered.
“He’s taking me to Le Gavroche!” Sally squeaked, “Look at my shoes, oh and look at the anniversary card Jenson made for us, isn’t it cute?”
Sally had taken out a piece of damp toilet paper about 5 ft long and was slowly unravelling it to reveal a series of pictures documenting her romance with Dominic. The scene was drawn badly in felt tip pen and the acidic ink had created large holes across the paper. It was shredded at the corners and slightly yellow.
“He’s been learning about the Bayeux Tapestry at school and thought he’d make one for his mummy and daddy. He’s very creative. Look, he’s drawn an arrow going through my eye here, just like King Harold.”
“Yes,” Fran replied apathetically. She was staring into her coffee.
“Christ Fran, you could at least pretend to be interested!” But Fran just kept staring at the lukewarm latte or the sugar bowl or the toothpicks or the handbag, at anything except the thing Sally was trying to show her. “Why isn’t she looking at the thing I’m trying to show her?” Sally thought to herself.
She decided to grab her friend’s attention by raising her voice, as if she were talking to a disabled person, “I said I think Jenson has a real talent for art, that he could even make a career out of it, that or history. Fran, hello?”
Silence. Fran was so selfish like that! Why did it always have to be about her? The two had met at Interior Design College in the early nineties. Fran studied curtains and Sally was taking a diploma in cushions. People said they got on like a house on fire; a popular irony because house fires were particularly bad for interior designers. Yet Sally always got the impression that Fran thought herself superior and would frequently claim that curtains were more important than cushions because they blocked out the light to help people sleep. But what about when you have a bad back? Never thought about that did she?
Fran, who was shaking and rocking forward and backwards, interrupted Sally’s musings. She was tightly twisting a napkin round her thumb until it turned white. Her eyes: vacant. Her cheeks: white. Her smile: vacant. She glared into the cold tuna and whispered; “Fly away little moth…fly away home…” Then looking out of the window she continued; “When a moth flies to a light bulb it thinks its flying to the moon, but it’s not Sally, no, it’s only a tiny light bulb,” she paused, then like the peaceful eeriness before a storm when the gentle wind pushes a child’s swing or spins the wheel on an upturned bicycle, there came the the most almightly racket, “But it never gives up!” Fran shouted, “Always pushing, always reaching upwards to something it can never touch! Poor, stupid, little moth!”
Her head came crashing down on the table once more leaving Sally irritated by her friend’s pointless display of melodrama. All that imagery was so unnecessary and besides this was her story. She quickly downed her cappuccino and when the bill was paid the two women set off down Westbourne Park, popping into Monsoon where Sally bought a glitter pencil and Fran got a new hat. “Why do you still buy that stupid stationary?” asked Fran. “You’re a grown woman Sally Pooper.”
“I know, but they’re just so cute. I still keep a diary you know. I write in it when I can and I only use my special pens.”
They turned the corner and reached Fran’s shop. Fran had set up her own curtain shop, Curly Curtains, two years ago. People could bring in photographs or pictures and she would print them onto curtains. That afternoon she was printing a photograph of Pat Sharp onto a blind for a downstairs loo.
“Well here’s where I leave you,” she said. “Have a great time tonight.”
“Thanks and you take care now.” Sally turned shook out her beautiful long blonde hair and started strutting down the street, but half way down she stopped and turned; Fran was calling after her. “Sally!” she cried, “I’m not going to let the moth go!”
Sally bit her lip; people were staring. “For god’s sake will you shut up about that bloody moth?”
She quickly ran back down the street to Fran who was glued to the shop doorframe. Sally pushed her inside. “It’s really embarrassing!” she whispered, “just get back inside the shop OK?” Fran started crying again, but Sally really couldn’t be bothered. “I’ll see you soon,” she said and made off down the street.
Desperate not to be recognised Sally held the shopping bag containing her new shoes in front of her face. “How humiliating!” she thought, “I mean what was all that moth nonsense about anyway? I’m Sally Pooper, what do I care about any stupid moths? What does a moth, trapped in a glass, trying to reach a light bulb it has unknowingly mistaken for a moon have to do with me?”
“Ouch!” She had walked straight into a phone box. Rubbing her head she looked up through the glass to see a familiar, yet slightly shocked, face staring right back at her. It was Sylvia Bloomingdale.
****
“I found a really big moth in my wardrobe last night, only I didn’t know what to do with it!” Fran was crying into her skinny latte, “So I just put a big glass over it and watched it flapping around in there all alone…just like me!”
Lunch was nearly over and Sally sat fixated on her new shoes. They were fluffy and pink and far more interesting than Fran.
“And then I thought of David because he always used to catch the moths you see,” Then with panic surfacing in her eyes, struggling against the puddles of realisation she asked, “Whose going to catch the moths now Sally? I’m not! I hate moths!” Fran erupted into hysteria, banging her head against the table, spilling the bowl of balsamic vinegar and olive oil from the beginning of the meal all over her head.
“Calm down, you’re making a scene,” Sally said, trying to subtly mop up the grease.
“But whose going to catch the little moths?” Fran sobbed, “Who will release them into the wild?
“I’m sure David will move back in soon,” she threw down the browned napkin and wanted to give Fran a good slap round the face but decided against it.
“Why is she yapping on about moths?” Sally had no idea. Now it was silent and she would have to say something, again.
“Now Fran,” she tried to look serious by putting the palms of her hands together as if in prayer, “That woman is too old to have children. Now, all men want is food and children. They are all just like David Beckham- extremely simple. He’ll be home soon, you’ll see.”
Fran smiled and a little bit of olive oil trickled down her face.
Sally quickly added “I didn’t mean David Beckham was coming home of course, I meant the other David. Imagine: you with David Beckham!” Sally burst into a fit of laughter and starting beating her fist on the table. She had cracked a fine joke and would have given herself a pat on the back if she hadn’t been wearing such a bulbous gillet that day.
When the laughing was finally at an end, Sally dried her eyes and Fran pushed away her food. She was looking thin and Sally was jealous. “When was the last time you ate?” she asked, “You haven’t touched you’re nicoise salad.”
“David always said that it was bad to eat tuna,” she replied. “Now that he’s gone, well I thought I was strong enough to eat it but…I’m just not!” The tears came crashing back down onto the tablecloth and Sally seized the opportunity to start talking about herself.
“It’s my anniversary today. Aren’t you going to wish me a happy anniversary?”
“Hap-py anni-vers-ary Sally,” Fran sniffed.
“Well done. Now that wasn’t too hard was it? Kindness doesn’t cost you know, pleasantries don’t charge.”
Fran tied back the hair from her face and blew her nose. Deep black lines encircled her eyes and she had never been paler. She had to pull herself together; her life was less important than Sally’s. “How are you going to celebrate?” she muttered.
“He’s taking me to Le Gavroche!” Sally squeaked, “Look at my shoes, oh and look at the anniversary card Jenson made for us, isn’t it cute?”
Sally had taken out a piece of damp toilet paper about 5 ft long and was slowly unravelling it to reveal a series of pictures documenting her romance with Dominic. The scene was drawn badly in felt tip pen and the acidic ink had created large holes across the paper. It was shredded at the corners and slightly yellow.
“He’s been learning about the Bayeux Tapestry at school and thought he’d make one for his mummy and daddy. He’s very creative. Look, he’s drawn an arrow going through my eye here, just like King Harold.”
“Yes,” Fran replied apathetically. She was staring into her coffee.
“Christ Fran, you could at least pretend to be interested!” But Fran just kept staring at the lukewarm latte or the sugar bowl or the toothpicks or the handbag, at anything except the thing Sally was trying to show her. “Why isn’t she looking at the thing I’m trying to show her?” Sally thought to herself.
She decided to grab her friend’s attention by raising her voice, as if she were talking to a disabled person, “I said I think Jenson has a real talent for art, that he could even make a career out of it, that or history. Fran, hello?”
Silence. Fran was so selfish like that! Why did it always have to be about her? The two had met at Interior Design College in the early nineties. Fran studied curtains and Sally was taking a diploma in cushions. People said they got on like a house on fire; a popular irony because house fires were particularly bad for interior designers. Yet Sally always got the impression that Fran thought herself superior and would frequently claim that curtains were more important than cushions because they blocked out the light to help people sleep. But what about when you have a bad back? Never thought about that did she?
Fran, who was shaking and rocking forward and backwards, interrupted Sally’s musings. She was tightly twisting a napkin round her thumb until it turned white. Her eyes: vacant. Her cheeks: white. Her smile: vacant. She glared into the cold tuna and whispered; “Fly away little moth…fly away home…” Then looking out of the window she continued; “When a moth flies to a light bulb it thinks its flying to the moon, but it’s not Sally, no, it’s only a tiny light bulb,” she paused, then like the peaceful eeriness before a storm when the gentle wind pushes a child’s swing or spins the wheel on an upturned bicycle, there came the the most almightly racket, “But it never gives up!” Fran shouted, “Always pushing, always reaching upwards to something it can never touch! Poor, stupid, little moth!”
Her head came crashing down on the table once more leaving Sally irritated by her friend’s pointless display of melodrama. All that imagery was so unnecessary and besides this was her story. She quickly downed her cappuccino and when the bill was paid the two women set off down Westbourne Park, popping into Monsoon where Sally bought a glitter pencil and Fran got a new hat. “Why do you still buy that stupid stationary?” asked Fran. “You’re a grown woman Sally Pooper.”
“I know, but they’re just so cute. I still keep a diary you know. I write in it when I can and I only use my special pens.”
They turned the corner and reached Fran’s shop. Fran had set up her own curtain shop, Curly Curtains, two years ago. People could bring in photographs or pictures and she would print them onto curtains. That afternoon she was printing a photograph of Pat Sharp onto a blind for a downstairs loo.
“Well here’s where I leave you,” she said. “Have a great time tonight.”
“Thanks and you take care now.” Sally turned shook out her beautiful long blonde hair and started strutting down the street, but half way down she stopped and turned; Fran was calling after her. “Sally!” she cried, “I’m not going to let the moth go!”
Sally bit her lip; people were staring. “For god’s sake will you shut up about that bloody moth?”
She quickly ran back down the street to Fran who was glued to the shop doorframe. Sally pushed her inside. “It’s really embarrassing!” she whispered, “just get back inside the shop OK?” Fran started crying again, but Sally really couldn’t be bothered. “I’ll see you soon,” she said and made off down the street.
Desperate not to be recognised Sally held the shopping bag containing her new shoes in front of her face. “How humiliating!” she thought, “I mean what was all that moth nonsense about anyway? I’m Sally Pooper, what do I care about any stupid moths? What does a moth, trapped in a glass, trying to reach a light bulb it has unknowingly mistaken for a moon have to do with me?”
“Ouch!” She had walked straight into a phone box. Rubbing her head she looked up through the glass to see a familiar, yet slightly shocked, face staring right back at her. It was Sylvia Bloomingdale.
2 Oct 2008
Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction
OK readers! so, as promised, here' s my latest offering to my literary mistresses on high! It's a working title. I was thinking 'a womb of her own' but I'm not sure, don't you think it's quite sexist?
It's basically a pastiche of chick lit, a genre I totally subvert in this incredibly probing work.
So, this is the first chapter. Tune in soon for the next!
Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction
Last night I dreamt I was back in Cork, before the famine killed all the little potatoes. I dreamt I was with Gim, my Irish boyfriend. Gim worked down the mines and in the night time we would pick potatoes together. But then the famine came.
It happened on a Sunday when I did start to bleed. But my Irish friends, who did not know what it was to be woman, thought me a witch and cast me out yonder.
But then the famine came. Thinking it be a curse to punish those who had wronged me so, the villagers came after me with pitchforks and sticks of fire. “Kill Shirley! Kill Shirley!” they yelled.
Oh, I was scared without Gim! But he was still down the mines! So with courage in my heart when they found me crouching in ditch, I stood up against the mob!
“Stop you fools!” cried I. “I am Shirley! Yes I bleed! I bleed as did Christ on his most holy of crosses. I give myself up to the mercy of the little baby Jesus, now, in the hour of my need. He shall hear me and all shall be well!”
But nay alas! With their pitchforks high in the air and fire consuming the sky the mob crept nearer and nearer towards me. The heat rose, my heart leapt, the blade hurtled towards my eye and then-
Sally woke up. It was a beautiful day in Notting Hill. The sun was shining and she could hear the gentle hum of city life outside her massive town house. She put out her hand to find that Dominic had already left for work. Dominic. He was in business.
Sally couldn’t stop thinking about her dream, nightmare, even. As a West London physiologist she was quite accustomed to over analysing and occasionally cutting herself. She pondered the meaning of Shirley.
“Irish? Well maybe its about music, or the colour green?” Sally concluded that yes, the dream must certainly symbolise the hope associated with the colour green; the colour of Ireland. Happily contemplating the good fortune her dream might bring the burning smell and hiss of the straightening irons let her know that she had finished doing her hair and after some more time putting on make up she was ready to start the day. Tuesday 23rd September 2007. It went something like this:
Fruit
Someone else take Jenson to school
Pilates
Shoe shopping (!)
Lunch with Fran
Appointments
Book Group
Dinner with Dominic…
Dominic! Could you believe it? Married for 13 years today. The arrival of little Jenson eight years ago made their family complete and now they had a Russian au pair, Александра, they were truly happy. Sally couldn’t resist creeping over to the wardrobe to have a peek at the GORGEOUS Amanda Wakley in her closet. Tonight was going to be so magical, Dominic said he had a surprise for her. What could it be?
But then Sally remembered Fran. Oh Fran, poor Fran. Fran, who had recently discovered that David had been shagging his secretary. To make matters worse the secretary was actually 18 years older than Fran. Not that it really made that much difference, “Fran is pretty ugly”, Sally thought to herself.
Poor Fran. Sally had done everything she could, she had even given her free physiology, but still the pain remained. Fran was a broken woman. It made Sally realise how lucky she was- Dominic would never cheat on her. No, Sally and Dominic would be the happiest, best, most amazing couple in the world, always! Sally was spinning round so much she fell over and wacked her head on the wardrobe. But just before that she thought: With a love that strong how could it not last forever?
It's basically a pastiche of chick lit, a genre I totally subvert in this incredibly probing work.
So, this is the first chapter. Tune in soon for the next!
Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction
Last night I dreamt I was back in Cork, before the famine killed all the little potatoes. I dreamt I was with Gim, my Irish boyfriend. Gim worked down the mines and in the night time we would pick potatoes together. But then the famine came.
It happened on a Sunday when I did start to bleed. But my Irish friends, who did not know what it was to be woman, thought me a witch and cast me out yonder.
But then the famine came. Thinking it be a curse to punish those who had wronged me so, the villagers came after me with pitchforks and sticks of fire. “Kill Shirley! Kill Shirley!” they yelled.
Oh, I was scared without Gim! But he was still down the mines! So with courage in my heart when they found me crouching in ditch, I stood up against the mob!
“Stop you fools!” cried I. “I am Shirley! Yes I bleed! I bleed as did Christ on his most holy of crosses. I give myself up to the mercy of the little baby Jesus, now, in the hour of my need. He shall hear me and all shall be well!”
But nay alas! With their pitchforks high in the air and fire consuming the sky the mob crept nearer and nearer towards me. The heat rose, my heart leapt, the blade hurtled towards my eye and then-
Sally woke up. It was a beautiful day in Notting Hill. The sun was shining and she could hear the gentle hum of city life outside her massive town house. She put out her hand to find that Dominic had already left for work. Dominic. He was in business.
Sally couldn’t stop thinking about her dream, nightmare, even. As a West London physiologist she was quite accustomed to over analysing and occasionally cutting herself. She pondered the meaning of Shirley.
“Irish? Well maybe its about music, or the colour green?” Sally concluded that yes, the dream must certainly symbolise the hope associated with the colour green; the colour of Ireland. Happily contemplating the good fortune her dream might bring the burning smell and hiss of the straightening irons let her know that she had finished doing her hair and after some more time putting on make up she was ready to start the day. Tuesday 23rd September 2007. It went something like this:
Fruit
Someone else take Jenson to school
Pilates
Shoe shopping (!)
Lunch with Fran
Appointments
Book Group
Dinner with Dominic…
Dominic! Could you believe it? Married for 13 years today. The arrival of little Jenson eight years ago made their family complete and now they had a Russian au pair, Александра, they were truly happy. Sally couldn’t resist creeping over to the wardrobe to have a peek at the GORGEOUS Amanda Wakley in her closet. Tonight was going to be so magical, Dominic said he had a surprise for her. What could it be?
But then Sally remembered Fran. Oh Fran, poor Fran. Fran, who had recently discovered that David had been shagging his secretary. To make matters worse the secretary was actually 18 years older than Fran. Not that it really made that much difference, “Fran is pretty ugly”, Sally thought to herself.
Poor Fran. Sally had done everything she could, she had even given her free physiology, but still the pain remained. Fran was a broken woman. It made Sally realise how lucky she was- Dominic would never cheat on her. No, Sally and Dominic would be the happiest, best, most amazing couple in the world, always! Sally was spinning round so much she fell over and wacked her head on the wardrobe. But just before that she thought: With a love that strong how could it not last forever?
30 Sept 2008
Excerpts from the novel 'Me, Tim and my Quim'
My debut novel! Published by Random House, it's soon to be made into a film under the bastardised title 'Me Ted and my Head'. Even the potential casting of Matthew McConnaughy in the leading role may not be able to save their re-writing from shabby audience grabbing guff, so I've decided to treat you to extracts from the unpillaged original...
(pp.25-26)
A week had passed since my last meeting with Tim, a week of turning and twisting myself into knots in bed, of damp sheets wrapped around my insomniac legs like fabric worms or worse, snakes. In daylight hours paranoia overwhelmed me. I'd stopped speaking to my friends, my publisher; my answering machine was backed up with unheard messages like menstrual blood behind an unchanged tampon. The fridge was bare of all but a jar of capers, some Tesco Finest chutney, a microfilm bag full of cracked black pepper blinis and a soggy lettuce. The night before I went to see Ted, I ate the capers with the chutney and lettuce on the blinis and was very nearly sick.
That oh too familiar dawn light came seeping through my eyes many hours before I was to see him, dripping gulf streams of fear through my cavities. All I could see were his eyes, were they blue? Green? In this light (this light was my mind also) everything seemed grey, even my timid streaks of legs on the grey bed sheets (they really were grey, with blue sequins on, which seemed grey but were actually of course blue).
The room in which he saw his patients - sepia
Me - grey
The window behind his desk - opal
Me - grey
The coarse skin around his fingers - pink
Me - grey
His name his face his lips his brave hands oh Daddy - gold
My mystery my mystery my mystery my mystery
I had felt him touch me as he walked behind me in the consulation room, I felt him touch my neck (I think) and I should have been mad with rage And I was And I liked it.
(pp.25-26)
A week had passed since my last meeting with Tim, a week of turning and twisting myself into knots in bed, of damp sheets wrapped around my insomniac legs like fabric worms or worse, snakes. In daylight hours paranoia overwhelmed me. I'd stopped speaking to my friends, my publisher; my answering machine was backed up with unheard messages like menstrual blood behind an unchanged tampon. The fridge was bare of all but a jar of capers, some Tesco Finest chutney, a microfilm bag full of cracked black pepper blinis and a soggy lettuce. The night before I went to see Ted, I ate the capers with the chutney and lettuce on the blinis and was very nearly sick.
That oh too familiar dawn light came seeping through my eyes many hours before I was to see him, dripping gulf streams of fear through my cavities. All I could see were his eyes, were they blue? Green? In this light (this light was my mind also) everything seemed grey, even my timid streaks of legs on the grey bed sheets (they really were grey, with blue sequins on, which seemed grey but were actually of course blue).
The room in which he saw his patients - sepia
Me - grey
The window behind his desk - opal
Me - grey
The coarse skin around his fingers - pink
Me - grey
His name his face his lips his brave hands oh Daddy - gold
My mystery my mystery my mystery my mystery
I had felt him touch me as he walked behind me in the consulation room, I felt him touch my neck (I think) and I should have been mad with rage And I was And I liked it.
25 Sept 2008
Sometimes I feel just like poor little Anne Bradstreet, America's First Lady Poet
In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess
Queen Elizabeth
OF HAPPY MEMORY.
The Proeme.
ALthough great Queen thou now in silence lye,
Yet thy loud Herald Fame doth to the sky
Thy wondrous worth proclaim in every Clime,
And so hath vow'd while there is world or time.
So great's thy glory and thine excellence,
The sound thereof rapts every humane sence,
That men account it no impiety,
To say thou wert a fleshly Diety.
Thousands bring offerings (though out of date)
Thy world of honours to accumulate,
'Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring verse,
Mine bleating stands before thy royal Herse.
Thou never didst nor canst thou now disdain
T' accept the tribute of a loyal brain.
Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much
The acclamations of the poor as rich,
Which makes me deem my rudeness is no wrong,
Though I resound thy praises 'mongst the throng.
16 Sept 2008
A Womb of My Own
ok girlies. Now that I'm back in the land of the living, thrusting my know how back into the tender cup of feminism, I will mainly be using phallic language to express myself for why should the language of men be reserved for men?
And so, now that I am grasping my sexuality with a strength I was denied as a girl-child I'm going to tell you the real story of me and Tim.
You'll remember that the story of Tim and I is due to be made into a feature film by Paramount studios starring Matthew McConaughey (check out my earlier blogs to get the low-down). But now I'm going to tell you the truth, for the 'Tim' complex was the reason I was unable to reach a computer this summer, in case I tried to smash my head open on the VDU.
When I hired Tim as my sex therapist back in '02 I was a young innocent, just down from Cambridge. I loved riding horses and was suffering from a severe case of penis envy, to the point that I wanted to to marry a Nintendo GameCube.
My best friend Polly (who is incidentally to be played by Rosie McDonald in the film. I know! I thought she was dead too!) said "Enough is enough Posie! You need to get yourself to a sex-therapist fast!"
So, I did. There was something so special about Tim. He understood me so well. He was sensitive, kind, gentle, very much in touch with his feminine side.
We became good friends. We went on a Japanese cooking course together and I took him to see the Turner Prize, oh how we laughed. Tim taught me to love the woman inside and harness the power of my quim to achieve my ambitions in a patriarchal society. He taught me how to wear blusher and introduced me to padded bras.
I was so happy, I had found a true companion in Tim. But it was more than companionship, it was love! Finally, I had managed to find a man who wanted me for WHO I was not WHAT I was. I told him how I felt and we went on a weeked mini-break to Cork. But my happiness was short lived reader, for in Ireland I discovered that Tim had once been a woman.
I felt betrayed, crushed, like a little fruit fly savouring a mouldy lemon. Thirsty, tired, starving, tyring to drink its sweltering juice. I wasn't bothering anybody, I am just a little fly, a little icky icky speck. Was I bothering anybody? NO. But I'm still all sticky and dead! I mean No one else even wanted the lemon. The lemon was fucking mouldy! Just a silly mouldy lemon. Just a stupid fucking little crap mouldy lemon that was only going to be fucking thrown away why!!!??????!!!****"£()%^&*(%£%^!!
Sorry.
So, anyway, I felt betrayed by man (and female) kind. I sent a number of anonymous messages. Tim overreacted, took out a restraining order, that sort of thing. Of course my friends think Hollywood is interested because there was a brief hostage situation, but it's really to do with my subversive use of the stream of consciousness. I know because that's what the producer told me whe he called from LA in July when I was having the electroshock therapy.
Anyway, I left the country for a year or three to clear my head. I went to Tibet, where I met Brad Pitt. A HA HA HA HA HA. No, only joking. Paramount couldn't afford Brad Pitt.
But this summer, well, I was in a similar situation. I was betrayed by that demon of the skies- sexuality! It was a bit like the Tim story, I mean there was a restraining order and I'm back on the Prozac.
And YOU lucky readers are going to be the first ones to read about it! Yes, that's right- I'm serializing my novel right here for you on MY blog. It's going to be called 'A Womb of My Own'.
It's a working title and I'd really appreciate any feedback! Will keep you posted on my title ideas!!
So Paramount you better get ready for a follow-up, because the second installment of my sexual-psychosis coming your way!
And so, now that I am grasping my sexuality with a strength I was denied as a girl-child I'm going to tell you the real story of me and Tim.
You'll remember that the story of Tim and I is due to be made into a feature film by Paramount studios starring Matthew McConaughey (check out my earlier blogs to get the low-down). But now I'm going to tell you the truth, for the 'Tim' complex was the reason I was unable to reach a computer this summer, in case I tried to smash my head open on the VDU.
When I hired Tim as my sex therapist back in '02 I was a young innocent, just down from Cambridge. I loved riding horses and was suffering from a severe case of penis envy, to the point that I wanted to to marry a Nintendo GameCube.
My best friend Polly (who is incidentally to be played by Rosie McDonald in the film. I know! I thought she was dead too!) said "Enough is enough Posie! You need to get yourself to a sex-therapist fast!"
So, I did. There was something so special about Tim. He understood me so well. He was sensitive, kind, gentle, very much in touch with his feminine side.
We became good friends. We went on a Japanese cooking course together and I took him to see the Turner Prize, oh how we laughed. Tim taught me to love the woman inside and harness the power of my quim to achieve my ambitions in a patriarchal society. He taught me how to wear blusher and introduced me to padded bras.
I was so happy, I had found a true companion in Tim. But it was more than companionship, it was love! Finally, I had managed to find a man who wanted me for WHO I was not WHAT I was. I told him how I felt and we went on a weeked mini-break to Cork. But my happiness was short lived reader, for in Ireland I discovered that Tim had once been a woman.
I felt betrayed, crushed, like a little fruit fly savouring a mouldy lemon. Thirsty, tired, starving, tyring to drink its sweltering juice. I wasn't bothering anybody, I am just a little fly, a little icky icky speck. Was I bothering anybody? NO. But I'm still all sticky and dead! I mean No one else even wanted the lemon. The lemon was fucking mouldy! Just a silly mouldy lemon. Just a stupid fucking little crap mouldy lemon that was only going to be fucking thrown away why!!!??????!!!****"£()%^&*(%£%^!!
Sorry.
So, anyway, I felt betrayed by man (and female) kind. I sent a number of anonymous messages. Tim overreacted, took out a restraining order, that sort of thing. Of course my friends think Hollywood is interested because there was a brief hostage situation, but it's really to do with my subversive use of the stream of consciousness. I know because that's what the producer told me whe he called from LA in July when I was having the electroshock therapy.
Anyway, I left the country for a year or three to clear my head. I went to Tibet, where I met Brad Pitt. A HA HA HA HA HA. No, only joking. Paramount couldn't afford Brad Pitt.
But this summer, well, I was in a similar situation. I was betrayed by that demon of the skies- sexuality! It was a bit like the Tim story, I mean there was a restraining order and I'm back on the Prozac.
And YOU lucky readers are going to be the first ones to read about it! Yes, that's right- I'm serializing my novel right here for you on MY blog. It's going to be called 'A Womb of My Own'.
It's a working title and I'd really appreciate any feedback! Will keep you posted on my title ideas!!
So Paramount you better get ready for a follow-up, because the second installment of my sexual-psychosis coming your way!
10 Sept 2008
Fab new expo at the Women's Library
http://www.londonmet.ac.uk/thewomenslibrary/whats-on/exhibitions/whatwomenwant.cfm
Put down your sewing and get out your Women's Library Card!
I, glorious, return!
Good morning lady readers!
A metric-fuck tonne of apologies for my absence, but due to a rather unfortunate incident with a bottle of Martini Rosso, an argument with an ex boyfriend and the unfortunate presence of a disposable pink bic razor, I've been hospitalised for the majority of the summer. It was nothing too serious, just the sort of thing to be expected from a sensitive Lady writer such as myself, and really all that time sitting around in a white nightie getting pumped through with diazepam gave me time to think, write, compose, touch the windows, plait my hair and so forth. I haven't been so creative since mama left me in Poppins in Uxbridge that weekend with a bottomless coca cola and some crayola!
One of the best presents I was gifted with during my time in the Women's ward was not a Blackberry, which would have been helpful, nor the Bible which a group of bastard Gideons planted on my sleeping chest, I can only assume, when I was out cold that last week in July, but rather the fabulous Femmes of Power, a book about a lot of very well turned out lesbian Ladies (apologies if this isn't the correct term, I'm so useless with gender theory even though my Auntie invented it and really I wish we could all just get along!) in the most fabulous states of dress. I thoroughly enjoyed perusing this volume, made all the more sensational by the reaction of the facile Jackie in the bed next to mine whose awful grunting fiance insisted on visiting every afternoon and staying for the entire permitted visiting hour. I mean, how pathetic is that? They can't have been more that 23, and it came as an utter shock to me to find out they were engaged. I mean, it was all well and good in the past before women were liberated to get married young, they had precious little else to do! But now it just smacks of desperation. Jackie and I had a rather heated discussion on the subject when I felt obliged to point this out to her, and perhaps if I hadn't called her a foolish strumpet she might have listened to my advice a little closer, but needs must when the sexist thrives and besides, I simply can't be calm when I see a woman uselessly giving over he entire being to a man, let along a dope like this Keith!
However, I calmed myself by reasoning that in terms of the lifespan of individuals such as Jackie and Keith compared to the rest of us, it makes perfect sense for them to get married that young when they're clearly going to die much younger that we are, around 50 I expect. Like the peasants I learnt about in A Level history, before the death rate was practically halved by improved health care. I said to myself, Posie, if you were going to die at 50 I'm sure you'd have thought about getting married at 23!
Although, judging by the standards of the hospital, I can't be too sure! Of course it was a private clinic close to my home in North London but the media really should stop reporting on the state of NHS hospitals and draw attention to the fact that hygiene issues are not limited to public health facilities. Honestly at the rates we were paying I hardly think it's much to expect that the staff be clean.
Oh dear, I digress! The point I was hoping to make concerned this wonderful femme book, which appalled Jackie to no end. She seemed never to have met a lesbian, a feminist, or in fact any other woman unlike herself. This was remarkable, not least because the beautifully adorned women who featured in my book looked not a great deal unlike those Jackie poured over in her daily doses of Heat! magazine and the rest. Except of course mine were much, much, better.
This got me thinking: what is the thing that connects women as diverse and myself and Jackie? Surely not just our presence in a close observation psychotherapy ward! Perhaps it is rather how we look, or how we are seen not just by each other but by men and other Women. Is it that we both put on mascara everyday even though we were strapped into a hospital bed and dressed in fashion's equivalent of a white bin bag? Why is it that whatever Women do, they have to feel they look good while they're doing it?
Since I've been out of hospital and subjected to the gaze of North and North West Londoners alike, I've started to feel a little concerned with my appearance, but not in the way you might think! I've stopped wearing make up, I now tie my hair into a mundane pony tail and limit myself to the jeans-and-a-nice-top school of dressing. Awful! I'm not sure how long this will last, the reaction so far hasn't been particularly dramatic but perhaps the potentials are revolutionary, we shall see!
At least I'm comforted by the fact that that much time off solids means that I'm now really incredibly thin.
.
A metric-fuck tonne of apologies for my absence, but due to a rather unfortunate incident with a bottle of Martini Rosso, an argument with an ex boyfriend and the unfortunate presence of a disposable pink bic razor, I've been hospitalised for the majority of the summer. It was nothing too serious, just the sort of thing to be expected from a sensitive Lady writer such as myself, and really all that time sitting around in a white nightie getting pumped through with diazepam gave me time to think, write, compose, touch the windows, plait my hair and so forth. I haven't been so creative since mama left me in Poppins in Uxbridge that weekend with a bottomless coca cola and some crayola!
One of the best presents I was gifted with during my time in the Women's ward was not a Blackberry, which would have been helpful, nor the Bible which a group of bastard Gideons planted on my sleeping chest, I can only assume, when I was out cold that last week in July, but rather the fabulous Femmes of Power, a book about a lot of very well turned out lesbian Ladies (apologies if this isn't the correct term, I'm so useless with gender theory even though my Auntie invented it and really I wish we could all just get along!) in the most fabulous states of dress. I thoroughly enjoyed perusing this volume, made all the more sensational by the reaction of the facile Jackie in the bed next to mine whose awful grunting fiance insisted on visiting every afternoon and staying for the entire permitted visiting hour. I mean, how pathetic is that? They can't have been more that 23, and it came as an utter shock to me to find out they were engaged. I mean, it was all well and good in the past before women were liberated to get married young, they had precious little else to do! But now it just smacks of desperation. Jackie and I had a rather heated discussion on the subject when I felt obliged to point this out to her, and perhaps if I hadn't called her a foolish strumpet she might have listened to my advice a little closer, but needs must when the sexist thrives and besides, I simply can't be calm when I see a woman uselessly giving over he entire being to a man, let along a dope like this Keith!
However, I calmed myself by reasoning that in terms of the lifespan of individuals such as Jackie and Keith compared to the rest of us, it makes perfect sense for them to get married that young when they're clearly going to die much younger that we are, around 50 I expect. Like the peasants I learnt about in A Level history, before the death rate was practically halved by improved health care. I said to myself, Posie, if you were going to die at 50 I'm sure you'd have thought about getting married at 23!
Although, judging by the standards of the hospital, I can't be too sure! Of course it was a private clinic close to my home in North London but the media really should stop reporting on the state of NHS hospitals and draw attention to the fact that hygiene issues are not limited to public health facilities. Honestly at the rates we were paying I hardly think it's much to expect that the staff be clean.
Oh dear, I digress! The point I was hoping to make concerned this wonderful femme book, which appalled Jackie to no end. She seemed never to have met a lesbian, a feminist, or in fact any other woman unlike herself. This was remarkable, not least because the beautifully adorned women who featured in my book looked not a great deal unlike those Jackie poured over in her daily doses of Heat! magazine and the rest. Except of course mine were much, much, better.
This got me thinking: what is the thing that connects women as diverse and myself and Jackie? Surely not just our presence in a close observation psychotherapy ward! Perhaps it is rather how we look, or how we are seen not just by each other but by men and other Women. Is it that we both put on mascara everyday even though we were strapped into a hospital bed and dressed in fashion's equivalent of a white bin bag? Why is it that whatever Women do, they have to feel they look good while they're doing it?
Since I've been out of hospital and subjected to the gaze of North and North West Londoners alike, I've started to feel a little concerned with my appearance, but not in the way you might think! I've stopped wearing make up, I now tie my hair into a mundane pony tail and limit myself to the jeans-and-a-nice-top school of dressing. Awful! I'm not sure how long this will last, the reaction so far hasn't been particularly dramatic but perhaps the potentials are revolutionary, we shall see!
At least I'm comforted by the fact that that much time off solids means that I'm now really incredibly thin.
.
23 Jun 2008
Stonehenge - and a lovely weekend in Hampshire
I was utterly appalled by Stonehenge - apart from the fact that it rained (honestly!) the crowd were atrocious. A lot of football hooligans clearly out for a free party and a chance to drink in a sopping wet field and get into a fight and not a weird druid type in sight. There were women walking around in states of near complete undress plus I even saw some people having S.E.X on the grass. Why are the only things anyone remembers about the 60s the most embarrassing bits? Surely the Women's movement aimed for higher purposes than the right to get one's white bits out in front of a lot of strangers. Plus my Range Rover got utterly covered in mud, a nightmare!
Still, the weekend was saved as on the way back from the 'Henge I had the good fortune to pass through Hampshire, my spiritual home and time for a visit with my dear old Aunt Lilly. We had a fine lunch, ale and lamb and stuff, and settled down to reminisce about the Women's movement and to plot our future course.
Now Aunt Lilly was one of the original suffragettes in the late 1950s. She even wore trousers before other women in 1965. She also invented the academic discipline of gender studies (this has been contested by some jealous admirers - can't be helped!) and perhaps queer theory too - although she told me she couldn't be too specific, she was quite spun from 1961-8.
Here is an excerpt from a very forthright pamphlet on the subject of gender theory which she authored in 1962. It signalled a break between herself and the less inspired so-called Feminists of Petersfield and its environs ("The WoMampshire Chapter") who were not able to appreciate her provocative approach to 'gender normativity' (a term she coined). See what you think...
Why Can't a Man be More like a Woman? Lilly Rider-Sharp (Old Athene Press, Pe'ef, 1962)
If it is not rather daring for a woman to accept chivalric displays of etiquette from men, instead it may be rather daring if she comes to expect it. Or, more bluntly, demand it.Most men are not by nature generous, polite, selfless or considerate - all of those qualities we find in excess in that relic of times past, the gentleman.
These are traits unique to a method of civilisation, that is, culturing. They work against the grain of inclination, fraying the nerves and testing the patience as men force themselves to act against their own interests or to locate their interests elsewhere, vicariously experiencing comfort through the comfort of another (usually a stranger). And what is more provoking or more presumptuous to a man not schooled in the art of manners to be accosted by a woman, asked to relinquish his small joys and petty comforts, to be asked to move from the seat of a bus like a second class citizen or to hold a door open like a bellhop?
When one's full instincts demand one blusters forth boorishly, what an agony it is to lash down the spirit like a tarpaulin in a tempest, put a cap on the will and pander to the niceties of simpering women?
Still, the weekend was saved as on the way back from the 'Henge I had the good fortune to pass through Hampshire, my spiritual home and time for a visit with my dear old Aunt Lilly. We had a fine lunch, ale and lamb and stuff, and settled down to reminisce about the Women's movement and to plot our future course.
Now Aunt Lilly was one of the original suffragettes in the late 1950s. She even wore trousers before other women in 1965. She also invented the academic discipline of gender studies (this has been contested by some jealous admirers - can't be helped!) and perhaps queer theory too - although she told me she couldn't be too specific, she was quite spun from 1961-8.
Here is an excerpt from a very forthright pamphlet on the subject of gender theory which she authored in 1962. It signalled a break between herself and the less inspired so-called Feminists of Petersfield and its environs ("The WoMampshire Chapter") who were not able to appreciate her provocative approach to 'gender normativity' (a term she coined). See what you think...
Why Can't a Man be More like a Woman? Lilly Rider-Sharp (Old Athene Press, Pe'ef, 1962)
If it is not rather daring for a woman to accept chivalric displays of etiquette from men, instead it may be rather daring if she comes to expect it. Or, more bluntly, demand it.Most men are not by nature generous, polite, selfless or considerate - all of those qualities we find in excess in that relic of times past, the gentleman.
These are traits unique to a method of civilisation, that is, culturing. They work against the grain of inclination, fraying the nerves and testing the patience as men force themselves to act against their own interests or to locate their interests elsewhere, vicariously experiencing comfort through the comfort of another (usually a stranger). And what is more provoking or more presumptuous to a man not schooled in the art of manners to be accosted by a woman, asked to relinquish his small joys and petty comforts, to be asked to move from the seat of a bus like a second class citizen or to hold a door open like a bellhop?
When one's full instincts demand one blusters forth boorishly, what an agony it is to lash down the spirit like a tarpaulin in a tempest, put a cap on the will and pander to the niceties of simpering women?
Women! I call on you to not fail to demand the small allowances etiquette affords us until men have neglected all of their many grand privileges. And what is more, it is only by forcing them to play out the tired conventions of their gender roles and act against their instincts because of but one thing - the socialised dictates of their sex - will they come to see how vain and false are the Womanish responsibilities they force upon us!
20 Jun 2008
Stone flipping henge!
I've had my cloak drycleaned, I've centered my chakras, darn it I've even rinsed my mooncup! I'm off to Stonehenge to reconnect with the earth and meet some real wierdoes, wish me luck blogosphere, I'm going to bloody need it!
18 Jun 2008
Sexism - Women do it too you know!
In my line of work, as a highly successful Female writer, you encounter a lot of sexism. Sometimes this is frustrating, other times its hella fun and 'all part of the ride', as one would say. If sexism stopped, there'd be very little for us Feminists to do but sit around and enjoy our long-deserved equality - but let's face it that ain't happening any time soon!
Another thing I have to deal with is jealousy, the green-eyed monster, the loquacious snake. Men frequently express their jealousy through the use of spite, aggression, insults, boastfulness and so forth. We've all seen it and I need waste little of my energy in describing exactly how it is that men vent their spleens, frankly a Woman's words are worth more than that! If I was a more hetero-normative Woman I might even feel sorry for them - after all, for centuries men have been treated at best like Gods, at worst like macho-hero types, with Women renegaded to the category of imbeciles, witches, cud-chewing animals, prostitutes, muses and the like. Years and years of ingrained sexism and the memory of all the Women who've been burnt at the stake just for being able to wap out a half-decent poem or sentence in their lives has surely left its mark, both psychically and socially. Now, with a new generation of Female writers knocking the socks off their male competitors, it's understandable that the fallen hegemongers will be feeling a little sore. Like I say, I could feel sorry for them. But I of course don't. A Feminist writer? Hetero-normative? In the words of Simone de Beauvoir, "Do me a favour!"
What's more worrisome is the current spate of misogyny issuing not from men but from Women themselves. Anyone who has had to deal with an irate fellow Sister accusing them of 'deserting their sex', behaving 'like a man' or just 'being embarrassing' will know exactly what I mean. Just because not all Women want to get married in their early twenties and commence a life of drudgery producing offspring to instill with their parents' tired values doesn't mean they are any the less Women, frankly they are more so. Or, what's worse, we find blatant misogyny amongst the highest paid and most successful of Women, who 'o'ervaunt' each other to get to the top, raping their natural capacity for achievement and manifesting their talents only as callous ambition and bitchiness. Why only the other day I was waiting outside my publishing agent's office for a meeting when I got talking to two fellow writers also there to see their agents. One, Geoffrey Clugg, an historian and a frankly charming chap, couldn't have been more pleasant (for a man) and was extremely complimentary of my latest Suffragette endeavour, "Put That Woman Down!" Valerie Shaw, on the other hand, a trashy little bimbo with a frankly tiny red skirt on and far too much make-up to be taken seriously, was highly indifferent to all my chat and admitted that she had never read any of my books and wasn't sure it was really 'her thing'. Well, suffice to say I informed her that I had not so much as seen a copy of her latest 'novel' in any of the Waterstones in North London but I would look out for it if I happened to be taking any flights and had a chance to pop into the W H Smith in Heathrow.
This exchange got me thinking. If Women won't support other Women and encourage other Women, who on earth will? Looking back to the Suffragettes, what is most astonishing is that most of the criticism of the movement came from other Women, confused and trapped by their sex, not men at all. Yes, we've had to fight hard to overcome men in the workplace, but surely we shouldn't have to start fighting each other. Nope, that doesn't sound like equality to me. If we keep this up Women will become little more than crabs in a bucket: as soon as one tries to escape, the others just claw them back down and rip them apart up. Women shouldn't be acting like crabs, they should be acting like sisters, building tents together and 'connecting' and that sort of thing. Women shouldn't aspire to being like crabs at all: they walk sideways and are hard and impervious to empathy. What Women need to be doing now is walking FORWARDS.
Another thing I have to deal with is jealousy, the green-eyed monster, the loquacious snake. Men frequently express their jealousy through the use of spite, aggression, insults, boastfulness and so forth. We've all seen it and I need waste little of my energy in describing exactly how it is that men vent their spleens, frankly a Woman's words are worth more than that! If I was a more hetero-normative Woman I might even feel sorry for them - after all, for centuries men have been treated at best like Gods, at worst like macho-hero types, with Women renegaded to the category of imbeciles, witches, cud-chewing animals, prostitutes, muses and the like. Years and years of ingrained sexism and the memory of all the Women who've been burnt at the stake just for being able to wap out a half-decent poem or sentence in their lives has surely left its mark, both psychically and socially. Now, with a new generation of Female writers knocking the socks off their male competitors, it's understandable that the fallen hegemongers will be feeling a little sore. Like I say, I could feel sorry for them. But I of course don't. A Feminist writer? Hetero-normative? In the words of Simone de Beauvoir, "Do me a favour!"
What's more worrisome is the current spate of misogyny issuing not from men but from Women themselves. Anyone who has had to deal with an irate fellow Sister accusing them of 'deserting their sex', behaving 'like a man' or just 'being embarrassing' will know exactly what I mean. Just because not all Women want to get married in their early twenties and commence a life of drudgery producing offspring to instill with their parents' tired values doesn't mean they are any the less Women, frankly they are more so. Or, what's worse, we find blatant misogyny amongst the highest paid and most successful of Women, who 'o'ervaunt' each other to get to the top, raping their natural capacity for achievement and manifesting their talents only as callous ambition and bitchiness. Why only the other day I was waiting outside my publishing agent's office for a meeting when I got talking to two fellow writers also there to see their agents. One, Geoffrey Clugg, an historian and a frankly charming chap, couldn't have been more pleasant (for a man) and was extremely complimentary of my latest Suffragette endeavour, "Put That Woman Down!" Valerie Shaw, on the other hand, a trashy little bimbo with a frankly tiny red skirt on and far too much make-up to be taken seriously, was highly indifferent to all my chat and admitted that she had never read any of my books and wasn't sure it was really 'her thing'. Well, suffice to say I informed her that I had not so much as seen a copy of her latest 'novel' in any of the Waterstones in North London but I would look out for it if I happened to be taking any flights and had a chance to pop into the W H Smith in Heathrow.
This exchange got me thinking. If Women won't support other Women and encourage other Women, who on earth will? Looking back to the Suffragettes, what is most astonishing is that most of the criticism of the movement came from other Women, confused and trapped by their sex, not men at all. Yes, we've had to fight hard to overcome men in the workplace, but surely we shouldn't have to start fighting each other. Nope, that doesn't sound like equality to me. If we keep this up Women will become little more than crabs in a bucket: as soon as one tries to escape, the others just claw them back down and rip them apart up. Women shouldn't be acting like crabs, they should be acting like sisters, building tents together and 'connecting' and that sort of thing. Women shouldn't aspire to being like crabs at all: they walk sideways and are hard and impervious to empathy. What Women need to be doing now is walking FORWARDS.
13 Jun 2008
Poesy Rider! Part Deux
I find that I am rather good at writing poesy, so I thought I'd treat you to my next 'stab' - who was it that said poetry should be like a hand, it can punch or caress? I don't know, but I do know it should also be like a knife to stab.
*****
LABIAL ELEGIAC
.
leave I am happy!
he (flaunting)
leaves,
female tendrils encircle
"Why do I want you?"
considering females rather as sauvignon blanc
And I at maturity.
a misery I deplore; my place in the world,
planted in too rich a chantilly cream
you left me drinking
he (flaunting)
leaves,
female tendrils encircle
"Why do I want you?"
considering females rather as sauvignon blanc
And I at maturity.
a misery I deplore; my place in the world,
planted in too rich a chantilly cream
you left me drinking
why not leave me my dactyls
.
“It’s subject to work sweet princess?" "Don't!”
spirits, and I have sighed
their abilities and virtues would
.
“It’s subject to work sweet princess?" "Don't!”
spirits, and I have sighed
their abilities and virtues would
with anxious solicitude, education, and
(patiently)
between man and man, cleave respect.
back into the misery
I deplore; and to have arrived
at dawn rising
planted in too rich a soil
obliged to confess,
why did he leave
around about my thighs
are the most melancholy emotions
and I have sighed from one hasty patiently observed moment,
after having pleased a clawing womb
after having pleased a clawing womb
.
why did he…
a nobler ambition, and by a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded
why did he…
a nobler ambition, and by a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded
screaming out
why did my womb ache like a
why did my womb ache like a
.
back breaking labia
?
?
.
*****
10 Jun 2008
Poesy Rider!
I've started writing poems too! Just like my heroine, Adrienne Rich (see Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev - mind blowing) Here's my first!
*****
GULF SCREAM
the neglected education of my difference between man
flowers that are are only anxious to inspire this subject soil, and when they ought to cherish a nobler strength, leaves.
sorrowful indignation has depressed my spirits,
barren books by men written on the subject of love, women,
the civilized grand source of the misery of woman
bloodsoaked tampon did hitherto take place in the stalk,
long before the season
"do you trust me?"
to worry about minds that are not in a healthy state;
about my thighs; about dawn’s rising. leaves.
you want to work
blooming I am obliged to confess that nature (considering the historic page)
has been so bubbled by
.
*****
4 Jun 2008
Political, moi?
So, I am in the market to buy a new laptop. I am a writer, I spend my days writing - so much so that sometimes I get funny little ticks in my thumb or dream of the cool clicks of a keyboard which makes me wake up, heart racing, and rush to my computer only to realise I'm still in a dream. So when I need a new laptop, it's like needing a new lung. Or so I thought. ..
Long past are the glory days of yore when a gal could purchase a laptop of her choice with nothing to get in her way except perhaps an oppressive husband or father trying to stop her expressing herself through Word. No, little did I realise I'd be clobbered full frontal in the face by the overt masculinity of the entire electricals market.
Imagine the scene: PC World on Kensington High Street. Insert 'me', Posie Rider, taking a quick break from shopping at the Whole Food Market laden with veg. Now insert a civilisation's worth of chauvinism, clubs, loin cloths and all. Looks pretty bad, I know! You don't need to imagine some of the advise I was given by Paul, our friendly minimum-wage sexist. In any other age Paul would have been cracking a whip over a band of lady-slaves, ignoring their noble pleas for mercy. Not any more, now he works at the Kensington High Street PC World. Cue Paul:
"Hello Madam" (Madam? WTF?? Oh, hello Sire! Knight! Master!)
"Oh you're after a laptop are you, one for the home?" (So, not the office eh Paul? Why would I need one in a place a lady NEVER GOES.)
"You'll want something lightweight" (So my tiny feminine wrists don't snap when I pick it up, so grasping it doesn't damage my lily white hands, so my ethereal fingers can even press the keys)
Disgusted by Paul's merchant whoring I looked around the shop unaided, which caused a great stir among the attendants who were clearly dumbfounded at the sight of a Woman making an 'electrics' decision alone. And it didn't take me long to notice the clear gendering of the products on offer, including the horror: Laptops for Girls! Draped in pink fluff and glitter, dotted with twinkly little lights and fitted with helpful sockets (into which you can plug you GHD Straighteners, I shit you not!) the 'lightweight lady laptop', endorsed by Sex and the City of all things boasts minuscule memory, a laboriously slow Processor and the ability to multitask without significant Hard Drive support to make any of the tasks particularly challenging or purposeful. I've spoken to Women, and sometimes they feel like nothing more than a socket for a range of plug-in electricals, be they hair straigteners, electrolysis 'sensors' or men. So what are you saying about the female mind, PC World? Is this supposed to be a f*cking metaphor because if it is it sucks and isn't a proper metaphor anyway. Go to the Dictionary (online if that's the only one you have. Google it if it's not in your favourites, you Philistine) and look up 'synonym for embodiment', if you dare!
The Laptops for Boys were nearly no better: kitted out like props in some dsytopian science fiction/porn fantasy, all blue flashing lights and chrome edging and unwieldy keys like a bloody brick with a cock strapped to it on top of a motorbike inside a car. I clearly could not buy one of these behemoths. VAIO or "VAgina? I don't think sO!" And no thanks James Bond, I don't want you to come all over my laptop, OR on my face, or to come anywhere near me with your torso. I want you to step away from the laptop so that I can use it to write!
So I left PC World laptop-less and appalled, feeling not unlike poor Jane Austen scrawling her drippy little novels in secret whilst the family were sitting about in the drawing room, pretending they were letters to her girlfriends or whatever.
And I couldn't help but wonder, in the modern globalised world are commodities the last refuge of gender politics? One day maybe we'll have equal pay, support for mothers so that they can stay in employment, criminal justice system that doesn't treat rape victims as criminals; maybe social relations will be enlightened and desexualised and men and women will be able to look at one another as creatures of equal dignity and capacity. Maybe all these things will happen.
But I still won't be able to buy a f*cking laptop!
Long past are the glory days of yore when a gal could purchase a laptop of her choice with nothing to get in her way except perhaps an oppressive husband or father trying to stop her expressing herself through Word. No, little did I realise I'd be clobbered full frontal in the face by the overt masculinity of the entire electricals market.
Imagine the scene: PC World on Kensington High Street. Insert 'me', Posie Rider, taking a quick break from shopping at the Whole Food Market laden with veg. Now insert a civilisation's worth of chauvinism, clubs, loin cloths and all. Looks pretty bad, I know! You don't need to imagine some of the advise I was given by Paul, our friendly minimum-wage sexist. In any other age Paul would have been cracking a whip over a band of lady-slaves, ignoring their noble pleas for mercy. Not any more, now he works at the Kensington High Street PC World. Cue Paul:
"Hello Madam" (Madam? WTF?? Oh, hello Sire! Knight! Master!)
"Oh you're after a laptop are you, one for the home?" (So, not the office eh Paul? Why would I need one in a place a lady NEVER GOES.)
"You'll want something lightweight" (So my tiny feminine wrists don't snap when I pick it up, so grasping it doesn't damage my lily white hands, so my ethereal fingers can even press the keys)
Disgusted by Paul's merchant whoring I looked around the shop unaided, which caused a great stir among the attendants who were clearly dumbfounded at the sight of a Woman making an 'electrics' decision alone. And it didn't take me long to notice the clear gendering of the products on offer, including the horror: Laptops for Girls! Draped in pink fluff and glitter, dotted with twinkly little lights and fitted with helpful sockets (into which you can plug you GHD Straighteners, I shit you not!) the 'lightweight lady laptop', endorsed by Sex and the City of all things boasts minuscule memory, a laboriously slow Processor and the ability to multitask without significant Hard Drive support to make any of the tasks particularly challenging or purposeful. I've spoken to Women, and sometimes they feel like nothing more than a socket for a range of plug-in electricals, be they hair straigteners, electrolysis 'sensors' or men. So what are you saying about the female mind, PC World? Is this supposed to be a f*cking metaphor because if it is it sucks and isn't a proper metaphor anyway. Go to the Dictionary (online if that's the only one you have. Google it if it's not in your favourites, you Philistine) and look up 'synonym for embodiment', if you dare!
The Laptops for Boys were nearly no better: kitted out like props in some dsytopian science fiction/porn fantasy, all blue flashing lights and chrome edging and unwieldy keys like a bloody brick with a cock strapped to it on top of a motorbike inside a car. I clearly could not buy one of these behemoths. VAIO or "VAgina? I don't think sO!" And no thanks James Bond, I don't want you to come all over my laptop, OR on my face, or to come anywhere near me with your torso. I want you to step away from the laptop so that I can use it to write!
So I left PC World laptop-less and appalled, feeling not unlike poor Jane Austen scrawling her drippy little novels in secret whilst the family were sitting about in the drawing room, pretending they were letters to her girlfriends or whatever.
And I couldn't help but wonder, in the modern globalised world are commodities the last refuge of gender politics? One day maybe we'll have equal pay, support for mothers so that they can stay in employment, criminal justice system that doesn't treat rape victims as criminals; maybe social relations will be enlightened and desexualised and men and women will be able to look at one another as creatures of equal dignity and capacity. Maybe all these things will happen.
But I still won't be able to buy a f*cking laptop!
24 May 2008
Advertising, sexist? You bet.
I was thinking (again) the other day: I haven't seen a tampon ad on telly for an extremely significant period of time.
Body Form (as with most advertisements) was certainly degrading to women. No woman's thighs are that thin, no stomach that flat during menstruation. BUT the theme tune was undeniably empowering (reminiscent of Baywatch in fact). Yes, it was really quite catchy (NB I am not condoning Baywatch, again as with most programs, it was highly degrading to women).
Only tonight I was drinking some Horlicks with my cat, Emmeline Pankhurst, watching Newsnight Review, listening the the mindless babbling of that f******g bitch Kirsty 'butter wouldn't melt in my quim' Wark. She was gay raping my brain again and again and again. So I turned over to ITV (I know, I know) when yet another male accentuated 'CAR' (aka 'Cunt Alienating Robots') advert leaped onto the screen. Then suddenly, as if from no where, I thought to myself 'Where have all the tampon adverts gone?'
Sanitary Camp? I don't think so gals. Sanitary camps aren't real.
Is this what women have come to? Are we meant to stick a Citreon bloody Picasso up our fannies each time we bleed? Bleeding which I might add ensures the survival of the human race. Because some women might not know that. Some women (imprisoned by their gender) might shove a gear stick up there and seriously hurt themselves. And then we'll all be blamed for putting 'serious strain' upon the NHS, because it's always OUR fault isn't it?!
I don't need a car when I'm on the blob. I can take the bus, I am a MODERN woman. But what I do need is a tampon, or maybe a moon cup when I'm in the country at weekends. What I certainly do not need is a silly remote controlled light, or an environmentally friendly engine (honestly I mean men will believe anything).
No to cars and yes to tampons. No to a free ride and yes to freedom!
Body Form (as with most advertisements) was certainly degrading to women. No woman's thighs are that thin, no stomach that flat during menstruation. BUT the theme tune was undeniably empowering (reminiscent of Baywatch in fact). Yes, it was really quite catchy (NB I am not condoning Baywatch, again as with most programs, it was highly degrading to women).
Only tonight I was drinking some Horlicks with my cat, Emmeline Pankhurst, watching Newsnight Review, listening the the mindless babbling of that f******g bitch Kirsty 'butter wouldn't melt in my quim' Wark. She was gay raping my brain again and again and again. So I turned over to ITV (I know, I know) when yet another male accentuated 'CAR' (aka 'Cunt Alienating Robots') advert leaped onto the screen. Then suddenly, as if from no where, I thought to myself 'Where have all the tampon adverts gone?'
Sanitary Camp? I don't think so gals. Sanitary camps aren't real.
Is this what women have come to? Are we meant to stick a Citreon bloody Picasso up our fannies each time we bleed? Bleeding which I might add ensures the survival of the human race. Because some women might not know that. Some women (imprisoned by their gender) might shove a gear stick up there and seriously hurt themselves. And then we'll all be blamed for putting 'serious strain' upon the NHS, because it's always OUR fault isn't it?!
I don't need a car when I'm on the blob. I can take the bus, I am a MODERN woman. But what I do need is a tampon, or maybe a moon cup when I'm in the country at weekends. What I certainly do not need is a silly remote controlled light, or an environmentally friendly engine (honestly I mean men will believe anything).
No to cars and yes to tampons. No to a free ride and yes to freedom!
23 May 2008
Excerpts from the Diary of Judith Coalstream (Routledge 2004)
June 18th 1934.
This diary entry was written in the morning before the Will reading of the recently deceased Lady Coalstream, who died in suspicious circumstances related to ethanol. It seems likely that Judith was writing under the influence of a stonking hangover.
"I am writing under the influence of a stonking hangover. I feel like roadkill. Today is a day like any other, only slightly damper, although some days are damp. I rose at noon, possessing a perilous headache ready to burst at any instant into full blown brain fever the likes of which I've not experienced since I was a youth, only last Tuesday. Mother's death still hung over the house like a great swollen eye; Harry stalked the corridors in mourning weeds clutching a bottle of Frangelico from a pale hand with grazed, raw knuckles from punching the dogs, poor swine. Flossie was curled upon the hearth rug painting her toenails of all things, the bloody fool. So now we were orphans, what larks! I must prepare myself for rags it seems, as the Captain prefigures the state of Mother's finances to be in ruins after so many years spun on ethanol - why if only, if ONLY she'd never taken that gap year in Peru as a girl, or Father had done something constructive like set up mill in India and settled it in our names, we'd be spared the degradation of upper middle class life. As each moment passes before the Will reading that will lock our fates in twain like a curled stick, I pity myself that I am a Coalstream and wonder that I am not dead from a deep disgust."
This diary entry was written in the morning before the Will reading of the recently deceased Lady Coalstream, who died in suspicious circumstances related to ethanol. It seems likely that Judith was writing under the influence of a stonking hangover.
"I am writing under the influence of a stonking hangover. I feel like roadkill. Today is a day like any other, only slightly damper, although some days are damp. I rose at noon, possessing a perilous headache ready to burst at any instant into full blown brain fever the likes of which I've not experienced since I was a youth, only last Tuesday. Mother's death still hung over the house like a great swollen eye; Harry stalked the corridors in mourning weeds clutching a bottle of Frangelico from a pale hand with grazed, raw knuckles from punching the dogs, poor swine. Flossie was curled upon the hearth rug painting her toenails of all things, the bloody fool. So now we were orphans, what larks! I must prepare myself for rags it seems, as the Captain prefigures the state of Mother's finances to be in ruins after so many years spun on ethanol - why if only, if ONLY she'd never taken that gap year in Peru as a girl, or Father had done something constructive like set up mill in India and settled it in our names, we'd be spared the degradation of upper middle class life. As each moment passes before the Will reading that will lock our fates in twain like a curled stick, I pity myself that I am a Coalstream and wonder that I am not dead from a deep disgust."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
