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.

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Thousands bring offerings (though out of date)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.

Posie Rider- Artist!

I took up painting in the hospital- what do you think?

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!

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.
.

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?

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!

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!

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.

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

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

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

.
why did he…
a nobler ambition, and by a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded

screaming out
why did my womb ache like a

.

back breaking labia
?

.

*****

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

.

*****

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!

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!

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."

Billy Piper stole my baby

Well, what a week for Women! Parliament has been awash with controversy this week, as MPs debated and (thank god!) voted against reducing the 24 week abortion limit to 22 (or less, or none, if the vile Dorries had got her way). What's more MPs voted to remove the awkward question that Lesbian couples and single Women are asked when discussing IVF treatment: how they perceive the lack of 'a father or a male role model' will effect the child. Aside from the frankly mad interjections of Iris Robinson, who really has no place in the HoC whatsoever if she honestly believes herself to be the descendant of a barbeque snack item (and a man's at that) the debate managed to raise a number of important issues that need to be addressed by Feminists.

Now I've no personal objections to the family as a social unit but lets be frank its as good as any other collection of individuals, such as a football team or a church choir. In fact perhaps not even as good as the football team, seeing as the prescriptive role allocation in a family entrenches its members in tired gender positions, such as 'Mum' (or 'mom' abroad) 'dad' 'Daughter' 'son', etc whereas football teams have relative fluidity in the allotment of positions - I mean what difference does it really make if a centre midfield plays right back? Its not flipping neuroscience, run around and kick the ball boys! As far as church choirs go my guess is as good as the next Woman's.

What this landmark shift in law denotes is a landslide shift in perception - firstly of course of a Woman's right to choose and of her capacity to want TO WANT to produce a leettle person all on her own (or with another Woman) without her prime motivation being the perpetuation of some guy's genes. So no more saying 'Here I am, an animated womb, please incubate your seed in me until it becomes a person who can have your surname after, of course, I have forced it through my uterus." Now women are, officially, agents of free will. And this has taken how long?

But what is the real problem with a lack of a father figure at all? Are the mystical qualities a father is supposed to bring to the unit really something beyond the capacity of a Woman? I'm not trying to say that modern Women have become emasculated, far from it; rather that the characteristics of father and motherhood have come into question themselves as discrete categories - what is it about Daddy that makes him Daddy? Does it make a difference that he's a man? By saying 'Mummy can't do Daddy stuff', or vice versa, aren't we locking our children into gender stereotypes which will last them their whole lives, possibly ruining their future relationships (assuming they're straight, which of course I'm not) by cleaving polarities into the most basic of connections, that between themselves and a member of the opposite sex (again I am so NOT expecting my children to be straight, but if they were they might have some serious problems).

People should be people - and they generally are people. Problems only occur when you start dividing them into little boxes, like boxes marked nationality, race, religion or culture. Just because gender boxes are the biggest it doesn't mean that they're not just as silly and arbitrary. If we got to the stage where we could think without about each other without gender differences featuring altogether, would that really be such a bad thing?

But what does this mean in the wider world? Isn't preaching the transience of gender roles to Lesbian couples and empowered single Women somewhat akin to baptising the converted? Or buying hers and hers towels for the converted, buying them self-help books, sending them on weekend 'empowering' retreats. As Feminists, resting on our laurels has never been an option. If it had, we'd have never done a thing after we got the Vote. So I say fight, sisters and brothers, to be People first, Women and men after!

Yes - I was a stripper in my youth, and I'm only half sorry

That's right sisters, the time has come, I've just had six cups of Horlicks and I'm steaming. I must confess that like many Women, I too used the Female figure to earn money as a youth. I can remember them to this day, the other girls, standing around in their G-strings, breasts barely concealed beneath pistachio balconettes, the burning bright lights, size 6 figures, plastic faces, those vague eyes, like they weren't really...alive...?

My parents said I had to get a job to pursue my writing (that was before Leroy died) but they never imagined this - a library instead I expect, maybe politics. BUT NOT THIS!

Women thinking they could please men with suspenders (fools). Am I ashamed? Yes. But am I proud? No! Yes...that summer I spent in the Debenhams lingerie department in Chiswick was the worst summer of my life.

Even Feminists can be anorexic

Now, I'm not one to complain about my lot, except of course as a Woman, but things really are getting ridiculous don't you think? Take for example, I was sitting in a Notting Hill cafe the other day with my friend Melody Wittgenstein, an excellent Female journalist and OXbridge graduate, having a wonderfully enlightening conversation about her recent work in Gambia (you can find some of her work in BBC archives, just search under Penny Laureate) that is until the waitress (I know, right!) came to take our order and I was horrified to hear my friend order a Skinny Latte withOUT chocolate and a small edamame salad. When this travesty of an order arrived, made to look ever more ridiculous by my perfectly sensible foccacia melt with triple espresso (in three cups), I confronted Melody. "Are you on a diet!" I blurted out, gesticulating wildly and spluttering affrontedly, to which she replied "Just watching what I eat, plus I had a big breakfast and a cereal bar at 11." (Yeah, I know!)

This got me thinking. If privileged Women like Melody who've achieved as much as it is frankly possible for anyone to achieve can develop terrible eating disorders, what on earth sort of a chance does that leave for anyone else? I mean, she went to OXbridge for goodness sake, if she can't pull herself together the rest of the Women in this country really may as well just walk into the sea. I mean NOW!

To be honest Melody was looking a little on the tubby side, especially for a journalist - I mean they're always rushing around aren't they? Now, I've never had a problem with keeping trim, but I certainly wouldn't let such considerations as the size of my sandwich or the frosting on latte dictate my gender, let alone my waist size! If Women are going to come to terms with their bodies, we're going to have to start eating properly - and that includes lunch.

Even Women can be Nazis

Phew, what a busy weekend! I've been Googling the hell out of Women all over the Internet and have discovered all sorts of unexpected things - did you know for example Unity Mitford was a Nazi?

You said it sister!

Women's Retreat and Fiscal Policy

Hail, lady readers, and apologies for my silence! Far from neglecting you, I've in fact spent the last week at The Women's Retreat in Hampshire, recharging my batteries, avoiding carbs (in an empowered sense) and generally centering my chakras - that is - powering up for some more polemic writing against Female oppression.

Some might think I have an easy life, but the work of a Lady writer is never done! Far from pottering around the house all day in a pinny, I rise at 8, cook my eggs and set about researching my historical endeavour 'Put That Woman Down', at least as long as I have the strength to hold a pen. Well, as you can imagine the stress had got too much. The Women's Retreat, unlike the many yoghurt-weaving peacenik indulge-fests on offer, is designed for the Modern Career Woman and combines relaxation with professional development, in a way that says 'Stick it!' to the man, right before you out(WO)maneuver him in a massive international business deal.

And I must say I was highly impressed with the fellow Sisters I encountered. Clemency, a hedge fund manager from Stratford, was a model of Female independence and empowerment with whom I spent many a night over a Martini (that's right Sisters, it's terribly unconventional!) discussing the contemporary Women's movement. Though a little absorbed in the 'Naughty Girl's Guide to blah blah' culture and adament to take advantage of the Spa's all-inclusive (though thank God not compulsary, it wasn't a Nazi concentration camp!) wax service, she still embodied, in part, the idea of the Modern Woman. Powerful, wealthy, doing her thing, putting herself out there. We could all learn a lot from such a woman.

As Virginia Woolf said, 'A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction'. She had only £500 a year, which wouldn't quite cover MY expenses, and I am writing history so I assume that costs a little more. In conclusion, as soon as the banks open on Tuesday I have resolved to set up an ISA. Thank you Women's Retreat, you've liberated one more (unwaxed) Woman.

http://www.thewomensretreat.co.uk/