A friend has suggested I head forth to Birmingham in a few weeks to attend a 'Singles Event'. I would like to point out that I have never graced such a place with my presence, and to do so would be merely out of speculative interest rather than because I am - yes, I'm saying it - That Desperate. Honestly, if I'm ever reduced to actually going to these events with the serious intent of finding a guy, you have my permission to hunt me down and shoot me.
Some will regard that as an overly unsympathetic attitude towards the poor sods who genuinely need assistance in the ol' Dating Department (and frankly enough have commented of late that I do to make me begin to think about worrying. Four years to go and I'll be a Speed-Dating Addict, I'm sure, retracting all my negative barbs in favour of remarks along the lines of, 'it is refreshing and scintillating, an opportunity to meet a diverse range of characters.' Hah).
Anyway, I'm diverting from the main point of this post. Which was to analyse - and mock, of course - half of the 'dating tips' provided by these, well, dating companies. I can't believe there are groups actually making money out of the misery of singletons, but there we have it. Dog eat dog world in which we live. 'You are single - must be something wrong with you. Come get a date! And here is how...'
1. 'To be very approachable women should stand with their feet no farther than 6 inches apart with toes pointed slightly inward'. Dammit, that is where I've been going wrong. Think I allowed my clodhoppers to stray more than seven inches apart on occasion (banish those dodgy thoughts all of you), and pointed inward? With no intention of offence here but doubtless causing it somewhere, I wasn't aware that looking like a retard was attractive.
2. 'Studies show that men associate the scents of cinnamon and vanilla with love. To make the scents work for you, try baking some ready-made cinnamon rolls about an hour before your date arrives'. I am genuinely curious to know how many women read this and then rushed out to their local Asda to purchase the necessary comestibles.
3. This is from a guide men can purchase that assures them 'any man can get any girl'. The whole thing is compiled implying a relationship is the goalpost but: 'How to get into one-night stands with ease, and get out of them even easier, should you need to - without anyone getting hurt.' A woman has created this masterpiece, apparently. I am unable to comment due to being in state of shock.
4. 'Have a good think about what your dating goals are and timescales. Do you see yourself married within 2 years? If you do then approach dating accordingly. ' How on earth can you 'see yourself married within 2 years' when, by the sound of things, you aren't presently dating anybody?? Essentially, this tip ascribes to the view that people are merely commodities and only have to fulfill a few essential roles (typically: attractive, intelligent, GSOH) (Good Sense Of Humour to those of you untrained in the mystifying language of singles ads). Wow.
I could go on but it is thoroughly disheartening looking through all the websites. I know people who have rejected others because 'she is pretty but she didn't go to university' (obviously, only intelligent people go to university. Come on, who thought otherwise?). People who gave up the whole thing because 'she doesn't have the same taste in music'. Couples who broke up because the guy 'looked at other girls the wrong way'. Which begs the question, is there a right way? If the guy looked in total disgust at all other females, surely that would be rude, embarrassing, and grounds on which to register a complaint leading to breaking up.
I've been accused myself of being overly fussy. Personally, I see nothing wrong in rejecting someone because either a, they have no interest in me other than as a sex object, b, they think that getting battered in a nightclub equates to a Good Night Out or c, they make endless sweet remarks like 'I'm so proud to be seen out with you' while forgetting the fact that I would rather slit my own wrists than head forth into the night with them again.
Anyhow. Next time you see a six footer standing in the middle of the room (demonstrates confidence), wearing an approachable smile (not fixed grin, of course), clad in dusky pink (to bring out my skin tone) and scented with vanilla (to attract all men within a ten mile radius), nodding her head in a feminine but firm way (indicates she might be remotely interested in what you are saying) and of course, constantly reassessing the distance between shoes - that could well be me. On the other hand, it could be a rather sad individual with the personality of a tube of toothpaste. Your call.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
I rule. And it is official.
I would like to direct all of you towards a particular website:
www.coffeeaddictkat.blogspot.com
And check out the posting from 10th January 2006. Me? Humble? Good God, where did you get that idea from.
www.coffeeaddictkat.blogspot.com
And check out the posting from 10th January 2006. Me? Humble? Good God, where did you get that idea from.
Monday, January 09, 2006
The Meaning of Life
In one of those tempers today which means my mood has been oscillating between 'wow, isn't the world fantastic, let us all dance forever through fields of suitably waving daffodils' and then crashing towards, 'dammit, I want to sit on a grave surrounded by ravens with the wind making the trees creak above me.' I think this is partly due to my actually sitting down and doing some serious work today - principally because it finally reached the point of being non optional. I simultaneously had the great realisation that weh hey, I had the will power to do it and (honestly, from God knows where) the interest to continue, along with the thought that I really should have done considerably more work than I already have and how far behind I am. Think I haven't left it so late I can't catch up... Hope.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).
D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'
I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.
I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.
Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.
The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.
Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.
And I must say, I am often worsted.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).
D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'
I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.
I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.
Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.
The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.
Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.
And I must say, I am often worsted.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
On Planes and Post
I think it is fairly safe to say that I have a wide range of experience with flights. I've ranted about a few on here before, but decided after recent events that I'd sum up a few generalised complaints. I am fed up with variable carry-on baggage rules - given that the vast majority of planes are a Boeing 737 or whatever that other thing is - AirBus or something - I think the overhead lockers are going to be remarkably similar, thus able to support similar weights. Why is it I can take 10kg of carry-on with Ryanair, yet for 'safety measures' only 5kg with Virgin Atlantic? Where is the logic? And why is it I constantly see people with legs about half the length of mine nestled comfortably into exit row seats, while I need to apply the vaseline to my knees and ease my way into the two inch gap between the standard seats? To add to my usual list of grievances, yesterday I had to wait in an unnecessarily slow moving queue to have my passport checked upon arrival. What is all this rubbish about not having to fly with passport but using 'alternative forms of ID' - it just means that queues build up as the poor sod trying to establish you are who you say you are is running his finger up and down the long list of 'acceptable ID alternatives.' Final complaint (for now): good God, but they make you walk miles in airports. The worst I think was Dallas, where - I jest not - it took me close on an hour to walk to my gate. At a brisk pace. Carrying all my luggage. Do you realise this is approximately, at a guess, THREE MILES? And during that three miles, there was not a single cash point or banking office where I could withdraw American dollars and thus purchase some of the ghastly food options available to me. Much as I find it endlessly amusing to watch lardy people 'sprinting' towards their gate, I feel for them. We have to walk too far, and it is frankly bloody ridiculous.
A brief addition to all this: why can't the Royal Mail just deliver my post? Why? I have missed multiple parcels and letters that just never arrive anywhere, or are returned to sender with a sticker informing them that I am 'no longer at this address.' I think I worked out half the problem the other day: we received a parcel for somebody ten doors up. The postal workers are clearly illiterate. Dammit, but this makes me so mad. My gran always said that 'if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well'. Precisely. Surely there should be a law incorporating this idea somewhere...
A brief addition to all this: why can't the Royal Mail just deliver my post? Why? I have missed multiple parcels and letters that just never arrive anywhere, or are returned to sender with a sticker informing them that I am 'no longer at this address.' I think I worked out half the problem the other day: we received a parcel for somebody ten doors up. The postal workers are clearly illiterate. Dammit, but this makes me so mad. My gran always said that 'if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well'. Precisely. Surely there should be a law incorporating this idea somewhere...
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Benefit fraud
Received a letter from the TV licensing authority this morning, informing me that if I didn't contact them in the next two weeks to buy a TV license, I'd be taken to court. Er - excuse me?? Called the toll free number, that is not toll free from my phone here as the university has us on some stupid system or other, and spoke to some suitably stupid sounding cretin who supposedly sorted the problem out. The outcome is this: I will not be hassled for the next three months, and after that period an Officer will visit the premises to ensure I don't have a TV and then - having confirmed this - they'll leave me alone for a year.
Just out of curiosity, how much money is it costing them (and therefore, the taxpayer) to check I don't have a television? Why can't these blasted companies put all their resources into finding the real Fraudsters in this country? Easily done: drive around any of our council estates, and the houses with satellite TV and a car parked outside are probably cheating the benefit system. Although saying that, the amount of income support people receive in this country is now so high that maybe the presence of sat.dish and car wouldn't prove anything: they should be looking out for people with dubiously good suntans and sporting a Rolex and maybe then they'll find someone cheating the system.
Half of the people in the UK have lost any concept of pride these days. They say they get a better deal living off the state than if they were working - but personally, I'd rather work in a factory and at least earn my own wage than just take handouts from the government. Am I right in thinking that in the USA people can only claim for six months when 'out of work' then they're on their own? Seems to me that needs to be done in the UK for a while, get some people out there into the real world.
Check out the picture: kids of four years old 'working'. No, I don't agree with that at all, but I can assure you they're a darn sight nicer than the brats my country seems intent on producing these days. And you actually want to help them, rather than throw them into nearest available canal after beating them soundly with one of their multiple playstations.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Back to reality with a bump
As I tuck into my cut price milk chocolate santa tree decorations, I am decidedly disgruntled. While in Goa, I succeeded in frying my mobile phone battery - correction, an idiot of a Welshman did this for me with some blasted gadget or other that he said would do the trick. Ambled into Oxford centre this morning and after fighting my way through the bargain hunters (and what a ghastly breed of people they really are) managed to speak to an offensively ugly sales person in Dixons. Who informed me a replacement battery would be around GBP60, and that was if they could get hold of it, which they can't. As apparently my phone was only made for a brief period and discontinued. He essentially also pointed out that most people who own mobiles aren't stupid enough to fry the battery in the first place... and then tried to sell me a replacement handset for nearly GBP200. It may be Christmas time but I'm not a total sucker.
In effort to make the trip into town not entirely wasted, I poked my head into Waterstones (bookstore) who ostensibly had a Huge Sale taking place, but personally I don't want Jamie Oliver's cookbooks at any price. Nor a guide to Restoring Antiques, fascinating though I'm sure it was. (Aside: my milk chocolate santas are faceless. Disturbing. Or is it more disturbing that I'm concerned by the lack of face on a chocolate tree decoration? Oh, I don't know).
Well, the upshot of all that is: you can't contact me by phone. I haven't checked my messages in nearly three weeks so if you've texted and are offended by lack of response, there is my reason. If you want my landline number then email me and I'll send it you. Bear in mind that I have no way of getting anybody's mobile number either so I can't call even if I want. At least it gives me an excuse to be permanently online for the next few days. I'm now reminded of a great quote from Wilde that I'm going to paraphrase for my purposes: my huff has arrived and I'm departing in it.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
A few quotes from Really Dumb People
I have ranted to some of you recently about my being permanently pursued by an amazingly stupid couple out here. Anyhow, I thought I would throw a few choice examples in your general direction as some of you don't entirely believe just how dumb people can be.
1. Him. 'So yeah, I wanna round up all the fookin' Muslims and put 'em all in one bloody big room and just, you know, shoot 'em. You know what I'm saying?'
Me. 'You don't think that is slightly...hmm... extreme?'
Him. 'No, for f**** sake, they like killed our white BROTHERS didnt they.'
Me. 'Um... yeah.' (Seriously, how can you argue with that??)
2. Her, reading out horoscopes from newspaper. 'This month, you will feel a lot of fatty goo.'
Me. 'Huh??'
Her. 'Fatty goo'.
Me. 'Let me see... er, you mean fatigue'.
Her. 'Oh... What's that?'
Dear Lord, if you exist, strike her down. I swear my seven year old niece knows the word 'fatigue', both in terms of spelling and meaning.
3. Him. 'Uh - I hate it when people have bad table manners. It really grosses me out like. You know what I mean?'
As he promptly spears an onion on his fork, rests elbow on table and proceeds to gnaw at said pickled vegetable.
I could go on but I want to shoot myself already at the thought of another two days in the immediate vicinity of this couple. What have I done to deserve this?
Anyway, all of you: Happy Christmas! Think of me hurtling across the world in a steel capsule, if you like, while munching into your fiftieth mince pie of the day. Hope you all have a lovely day (those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, just have a nice day in general. Eat too much and drink too much, good excuse to). And while I'm here, incase I forget, have a damn good new year as well.
1. Him. 'So yeah, I wanna round up all the fookin' Muslims and put 'em all in one bloody big room and just, you know, shoot 'em. You know what I'm saying?'
Me. 'You don't think that is slightly...hmm... extreme?'
Him. 'No, for f**** sake, they like killed our white BROTHERS didnt they.'
Me. 'Um... yeah.' (Seriously, how can you argue with that??)
2. Her, reading out horoscopes from newspaper. 'This month, you will feel a lot of fatty goo.'
Me. 'Huh??'
Her. 'Fatty goo'.
Me. 'Let me see... er, you mean fatigue'.
Her. 'Oh... What's that?'
Dear Lord, if you exist, strike her down. I swear my seven year old niece knows the word 'fatigue', both in terms of spelling and meaning.
3. Him. 'Uh - I hate it when people have bad table manners. It really grosses me out like. You know what I mean?'
As he promptly spears an onion on his fork, rests elbow on table and proceeds to gnaw at said pickled vegetable.
I could go on but I want to shoot myself already at the thought of another two days in the immediate vicinity of this couple. What have I done to deserve this?
Anyway, all of you: Happy Christmas! Think of me hurtling across the world in a steel capsule, if you like, while munching into your fiftieth mince pie of the day. Hope you all have a lovely day (those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, just have a nice day in general. Eat too much and drink too much, good excuse to). And while I'm here, incase I forget, have a damn good new year as well.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Er - crikey
Was going to add a post just confirming to you readers out there that yes, I'm still doing NOTHING at all in Goa but ponce about on a beach most of the time. Was going to be lighthearted natter, with bit of a rant thrown in about couply-couples for good measure, but just saw my bank balance online and haven't the heart.
No, firmly fed up now. Will go and eat chocolate and mope.
No, firmly fed up now. Will go and eat chocolate and mope.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Goa Gabble
(Well, you try coming up with a good and relevant adjective beginning with 'G').
Brief post (ignoring the German rant that should be following on from my series - will have to be postponed a while). Merely saying hola, I'm here. That would be Goa. Ostensibly India but fairly firmly agreed with everyone here that Goa is not even remotely representative of that country. Having spent a few days being ripped off in one poncy establishment, have moved down to a hut on the beach - my upturned palm tree comes complete with bathroom attached, which is rather a novelty considering the last place I was at had a bucket of water for a shower. (Which is GREAT if you've got some suitably nice guy handy to help you out...). Having a few mozzie issues but dealing with them with my mighty 100% DEET. (You people all concerned about the environment, don't bother starting to give me a lecture on the effects of DEET - personally my immediate concern rests with what the blasted environment is doing to me). Tan is not exactly doing what it should - have spent half the time quaking under a beach umbrella terrified of emerging incase I burn. However, have six days now until I am moving to a different beach with hardly any shade at all so am building up my resistance levels in that time. So far, no obvious burn patches to report... no obvious tan patches either, come to that. Huh. Grr.
Am slightly concerned by the fact I actually miss some of you guys. Am all for my Independent Travel but think I may actually have to glare at some of you next year and drag you off to a villa far away - okay, northern Spain would do it in the summertime. Greek island. Somewhere. Anywhere. Get those thinking caps on, chaps and chapesses!
No, the sun is NOT going to my brain... Dammit.
Off for dinner of some description. Could have a full english breakfast if I so desired - yeah, not exactly 'India' at all, is it.
Brief post (ignoring the German rant that should be following on from my series - will have to be postponed a while). Merely saying hola, I'm here. That would be Goa. Ostensibly India but fairly firmly agreed with everyone here that Goa is not even remotely representative of that country. Having spent a few days being ripped off in one poncy establishment, have moved down to a hut on the beach - my upturned palm tree comes complete with bathroom attached, which is rather a novelty considering the last place I was at had a bucket of water for a shower. (Which is GREAT if you've got some suitably nice guy handy to help you out...). Having a few mozzie issues but dealing with them with my mighty 100% DEET. (You people all concerned about the environment, don't bother starting to give me a lecture on the effects of DEET - personally my immediate concern rests with what the blasted environment is doing to me). Tan is not exactly doing what it should - have spent half the time quaking under a beach umbrella terrified of emerging incase I burn. However, have six days now until I am moving to a different beach with hardly any shade at all so am building up my resistance levels in that time. So far, no obvious burn patches to report... no obvious tan patches either, come to that. Huh. Grr.
Am slightly concerned by the fact I actually miss some of you guys. Am all for my Independent Travel but think I may actually have to glare at some of you next year and drag you off to a villa far away - okay, northern Spain would do it in the summertime. Greek island. Somewhere. Anywhere. Get those thinking caps on, chaps and chapesses!
No, the sun is NOT going to my brain... Dammit.
Off for dinner of some description. Could have a full english breakfast if I so desired - yeah, not exactly 'India' at all, is it.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Flirtatious French
I'll get over to the French in a minute, but first my excuses in advance for this posting. Let's just say that this morning I'm not firing on all cylinders - and having received a text at 0450 from my housemate informing me that he was still at large on the town, I dread to think what sort of state he is in. Praise be to extended drinking hours... Speaking of whom, much grr-ness going out to him, it is NOT amusing to kick large puddles of water over a girl repeatedly. Okay okay, I know I'm not exactly a 'girlie girl' and didn't have make-up or fancy hair-do to worry about, but even so. Chuh. Feel guilty. (And you can pay me back in drinks at some point). For the record, Reader, I'm nowhere near organised for India. Haven't entirely decided how I'll fit in all I have to unless shops stay open all night and I get no sleep. Hate being disorganised like this.
The Flirtatious French. I must admit my experiences of the French have been fairly positive. Obviously as an English lass, on principle I have to mock their garlic-eating, cheese-consuming, vino-guzzling habits. And also make regular jokes about the 'French Resistance', and something of a lack of it. How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris? They don't know, they've never tried...
But that aside, I like the French. Correction: I like French men. There are generally two species, and we had a representative of each in my Lancaster boatclub. There is the pale skinned, dark haired type - the one you imagine wearing a striped jersey cycling along with suitable quantities of onions and baguettes attached to the bike. He is the quieter, more subtly romantic type, the one who would have been in the Resistance and would die saying 'vive la France'. Then there is the other - taller, blonde, more Scandinavian in appearance I suppose. The one who over-exaggerates his French-ness because he knows his charm is irresistible. Many fond memories of just such a guy, who firmly retained his accent, drank wine in copious volumes, spent his summers sailing off Corsica, and charmed my socks off on regular occasions (and possibly a few other items of clothing as well).
The French seem to me to be an incredibly proud nation. And why not indeed - their capital city is surely one of the most genuinely romantic places in the world, they have beautiful mountains in the south, beaches, Cannes, croissants. For those of you have not eaten croissants as made in France, you have not eaten croissants. And going to 'La Brioche Doree' at the airport doesn't count as eating French food.
I've spent about a fortnight in Paris, and on pretty much every day there was a strike of some sort. France has more public holidays than any other country in the world (if anybody can really be bothered to count them all up and tell me I'm wrong - go for it. You clearly have no life and should not be reading my blog). The fact that France keeps on going is something of a mystery, given that at any one point a good half of the workforce are missing in action. I imagine that it would be a valid excuse to turn up to work and say, 'Monsieur, I am so sorry, but there was this charming lady - '. 'Say no more, say no more. I hope you had a beautiful time together.'
From what I understand, France is under invasion again. This time from those ghastly middle class Brits seeking desperately a 'second home' for no reason other than their kids have gone off to college and they don't know what to do with themselves. Rural France is now swarming with Brits, off to follow the footsteps of that Year in Provence. 'We will become bilingual, grow our own lavender, be beautiful and tanned'. Translation: we will speak French with a ghastly accent and believe that the smiles made in our direction are ones of encouragement, rather than the poor person trying to stop breaking out in laughter; growing lavender will become buying tonnes of that plant in dried form, and hanging it randomly from 'the quaint beams', and as for being beautiful and tanned... Lardy and lobster-like would be more apt. Much as the Brits would love to become French, we can't, and should accept this before we start.
France is a country of romance and mystery, of Sartre and de Beauvoir, the Moulin Rouge and Les Miserables. And - returning to my title - complete flirts. They know they're charming and beautiful and irresistible and play on this massively. Girls: watch out. You know you'll have a fantastic time, that your knees will melt when he kisses you, but the chances of him remaining faithful are nil. Accept that, and you're in for some fantastic 'va va voom'.
The Flirtatious French. I must admit my experiences of the French have been fairly positive. Obviously as an English lass, on principle I have to mock their garlic-eating, cheese-consuming, vino-guzzling habits. And also make regular jokes about the 'French Resistance', and something of a lack of it. How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris? They don't know, they've never tried...
But that aside, I like the French. Correction: I like French men. There are generally two species, and we had a representative of each in my Lancaster boatclub. There is the pale skinned, dark haired type - the one you imagine wearing a striped jersey cycling along with suitable quantities of onions and baguettes attached to the bike. He is the quieter, more subtly romantic type, the one who would have been in the Resistance and would die saying 'vive la France'. Then there is the other - taller, blonde, more Scandinavian in appearance I suppose. The one who over-exaggerates his French-ness because he knows his charm is irresistible. Many fond memories of just such a guy, who firmly retained his accent, drank wine in copious volumes, spent his summers sailing off Corsica, and charmed my socks off on regular occasions (and possibly a few other items of clothing as well).
The French seem to me to be an incredibly proud nation. And why not indeed - their capital city is surely one of the most genuinely romantic places in the world, they have beautiful mountains in the south, beaches, Cannes, croissants. For those of you have not eaten croissants as made in France, you have not eaten croissants. And going to 'La Brioche Doree' at the airport doesn't count as eating French food.
I've spent about a fortnight in Paris, and on pretty much every day there was a strike of some sort. France has more public holidays than any other country in the world (if anybody can really be bothered to count them all up and tell me I'm wrong - go for it. You clearly have no life and should not be reading my blog). The fact that France keeps on going is something of a mystery, given that at any one point a good half of the workforce are missing in action. I imagine that it would be a valid excuse to turn up to work and say, 'Monsieur, I am so sorry, but there was this charming lady - '. 'Say no more, say no more. I hope you had a beautiful time together.'
From what I understand, France is under invasion again. This time from those ghastly middle class Brits seeking desperately a 'second home' for no reason other than their kids have gone off to college and they don't know what to do with themselves. Rural France is now swarming with Brits, off to follow the footsteps of that Year in Provence. 'We will become bilingual, grow our own lavender, be beautiful and tanned'. Translation: we will speak French with a ghastly accent and believe that the smiles made in our direction are ones of encouragement, rather than the poor person trying to stop breaking out in laughter; growing lavender will become buying tonnes of that plant in dried form, and hanging it randomly from 'the quaint beams', and as for being beautiful and tanned... Lardy and lobster-like would be more apt. Much as the Brits would love to become French, we can't, and should accept this before we start.
France is a country of romance and mystery, of Sartre and de Beauvoir, the Moulin Rouge and Les Miserables. And - returning to my title - complete flirts. They know they're charming and beautiful and irresistible and play on this massively. Girls: watch out. You know you'll have a fantastic time, that your knees will melt when he kisses you, but the chances of him remaining faithful are nil. Accept that, and you're in for some fantastic 'va va voom'.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Arrogant Americans
Welcome to the first in a series of posts - starting off with Arrogant Americans, we'll glide gently into Flirtatious French, Jaded Germans, Sexy Spanish and Amorous Argentines. Ending on a high note with Boring Brits. I intend to be as controversial as possible, play on as many stereotypes as I can, and generally entertain myself. If you bother to take offence at any of my posts, er, I guess you don't know me so well... 'Tongue in cheek' is an apt description.
Arrogant Americans. It is a standard expression, and one I'm not entirely sure I go along with on all occasions. I mean, sure, they're distressingly loud and brash - sit in a coffee shop and if there is a single American in there, they will ensure that the entire place can hear their scintillating conversation. Being from arguably the most powerful nation in the world at present, principally because they go around building nuclear weapons while telling everybody else not to, some of the inhabitants do genuinely believe that saying, 'Hey, bud, I'm an American' will get them anywhere. America is a land that generates fads - some good, some just weird. The recent reintroduction of knitting as a 'cool hobby' mystifies me, and only a few months ago I remember reading about 'laughter therapy'. This has moved to London as well, and the basic principle is you go sit with a bunch of strangers and pay vast amounts to sit and laugh. At absolutely nothing - no Monty Python in the background or any encouragement. 'Laugh, dammit'. Huh. Weird.
The American Abroad was summed up beautifully by E M Forster in 'Room With a View', when a girl says to her father which city was Rome and he responds, 'Say, wasn't that the place where we saw the yellow dog?' Whereas some are swept away by history and artefacts - given that America has very little history of its own, having killed the natives who were busy creating it - others just don't have a clue.
Americans are a strange mix. They simultaneously love guns and power, attend rallies in their thousands to shout and chant (and be totally ignored by their President), and yet find me an American female who isn't obsessed with hair dye, nail polish, the latest Uber-Eyelash-Lift-Maxi from L'Oreal (or whatever it is that is in vogue at present). They repeatedly vote 'Everybody Loves Raymond' as a favourite show, and yet they are also responsible for 'The Simpsons'. While churning out ghastly Hollywood films, they have also been behind some of the most incredible writing of the last two centuries (Tennessee Williams springs immediately to mind).
They are enthusiastic about everything - tell am American they're going to spend the day, oh I don't know, learning how to cook a five course meal over a candle, and they will come from all over the land to attend such an event. Even a hint from their fine President that someone 'could attack at any moment' and they will take this to heart, stripping the shelves in local stores of torches, tinned food, bottled water, tape to put over their windows. Their basements - and how Americans love their basements - are permanently on stand-by as temporary home for when the (apparently inevitable) nuclear bomb lands.
One of the great things about Americans is their stupid, stupid pride. I tell you, there are many theories as to why America and Cuba aren't exactly on the best of terms. I say it is because the Americans are mighty cheesed off about the whole Bay of Pigs episode and would very much like the world to forget about it, and thus reject the existence of Cuba. Brilliant. Ignore a problem and yup, it really will go away.
Despite the fact Americans brought us MacDonalds, Coca Cola, a World League in a game that they themselves only compete in, some total lunatics (KKK and Bible Bashers for example), they did also bring us Ben and Jerrys. And for that, I can forgive them anything. God Bless America.
Arrogant Americans. It is a standard expression, and one I'm not entirely sure I go along with on all occasions. I mean, sure, they're distressingly loud and brash - sit in a coffee shop and if there is a single American in there, they will ensure that the entire place can hear their scintillating conversation. Being from arguably the most powerful nation in the world at present, principally because they go around building nuclear weapons while telling everybody else not to, some of the inhabitants do genuinely believe that saying, 'Hey, bud, I'm an American' will get them anywhere. America is a land that generates fads - some good, some just weird. The recent reintroduction of knitting as a 'cool hobby' mystifies me, and only a few months ago I remember reading about 'laughter therapy'. This has moved to London as well, and the basic principle is you go sit with a bunch of strangers and pay vast amounts to sit and laugh. At absolutely nothing - no Monty Python in the background or any encouragement. 'Laugh, dammit'. Huh. Weird.
The American Abroad was summed up beautifully by E M Forster in 'Room With a View', when a girl says to her father which city was Rome and he responds, 'Say, wasn't that the place where we saw the yellow dog?' Whereas some are swept away by history and artefacts - given that America has very little history of its own, having killed the natives who were busy creating it - others just don't have a clue.
Americans are a strange mix. They simultaneously love guns and power, attend rallies in their thousands to shout and chant (and be totally ignored by their President), and yet find me an American female who isn't obsessed with hair dye, nail polish, the latest Uber-Eyelash-Lift-Maxi from L'Oreal (or whatever it is that is in vogue at present). They repeatedly vote 'Everybody Loves Raymond' as a favourite show, and yet they are also responsible for 'The Simpsons'. While churning out ghastly Hollywood films, they have also been behind some of the most incredible writing of the last two centuries (Tennessee Williams springs immediately to mind).
They are enthusiastic about everything - tell am American they're going to spend the day, oh I don't know, learning how to cook a five course meal over a candle, and they will come from all over the land to attend such an event. Even a hint from their fine President that someone 'could attack at any moment' and they will take this to heart, stripping the shelves in local stores of torches, tinned food, bottled water, tape to put over their windows. Their basements - and how Americans love their basements - are permanently on stand-by as temporary home for when the (apparently inevitable) nuclear bomb lands.
One of the great things about Americans is their stupid, stupid pride. I tell you, there are many theories as to why America and Cuba aren't exactly on the best of terms. I say it is because the Americans are mighty cheesed off about the whole Bay of Pigs episode and would very much like the world to forget about it, and thus reject the existence of Cuba. Brilliant. Ignore a problem and yup, it really will go away.
Despite the fact Americans brought us MacDonalds, Coca Cola, a World League in a game that they themselves only compete in, some total lunatics (KKK and Bible Bashers for example), they did also bring us Ben and Jerrys. And for that, I can forgive them anything. God Bless America.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Schizophrenia explains it all...
Thank you BBC for providing me with a fantastic excuse for being a bit of a tart at times. (Was going to use the word 'awesome' in there but feel have massively over-used it of late, is due to being surrounded by Americans influencing my vocabulary with their appalling lower-middle class attempts at adjectives). Apparently, according to some research by the OU and Newcastle Uni, people who are 'artistic' generally have 'schizotypal traits' and this somehow leads them onto having more 'sexual partners' (aka, thump monkeys, in non technical terms). See? I have academics backing up my actions. In addition to this, people who have accused me of being mild-Aspergers (something low down on the autism scale) have further added to my strong arguments that I simply Can't Help It.
Do you think this defence would stand up in court? No, I didn't either.
I was going to lead this into a whole expose (e with an accent there) on the merits of sleeping with people, but am pulled up short - you'll be glad to hear - because I had an email the other day that reminded me of two people who read this blog and maybe, well, maybe I should stick with a more moral approach to life. (Hello J & G, I hope you don't take everything I say on here entirely literally and I haven't lowered myself in your minds).
Right - today is my day for Sorting Out India since I have done very little in that direction, down to I don't have anywhere to stay yet, no travel insurance, the batteries in my camera have died, and oh bugger, I haven't started taking anti-malarials and think I should today. Or is it tomorrow. Doh. I did arm myself with vast quantities of sun lotion of various factors in Sainsbury's yesterday (really feel that when you spend over £20 on such a substance it should come complete with Free Man to rub it into your back), and for safety's sake endless packets of diareeze for the inevitable Delhi Belly. (I say 'inevitable', since I don't eat curry and am ludicrously careful when I travel I think, fingers crossed, I should be okay). Despite increased lardiness, the bikini does still fit, and I managed to squeeze into my shorts the other day for when I'm in the tourist areas. Which I get the feeling could be a large portion of the trip as I really do need a beach, palm, monkey and book and not much else.
Somehow made it to nearly midday and I've achieved nothing. Right - off out to be Efficient and Organised. Despite my schizophrenic, Aspergers, personality. Ha.
Do you think this defence would stand up in court? No, I didn't either.
I was going to lead this into a whole expose (e with an accent there) on the merits of sleeping with people, but am pulled up short - you'll be glad to hear - because I had an email the other day that reminded me of two people who read this blog and maybe, well, maybe I should stick with a more moral approach to life. (Hello J & G, I hope you don't take everything I say on here entirely literally and I haven't lowered myself in your minds).
Right - today is my day for Sorting Out India since I have done very little in that direction, down to I don't have anywhere to stay yet, no travel insurance, the batteries in my camera have died, and oh bugger, I haven't started taking anti-malarials and think I should today. Or is it tomorrow. Doh. I did arm myself with vast quantities of sun lotion of various factors in Sainsbury's yesterday (really feel that when you spend over £20 on such a substance it should come complete with Free Man to rub it into your back), and for safety's sake endless packets of diareeze for the inevitable Delhi Belly. (I say 'inevitable', since I don't eat curry and am ludicrously careful when I travel I think, fingers crossed, I should be okay). Despite increased lardiness, the bikini does still fit, and I managed to squeeze into my shorts the other day for when I'm in the tourist areas. Which I get the feeling could be a large portion of the trip as I really do need a beach, palm, monkey and book and not much else.
Somehow made it to nearly midday and I've achieved nothing. Right - off out to be Efficient and Organised. Despite my schizophrenic, Aspergers, personality. Ha.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Getting fed up with being cold...
As most of you are fully aware, I just don't 'do' cold. Terrible things happen to my body. At the moment, for example, I have the Annual Zit Convention taking place on my chin, and the blighters clearly have a lot to discuss this year as they're settling in for the long run by the looks of things. Additionally - and totally illogically - when it is cold my body gets mighty confused by everything and takes it upon itself to sweat gallons. Put me in a hot climate and I'm fine, into a cold room and suddenly GUSH, leaking all over the place. As with many others, I am forced on a daily basis to wear a hat, something I put off until the last possible moment because my already ghastly hair becomes somehow ghastlier when it has been concealed by a warm fleecy number for anything over thirty seconds. My face becomes white and pinched, my nose alternates between streaming or Rudolf-impersonating, and as a final defence invites a load of spots to come visit in an effort to, I don't know, provide padding and get warm or something.
In addition this year, I have the joy of having to deal with a bike. Gloved hands are not nimble enough to get the numbers of my bike lock code into the correct order, and therefore I start my day off (frequently at 6:30am) with a nice bout of frostbite-inducing metal-touching. This whole process is repeated every time I leave my bike somewhere, and thus I am caught between walking to avoid the bike-related nastiness, or cycling to avoid the walking-related nastiness. Neither exactly gets the whole body warm. Could really do with being able to row to lectures - now that gets every muscle group going.
I hate being cold (especially in this country, there is remarkably little point when snow is a freak occurence and generally it is cold for no reason at all), I look terrible when it is cold, and I hate having to make the decision between being warm and wearing ten jumpers in true Michelin Man style, or being cold but remotely fashion-conscious. As fashion-conscious as I get. I am a person designed for warmer climes, ideally a place that magically turns cold on the rare occasions when I want it to - you know, snuggling up by the fire with somebody (in actual fact have never DONE this, just always rather fancied the idea), playing a nicely flirtatious game of snow balling (have done that and honestly can't recommend as ended up in casualty with the other party, him having slipped and almost broken his wrist), y'know, couply wintery stuff.
No, warm places are the way forwards. That way as well you get to avoid any nasty surprises when you leap eagerly into bed with someone - I mean, a pair of speedoes doesn't exactly leave much to the imagination and you have advance warning of what are actually very narrow shoulders cunningly disguised by clothing, or such nasties as the Hairy Back.
Right - I'm off to hand wash all my jumpers. Since the only warm jumpers are woollen ones, which obviously can't go in the washing machine. Another stupid thing about this blasted time of year. GRRR.
Oh - quickly though. My brief bonus of recent days. I drove an E-Type Jag. V12 engine. Yuh huh, I did too. Think I have possibly found an activity that supercedes sex - or at least bad sex. Driving an absolute BEAST of a car. (Yes Andy, maybe you're right, sex in the back of an E-type could in fact be the ultimate experience. If somewhat uncomfortable).
In addition this year, I have the joy of having to deal with a bike. Gloved hands are not nimble enough to get the numbers of my bike lock code into the correct order, and therefore I start my day off (frequently at 6:30am) with a nice bout of frostbite-inducing metal-touching. This whole process is repeated every time I leave my bike somewhere, and thus I am caught between walking to avoid the bike-related nastiness, or cycling to avoid the walking-related nastiness. Neither exactly gets the whole body warm. Could really do with being able to row to lectures - now that gets every muscle group going.
I hate being cold (especially in this country, there is remarkably little point when snow is a freak occurence and generally it is cold for no reason at all), I look terrible when it is cold, and I hate having to make the decision between being warm and wearing ten jumpers in true Michelin Man style, or being cold but remotely fashion-conscious. As fashion-conscious as I get. I am a person designed for warmer climes, ideally a place that magically turns cold on the rare occasions when I want it to - you know, snuggling up by the fire with somebody (in actual fact have never DONE this, just always rather fancied the idea), playing a nicely flirtatious game of snow balling (have done that and honestly can't recommend as ended up in casualty with the other party, him having slipped and almost broken his wrist), y'know, couply wintery stuff.
No, warm places are the way forwards. That way as well you get to avoid any nasty surprises when you leap eagerly into bed with someone - I mean, a pair of speedoes doesn't exactly leave much to the imagination and you have advance warning of what are actually very narrow shoulders cunningly disguised by clothing, or such nasties as the Hairy Back.
Right - I'm off to hand wash all my jumpers. Since the only warm jumpers are woollen ones, which obviously can't go in the washing machine. Another stupid thing about this blasted time of year. GRRR.
Oh - quickly though. My brief bonus of recent days. I drove an E-Type Jag. V12 engine. Yuh huh, I did too. Think I have possibly found an activity that supercedes sex - or at least bad sex. Driving an absolute BEAST of a car. (Yes Andy, maybe you're right, sex in the back of an E-type could in fact be the ultimate experience. If somewhat uncomfortable).
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Developing morals...
Right - I am frustrating even myself here. This is a combined rant of 'morals' and 'singledom', and distressingly the two are finally coming together for me. If you scroll back a few months, I remember writing a post with the pros of singledom, and this definitely included the option to randomly sleep with guys on odd occasions. Which is satisfying on a number of levels, including the fact that I could easily go beyond my standard 'physical level' as it were and ended up with some particularly delectable individuals.
Okay, just had a ten minute break to amble down memory lane. Where was my point going... Oh yes, I used to have it made. I lived on my own in the middle of nowhere, thus it was very easy to have 'gentleman callers' and nobody had to be any the wiser on university campus the next day, plus I was used to living by myself, being by myself, and was absolutely fine with that. I am now living in a shared house which means that nobody can call (let alone anything else) without somebody noticing, and also I've gotten used to having people around. I now generally loathe weekends as half the people I know in Oxford go careering off in the direction of their respective partners and leave me to twiddle my thumbs or spend time with one of the very few single people I know here. And their numbers are dwindling rapidly as more and more are finding 'other halves'...
This has a point. It definitely had a point. Oh yes. I was quite willing to settle back into a lifestyle of debauchery (housemates and their comments aside) when I came to Oxford but have found from somewhere, God knows where, morals. They are messing with my life. This weekend I was forced to tell someone not to visit on the basis that they like me too much for 'casual sex'. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?? It ultimately means I'm on the lookout for something more than that - and yet, simultaneously, I don't think I'm ready for 'more than that'. I am actually destined to be single and henceforth celibate. (Oy - some of you, stop laughing). In two weeks time I have the ultimate test of how strong my new found morals really are: I'll be hitting the tourist trail in India and everyone knows what some of the huge perks are of international travel...
So all of you get your fingers crossed that soon I either find a guy to genuinely sweep me off my feet (much as I disapprove of such dramatic gestures) , or I get over my moral-goodness. I'm starting to annoy myself with half the prudish comments I come out with these days. Sigh.
Okay, just had a ten minute break to amble down memory lane. Where was my point going... Oh yes, I used to have it made. I lived on my own in the middle of nowhere, thus it was very easy to have 'gentleman callers' and nobody had to be any the wiser on university campus the next day, plus I was used to living by myself, being by myself, and was absolutely fine with that. I am now living in a shared house which means that nobody can call (let alone anything else) without somebody noticing, and also I've gotten used to having people around. I now generally loathe weekends as half the people I know in Oxford go careering off in the direction of their respective partners and leave me to twiddle my thumbs or spend time with one of the very few single people I know here. And their numbers are dwindling rapidly as more and more are finding 'other halves'...
This has a point. It definitely had a point. Oh yes. I was quite willing to settle back into a lifestyle of debauchery (housemates and their comments aside) when I came to Oxford but have found from somewhere, God knows where, morals. They are messing with my life. This weekend I was forced to tell someone not to visit on the basis that they like me too much for 'casual sex'. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?? It ultimately means I'm on the lookout for something more than that - and yet, simultaneously, I don't think I'm ready for 'more than that'. I am actually destined to be single and henceforth celibate. (Oy - some of you, stop laughing). In two weeks time I have the ultimate test of how strong my new found morals really are: I'll be hitting the tourist trail in India and everyone knows what some of the huge perks are of international travel...
So all of you get your fingers crossed that soon I either find a guy to genuinely sweep me off my feet (much as I disapprove of such dramatic gestures) , or I get over my moral-goodness. I'm starting to annoy myself with half the prudish comments I come out with these days. Sigh.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Neruda
Indeed - Neruda. I thought I'd educate some of you out there. Pablo Neruda, amongst multiple other things a fairly awesome poet from Chile. Have spent the evening cheerfully immersing myself in a deepening depression by reading through some of poems of the most undiluted misery that I know. Anyway, I thought I'd put one on here - which is ultimately, well okay you decide what it is. But whichever way you view it, unless you are a peculiarly soul-less individual, you must surely view it as a beautiful work of art. I apologise for those of you who read Spanish and are offended by the poor English translation...
Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda, translated by W.S. Merwin
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starryand the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.This is all.
In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's.
As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body.
Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda, translated by W.S. Merwin
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starryand the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.This is all.
In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's.
As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body.
Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Why I curse the radical feminists...
For those of you lucky enough not to be in the know, the radical feminists were those bra-burning enthusiasts of the 1960s/70s who 'liberated' women from the role of house-wife and home-maker. I say, blast them. I could be living it up at the moment, married to some fool of a guy who charges out of the house at the crack of dawn and doesn't return until late in the evening, working his socks off so that I and our inevitable sprog have somewhere to inhabit. What were those feminists thinking - we women had it sorted. Okay, so every now and then there was the odd plate to wash, but we now have the wonderful invention of the dishwasher. And the huge bonus feature is that you don't even have to see the guy most of the time - he's too busy out and feeling important and 'manly' earning a decent wage. The joy of the fling with the milkman is lost forever as single women frankly don't have time for such delightful indecencies. They are too busy balancing work and social life and child care and household chores.
Whereas loads of women were suddenly up in arms, declaring that we wanted the same rights, I say they were the fools. 'Patriarchal society' indeed. Women had it MADE, and the guys didn't even seem to question it. We could sit around all day reading and 'bettering ourselves' by learning to play the piano, perhaps doing a spot of needlework, taking a gentle stroll about the garden and upon returning to our easy chair by the hearth arrange the flowers we found there. Constructing a cake - although not exactly my forte - is hardly classifiable as a tough day's work.
No, now I'm expected to work. To have a career. To be terrifyingly independent to the point where I either terrify all guys who daren't speak to me lest they anger me, or to the point where I refuse to speak to them for fear of giving up some of my hard-earned independence that I should really appreciate because so many women fought for it.
Damn them.
Damn 'liberation'.
I am CLEARLY designed for a life of idleness, perhaps pushing a pen about a page once in a while at a pretence of earning some money. Looking after kids? Fine by me - since my future sprog will not be attending school and I do actually want to see my children occasionally. Ghastly places, schools, full of other peoples' ghastly children. Not having my kids bullied and teased and 'stressed out, man' for the sake of their experiencing the 'real world'. They'll have to live in it some day - stave it off as long as possible. Everyone so intent on achieving and 'fitting in' (thanks, UK government, for the latest idea on guidelines for three month olds and what they should be able to do) they forget that hang on, we've only got one life, might as well at least have an attempt at enjoying some of it.
Yeah - its a grand, idealised theory I know. Will go back to university work with a view to joining the rat race before much longer...
Whereas loads of women were suddenly up in arms, declaring that we wanted the same rights, I say they were the fools. 'Patriarchal society' indeed. Women had it MADE, and the guys didn't even seem to question it. We could sit around all day reading and 'bettering ourselves' by learning to play the piano, perhaps doing a spot of needlework, taking a gentle stroll about the garden and upon returning to our easy chair by the hearth arrange the flowers we found there. Constructing a cake - although not exactly my forte - is hardly classifiable as a tough day's work.
No, now I'm expected to work. To have a career. To be terrifyingly independent to the point where I either terrify all guys who daren't speak to me lest they anger me, or to the point where I refuse to speak to them for fear of giving up some of my hard-earned independence that I should really appreciate because so many women fought for it.
Damn them.
Damn 'liberation'.
I am CLEARLY designed for a life of idleness, perhaps pushing a pen about a page once in a while at a pretence of earning some money. Looking after kids? Fine by me - since my future sprog will not be attending school and I do actually want to see my children occasionally. Ghastly places, schools, full of other peoples' ghastly children. Not having my kids bullied and teased and 'stressed out, man' for the sake of their experiencing the 'real world'. They'll have to live in it some day - stave it off as long as possible. Everyone so intent on achieving and 'fitting in' (thanks, UK government, for the latest idea on guidelines for three month olds and what they should be able to do) they forget that hang on, we've only got one life, might as well at least have an attempt at enjoying some of it.
Yeah - its a grand, idealised theory I know. Will go back to university work with a view to joining the rat race before much longer...
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Only a month and I get to don bikini and shorts as standard clothing once again. India, here I come. Absolutely can't wait for sun, real sun! (For all of you who are concerned reading that - don't worry, I will cover up away from tourist areas. I do have respect for other cultures...). Tanning. Wow. Heaven.
Gossip
I remember a friend once telling me a story about some mutual friends of ours who had recently broken up. According to the story, the guy turned up on the girl's doorstep one evening with a list that included what annoyed him about her, what she could do better (strong indications that the bedroom department was involved here), and why they should break up. She promptly slams door in his face and well, yes, it was kind of over after that.
Come on - that just wouldn't happen. It was entertaining. I made the mistake in a moment of pre-lecture-boredom of telling yet another mutual friend of this episode, and within a few hours had received a complete rant of an email from the girl in the tale informing me that I was a malicious canniving bitch who shouldn't spread such rumours. I might have felt guilty except that this particular wench was instrumental in making my life hell for more than a year with regard to my personal life - and she really did get personal. No comedy stories of something that blatantly couldn't have happened. (Er - well, I'm really hoping not...).
So as a rule, I'm against gossip. I like gossip - I mean, I'm interested in people. I love knowing the ins and outs of this and that but if somebody tells me to shut up, go away, leave it, then generally I do. Because I know what it is like to be perpetually discussed and have a private life analysed that frankly has nothing to do with anybody else.
I've gotten to the point where I'm so against gossip that I deliberately go out of my way to ensure the opposite of whatever is implied actually happens - in other words, I let annoying mindless moronic idiots dictate half of my personal life. As a general rule, I don't care what other people think. And as a general rule, people don't say what they do really think about you - except somehow as regards your 'chosen partner'. Which should be the most sodding personal aspect of your world and yet it is seen as open territory to be discussed at large.
I could rant forever about this, my past experiences have made me so mad. But I'll shut up now and just leave you readers with the thought that if I choose to mention something to you, if I talk to you about something, then okay. Discuss it. Otherwise, go jump. None of your goddam business. GRRR.
NB. This is not directed at anyone specifically. Maybe warning a few of you for future reference.
Come on - that just wouldn't happen. It was entertaining. I made the mistake in a moment of pre-lecture-boredom of telling yet another mutual friend of this episode, and within a few hours had received a complete rant of an email from the girl in the tale informing me that I was a malicious canniving bitch who shouldn't spread such rumours. I might have felt guilty except that this particular wench was instrumental in making my life hell for more than a year with regard to my personal life - and she really did get personal. No comedy stories of something that blatantly couldn't have happened. (Er - well, I'm really hoping not...).
So as a rule, I'm against gossip. I like gossip - I mean, I'm interested in people. I love knowing the ins and outs of this and that but if somebody tells me to shut up, go away, leave it, then generally I do. Because I know what it is like to be perpetually discussed and have a private life analysed that frankly has nothing to do with anybody else.
I've gotten to the point where I'm so against gossip that I deliberately go out of my way to ensure the opposite of whatever is implied actually happens - in other words, I let annoying mindless moronic idiots dictate half of my personal life. As a general rule, I don't care what other people think. And as a general rule, people don't say what they do really think about you - except somehow as regards your 'chosen partner'. Which should be the most sodding personal aspect of your world and yet it is seen as open territory to be discussed at large.
I could rant forever about this, my past experiences have made me so mad. But I'll shut up now and just leave you readers with the thought that if I choose to mention something to you, if I talk to you about something, then okay. Discuss it. Otherwise, go jump. None of your goddam business. GRRR.
NB. This is not directed at anyone specifically. Maybe warning a few of you for future reference.
Monday, October 31, 2005
U.S. Spending...
This is a brief rant - and I'm sorry, not returning to the light-hearted rants as proposed in my previous posting. I was just googling around on the internet and came across a website that informed me of the US spending on foreign aid, the figures for 1997. It would seem that America spent a massive $3284million funding overseas arms transfer, and yet managed only to expend $65million on peacekeeping forces. This means that the US spent roughly fifty times more money starting wars than trying to stop them. Anybody see any logic in this?
And just to annoy myself somewhat further, I have scrolled down the website and found some other baffling figures. Now, I know that the US does ultimately have the interests of the US at heart, but bear in mind I am looking on the website that highlights the US Spending on Foreign Aid. Implication being, what the US spent on helping a few bods abroad. $715million promoting US exports and, get this, a further $45million to, and I quote, 'Finance feasibility studies and other services for major activities in developing countries to support economic development and U.S. exports.' I believe I'm missing a point in here somewhere, but from what I see the US is doing the sum total of bugger all to help with any economy other than that of the US.
Are people really inherently selfish? I like to think not, but maybe that is just me being overly hopeful on occasion. Have a feeling Dawkins', 'The Selfish Gene' may be relevant here. Must get me a copy.
Oh - Happy Halloween, dear Reader!
And just to annoy myself somewhat further, I have scrolled down the website and found some other baffling figures. Now, I know that the US does ultimately have the interests of the US at heart, but bear in mind I am looking on the website that highlights the US Spending on Foreign Aid. Implication being, what the US spent on helping a few bods abroad. $715million promoting US exports and, get this, a further $45million to, and I quote, 'Finance feasibility studies and other services for major activities in developing countries to support economic development and U.S. exports.' I believe I'm missing a point in here somewhere, but from what I see the US is doing the sum total of bugger all to help with any economy other than that of the US.
Are people really inherently selfish? I like to think not, but maybe that is just me being overly hopeful on occasion. Have a feeling Dawkins', 'The Selfish Gene' may be relevant here. Must get me a copy.
Oh - Happy Halloween, dear Reader!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Creating Priorities
This rant is brought about by my increasingly frustrating Women's Studies course and an article I read on the BBC website today (I do have other sources, honest, just rarely cite them). Apparently, China held a mass speed dating event with over five thousand people attending. The concept appealed on the basis that they have no time in their working lives to meet other people, and thus the 'speed' element was fairly essential as well.
This comes after I have been delving into de Beauvoir this afternoon (distractions of films, MSN, phones and housemates aside) and I'll quote her as it makes life easier: 'According to the Platonic myth, there were at the beginning men, women, and hermaphrodites. Each individual had two faces, four arms, four legs, and two conjoined bodies. At a certain time they were split in two, and ever since each half seeks to rejoin its corresponding half.' See - I like that concept. At the risk of being viewed as amazingly cheesy by the world at large, I would even dare to say I think it is beautiful. And frankly, I seriously doubt that the Gods intended us to meet the other half of ourselves at some government organised mass speed dating effort. Doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the story, does it?
This does relate to my Women's Studies course. Everybody has been bellowing recently about how we should have equal rights, how women should be able to go out to work even when they have children, how men should do their share of the housework. I am fed up with this attitude everybody has these days of 'wanting everything' and somehow expecting it. Plus, they want it NOW. I know I'm not the most patient person in the world, but I can hardly be accused of being a 'serial dater' - one of those girls who spends their entire time with one boyfriend or another, staying together as long as it suits, not because there is actually any feeling between them.
I like the idea of things being 'meant to be'. Not least because it takes a great deal of pressure out of life, and because it means there is no point battling against things all the time. When something is meant to happen, it will. And furthermore, when you take the step to have children it should be because you actually want them, not feel you need them as some form of fashion accessory. I've no argument with people wanting a career - go for it. Just don't expect to have the 'family life' as well.
I feel as if I've been getting overly serious of late on this blog... Hm. Must cut down on that and revert to light-heartedness or I'm going to lose a few readers, methinks.
I'm off to pop my blisters. Cursed blade handles.
This comes after I have been delving into de Beauvoir this afternoon (distractions of films, MSN, phones and housemates aside) and I'll quote her as it makes life easier: 'According to the Platonic myth, there were at the beginning men, women, and hermaphrodites. Each individual had two faces, four arms, four legs, and two conjoined bodies. At a certain time they were split in two, and ever since each half seeks to rejoin its corresponding half.' See - I like that concept. At the risk of being viewed as amazingly cheesy by the world at large, I would even dare to say I think it is beautiful. And frankly, I seriously doubt that the Gods intended us to meet the other half of ourselves at some government organised mass speed dating effort. Doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the story, does it?
This does relate to my Women's Studies course. Everybody has been bellowing recently about how we should have equal rights, how women should be able to go out to work even when they have children, how men should do their share of the housework. I am fed up with this attitude everybody has these days of 'wanting everything' and somehow expecting it. Plus, they want it NOW. I know I'm not the most patient person in the world, but I can hardly be accused of being a 'serial dater' - one of those girls who spends their entire time with one boyfriend or another, staying together as long as it suits, not because there is actually any feeling between them.
I like the idea of things being 'meant to be'. Not least because it takes a great deal of pressure out of life, and because it means there is no point battling against things all the time. When something is meant to happen, it will. And furthermore, when you take the step to have children it should be because you actually want them, not feel you need them as some form of fashion accessory. I've no argument with people wanting a career - go for it. Just don't expect to have the 'family life' as well.
I feel as if I've been getting overly serious of late on this blog... Hm. Must cut down on that and revert to light-heartedness or I'm going to lose a few readers, methinks.
I'm off to pop my blisters. Cursed blade handles.
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