About bloody time too.

An exhausting week last week was followed up surprisingly pleasantly and delightfully when I woke up on the Saturday morning and dared to leave the house before 11o'clock (in the a.m. I'll have you know). Having lived in Manchester for the past three years, I'm no stranger to wearing two jumpers when you know you that it's the time of year when you really should be wearing one - JustInCase the temperature drops to below 0. Again. For no apparent reason. In March. So when I stepped out of the front door to be immediately enveloped in this bright, warming sensation that I remember from a time gone by to be known as sunshine, I was nothing less than stunned.

Tentatively edging down the path towards the pavement where the normal people walk, I looked around for a camera crew aiming a large bulb my way in a bizarre and elaborate Truman Show style prank, but to no avail. This rare and beautiful light was, indeed, the real live sun! My eyes trailed from the sky down to the edge of the road, where I noticed little patches of violet poking cautiously through the soil, huddling together as if to preserve their kind against the harshness of Manchester's tempramental temperatures and drunk students with Beer-Jackets on. On closer inspection, I realised that these miniscule purple buds of lovliness were actually crocuses. Real-live crocuses, waiting patiently for the sun to establish itself in the sky long enough for them to peel back their indigo overcoats, revealing their teeny black and gold outfits, filled with new-life. Well, pollen actually.

I made my way into the university library about 5 times slower than usual, just so as I could take it all in. The sun, SHINING, as opposed to just making it bright so that I can see my exhaled breath more clearly in front of my face. These new flowers were more than just snowdrops - the accompaniment of the winter chill - but rather spots of colour. Like nature's attempt at Impressionist art. And more impressively, I saw skin. I mean, human flesh, the exposed flesh of those who had dared to bare. Mostly forearms and a few bashful legs, but it was the product of some little miracle.

The indicator of the arrival of Spring is different for everybody. Some people love the increasingly frequent sound of birds, announcing their return from the south. Some (like my Swedish Galpal) love the cherry-blossoms. Spring's alternative to snow. Or confetti joining us and our spring-inspired smiles in holy springtime matrimony. For me, it's the daffodils that appear in clusters as if from nowhere. Their yellow heads with mini-trumpet mouths are the heralds of a new, sunnier, dawn as far as I'm concerned. The signifier of brighter days, happier faces, picnic invitations and life just being nice again. Just the sight of them is enough to make me head for the shorts, vest-tops, pretty (non-waterproof - ha!) sandals, and the sarong that you take to the park to lounge around on.

Thank fuck, cos I was getting really pissed off with having to cover up my outfits with 'warm' big coats all the time...

It's just wrong, that's all.

Does it annoy anyone else when women over the age of 40 refer to themselves as 'girls'? For example, a woman at the bar I work at came to me last night asking for a Gin and Tonic.

'A single in a large glass please, I need the dilution (is that even a word?). Honestly, I can be such a silly girl when I'm out on the gins.'

A stickler for grammatical correctness as well as being someone who frowns upon mutton dressed as lamb, I had to rouse up my biggest fake smile and employ all my strength to stop myself from giving her a little slap on the chops. Gins? Girl? Just cos you've managed to squeeze yourself into that boob tube and those skinny jeans doesn't make it ok. Plus, she waited around for 10p change instead of tipping me. Bitch.


So glad I got that off my chest.

Library on a Monday.

S. S. B. has managed to haul his sweaty ass out of my face, leaving me free to survey the other sad library hangers-on in peace. However, within the first ten seconds of my triumphant panoramic circumspection (good word, thank you shift F7!), I caught sight of a Gotta-Pick-My-Nose Man.

Gotta-Pick-My-Nose Man (n): Most often spotted in cars that have stopped at the traffic lights; on the window seats of buses; and apparently libraries.

He is a rare breed of twenty-something male who never seem to go through that 'if I can see you, you can see me' part of their life that ruins Hide-And-Seek for most of us at around 4 or 5 years of age (higher in some parts of America.) Therefore, G.P.M.N.M. feels at liberty to sit sometimes for whole minutes with one finger feeling freely away inside the cavernous realms of his nostrils without fear of repercussions (nose caving in, development of hairy palms etc) or even being spotted.

'Aha,' sings G.P.M.N.M. 'Sod the system! Sod you, Mother! I can do anything I like inside my Inviso-Bubble!'
Just glanced round, and he is circulating his findings in his left, no, right hand.


If he eats it, I'm leaving.

It must be me.

S. S. B. has just started singing to himself.

Pop Idol, this ain't.

Is it me?

I'm sitting in the library and Spotty Scratching Boy keeps staring over at me from the seat to my right. YES, I can see you. YES, I am faking this intense 'What-does-that-mean-no,-that-there-on-the-screen' look on my face so I can avoid eye contact with you.

Why do all the crazies locate me to perch and wheeze next to?

A Sight for Sore Eyes

In case anyone was wondering, yes. I have pretty much just figured out how to upload pictures onto my page. And I am loving it. Watch this space for more bizarre visual excitement.

I really should be doing some work.

Inappropriate Advertising?

This is for jeans.

I ask you!

Vagina, Shmagina...

I finally went to see the Vagina Monologues at the weekend and have been thinking about writing about it here ever since. As soon as I even considered going I was aware that I was possibly going to be affected. BUT, was I going to just go crazy burning my bras and refusing to shave anything but my head; OR was I going to just be constantly pissed off at these whiny, self-victimising women who bang on about how rubber gloves oppress them? Thus, I went with the specific intentions to avoid affectation. I'm not a cliche and I never will be. Well, that was the idea. I sat down, next to my Swedish Galpal (more like my other half, you can pretty much assume her general presence in all my stories. We‘re like that) and prepared to be mildly amused but distinctly distant.

And the house lights went down and after a li’l intro, the spotlight shone down on this girl dressed all in black with a pink headscarf and pink socks - no shoes, no need. The audience was entirely silenced, noone knew what to expect, even those that had seen it before. The unique thing about the Vagina Monologues is that the script is purely a selection of interviews with women about their vaginas but with narration to introduce the stories and share Vagina Facts. To a certain extent, the production of it could be absolutely anything. In this case, the stage was black, with a blackboard at the back with pink letters to remind you of what you were watching. The ensemble cast were sat around the stage, and there was a kind of catwalk bit in the middle from which point the monologues where offered. The narrator/story facilitator moved to the right of the stage whenever a new monologue was being introduced. The girl who did it was great, really charismatic, pretty, charming and funny, but never failed to bring the audience up when a serious or slightly disturbing story had just been recounted and some of them really were moving.

But anyway, the first one. She spoke about a husband wanting to shave her. Down there. Not an uncommon male wish, for his lady's area to be hair free. But then she went on to say that when she refused to do it again after the first time, he started screwing around. The whole subject matter and everything...it was exactly like I thought it'd be. A bunch of hairy feminists banging on about shaving being oppressive. At least, that's what I thought at the beginning of the monologue. By the end, I realised that I was going to have to open myself up just a little bit if I was gonna get anything out of this little excursion. The argument was there, it was entertainingly delivered, and it was a fair point? Why should women feel pressured to shave their hair if they don't want to?

Other monologues included a rant about vaginal happiness - how would anyone like having a 'piece of fucking cotton' shoved in them sporadically every month; if your vagina could dress itself, what would it wear? There was a charming, sleepover-y bit where girls talked about their first visit from Aunt Flow completely with those uncomfortable thoughts and stupid questions that we’d all asked ourselves. It was a bizarre but quietly charming way of bringing all the women in the audience together through a shared experience. It was the rant My Short Skirt that got my hair a-swinging, and my fingers a-clicking. Well, not quite but it was really refreshing and nice to hear out loud that it’s not insane to have reasons to want to wear short skirts that don’t involve trying to get boys to look at you. You know those days when you’ve shaved your legs so good, there’s not even a little stubble? Or when it’s just too hot? Or when you’ve just bought THAT skirt and you want to wear it now so that if anyone else buys it everyone will know you had it first? Wearing short skirts doesn’t make a girl easy, desperate to find a boyfriend, and it is never acceptable to think she wants to be touched just because you can see her legs. You wouldn’t put your hand in a crocodile’s mouth when it yawns just because you can see it’s rarely visible tongue… Ok, bad analogy but you get what I mean.

I think it was at this point that I marched off to the chocolate machine, fists clenched, to purchase a nice hunk of Galaxy despite having given up chocolate for Lent. My argument being that if Jesus had experienced the same cramps as those I was getting whilst he was in the wilderness, I don’t think anyone would have objected to him kicking back with some of that food the Devil was offering, and chilling for a coupla days until the worst was over. I’m stickin by it!

The second half of the play was heavier than the first. There was a charming story from a woman who loves women who love her moaning. And in turn she loves making them moan. And yes, we did get to hear a selection of the different types of moan. Not sure about anyone else, but it certainly was a lesson for me… Along with the lighter stories, there were real stories from women in Afghanistan, those who had suffered genital mutilation, and most hauntingly a monologue from a Japanese ‘Comfort Woman.’ The girl who acted this part did it so carefully and beautifully I can still hear her voice in my ear. I watched this pretty, twenty-something student, but I was listening a 79 year old Japanese woman who had been dragged from her house at 13 to work as a ‘comforter’ for Japanese soldiers during the second world war. I was in a student make-shift theatre, but I was hearing heart wrenching stories from a woman who never found peace after her four year ordeal with men who couldn’t have cared whether she was dead or alive so long as they could do whatever it was they wanted. A woman, terrified of dying before she can finally get an apology from her government who forced so many women into that position and who are now denying the existence of the whole situation. This woman was in front of me on the stage, and when a tear ran down her face one ran down mine too.

I like shaving my legs because I like the way it makes them feel. I enjoy the way my boobs look in a bra, and I cherish the hope that one day I’ll marry a wonderful man and have wonderful children and I won’t resent them for forcing me into a position dictated to me by a patriarchal society. For me, feminism is all about being free to make the same choices as are offered to men. Simple things, like having the choice to play football if you want to. To get paid the same amount for doing the same job as men. To be able to say no to sex, and to walk around without bruises on your face are choices denied to women everywhere even now. Regardless of how evolved we think we are. I don’t want to rant, I didn’t create this blogspot to rant, but I feel like I’ve discovered a new part of my brain that’s making me think about this stuff, and I can’t switch it off. And I don’t even think I want to.

So, yea. The play was alright. I’ve seen better.

Actually, no. I don’t think I have.

A Little Thought.

If this isn't what it's all about, then why do we bother?

People, people, people...

Cycling down the road, the car behind honked and a bloke on the pavement turned around and glared at me.

Go figure.

Irrational Anger

I'm pissed off. In all honesty I don't think I can really explain why if someone were to ask, I just know that I'm pissed off. I've spent the best part of the day playing silly buggers with my imbecile-like employers who refuse to find an efficient way of allocating shifts to its 150 employees, which subsequently causes three-hour long queues of people anxious to get the 'good' Sunday shifts that get you time and a half. Plus some people think it's acceptable to push in willy nilly even though SOME people have had to wait patiently for an hour beforehand, and blah blah blah. I think that that's a good enough reason for anyone to be slightly miffed.

Some days - especially the ones that start off well - all it takes is one annoying or negative thing to ruin your entire day. Like, missing a phone call from THAT boy, or getting splashed, nay, saturated in ditchwater by a bus on a rainy day and knowing that somewhere that driver is screwing up his fat little face with laughter at that idiot girl on a bike (I like the challenge that comes with cycling in non-conducive weather, so sue me); or better still, waking up happy with that I've-slept-enough feeling and you think it's Saturday and then you promptly realised that actually you've just overslept and it's Friday, and now you're going to be late. Today, I woke up a blank canvas for the arse of misfortune to shit on.

After a rushed and somewhat troublesome journey in to get my shifts (my little bike was proving harder than usual for me to ride. Found out later that that was due to a semi-flat tyre. It's ok, I've dealt with it now thanks for your concern.)I was messed about and told to come back an hour and a half later. In order to make sense of my time, I went to chase up some money I'm owed by The Man at my university, however they just told me to come back next week. Lazy tarts. And then I decided to take a chill pill and go have some soup in the nearby warm lovely veggie cafe...which I preceeded to spill inexplicably over myself. Of course I only noticed the spillages when I got up to get a drink and had to walk past a table of hotties who probably all saw my mess and had a good old giggle at the gal in the jeans with mushed lentils spattered sporadically about the place. Probably not, but you know how it gets when you're ticked off and little irritations keep popping up and you internalise EVERYTHING. That's pretty much where I was at the time. Just embarrassed, pissed off and subsequently angry, angry, angry.

However, writing this has somewhat calmed me. This blog has become a little vent for me. A sanctuary where I can siphon off some of my idiosyncracies and launch them into cyberspace. It helps that it's snowing outside, and there's just something about snow that always warms my cockles. Especially when I know that I'm nice and warm inside whilst that fat faced bus driver is shuddering in his little driving booth somewhere on the main road. It's called karma my good friend.