Archive for January, 2010

Sometimes you feel like a Brit, sometimes you don’t

NS January 29th, 2010

Ways in which I have become Anglicised:

  • My preferred swear words are Bloody, Shite and Bollocks
  • I can eat a sandwich with spread (butter) on it and not gag
  • I pronounce the ‘T’ in words like ‘beautiful’, ‘Peter’ and ‘dirty’
  • I love me a pint of bitter
  • I go for a walk on Boxing Day no matter how miserable it is outside
  • I can find a way to complain about the weather, even if it’s sunny
  • I get a bit irate sometimes at how the Council spends my money
  • If it snows, I don’t shovel my walk because no one else has
  • When I’m ill, all I want is a cup of tea and my hot water bottle
  • I eat jacket (baked) potatoes with tuna or cheesy beans on top
  • I listen to BBC Radio whilst doing the washing up
  • I use the word ‘whilst’
  • I say ‘windscreen’, ‘boot’, and ‘indicate’ instead of ‘windshield’, ‘trunk’ and ’signal’

Ways in which I am not Anglicised:

  • I don’t mercilessly harass ginger (redhead) people
  • I don’t constantly say “That’s so middle class”
  • I hate brown sauce, Marmite and Branston’s pickle
  • I refuse to consider hard sponge with marzipan on top to be “cake”
  • I can say the word ‘bap’ and not giggle
  • I will never believe anyone who says they had a proper cocktail at a pub
  • It’s Santa, not Father Christmas
  • I don’t believe that Halloween is just for devil-worshippers, criminals and Americans
  • I refuse to consider the Sun, Daily Mail, Metro, etc.. “newspapers”
  • I think British soaps (Corrie, Enders, et al) are absolutely rubbish
  • Ditto for British dramas (not including period films)
  • I still can’t get used to the teeth  I see on some people in television
  • I don’t intentionally set out to get shit-faced when I drink
  • Seafood on pizza is just wrong, as is sweetcorn
  • I will never say ‘aluminium’ or ‘bonnet’. It’s aluminum and hood, damn it!
  • I think Jeremy Clarkson is a national disease, not a national treasure

I had a vision of love

NS January 25th, 2010

And after all that waxing lyrical about staying indoors, what did we end up doing yesterday afternoon, less than two hour after I wrote about looking out windows and staying warm? Strapping the wellies on, driving out to Richmond Park, tromping up and down exceedingly muddy paths and then having a good run around the playground.

The lazy, cosy morning and the outdoor, active afternoon…they were perfect. Each on their own but especially together. And when we pulled up in front of our home, just as darkness was throwing its blanket over the half-lit, golden hue clinging to the edges of the sky, The Noble Husband and I turned to each other and smiled. I switched the ignition off and we sat in silence, holding hands for a moment before we turned around to see our children, both asleep and with their faces turned upward in identical, open-mouthed poses, the very picture of vulnerable, lovely innocence. Our eyes met as we gathered our things and silently relayed every emotion our hearts were bursting with. Before we scooped them up and woke them from their peaceful reveries, we looked once more at their soft faces, breathtakingly beautiful, and watched their chests rise and fall, rise and fall, with the breath that we gave them.

“Is there anything more incredible and wonderful then this?” my heart asked his.

The trembling of his lips and the brightening pools of his eyes said that, indeed, there was not.

Sunday Mothering

NS January 24th, 2010

Quiet contemplation and frenzied scribbling (or typing, rather) may not make sense to many as a suitable and entirely worthwhile pursuit on which to spend an entire Sunday when the sun is shining and there are ruddy, muddy outdoor romps to be had, but to me it is perfection and bliss. My husband does not understand it. My children…do they suffer for it? Or, rather, do they benefit from the happiness and satisfaction it gives me?

My method of Sunday mothering may not involve wellies, mountaintop picnics or forest adventures but instead hot chocolate kisses, counting raindrops on windows and reading stories of wizards and cats and little girls who won’t go to bed. We may only venture outside to gather the necessary supplies for baking more chocolate chip cupcakes but does our quiet, near, indoor adventure mean any less simply because it wasn’t undertaken beneath the grey sky and through the long, wet grass?

Perhaps my children will look back at winter Sundays — their mother curled cosily under her blanket, fingers poised motionless above the keyboard as she takes in a scene of familial merriment with a smile as broad as a river on her lips — and they will not be disappointed that we weren’t somewhere new and dangerous, but familiar and safe and warm. Together.

Doing nothing says everything

NS January 21st, 2010

Did you know that the Metropolitan Police sent a message to every woman in the UK yesterday?

What, you didn’t get yours? Well, it didn’t come on paper and through the letterbox, admittedly (that would contravene its environmental policy and administration budget, you see), but we can all understand —  loud and clear and in no uncertain terms — what that message was. It went something like this:

Dear Birds Women of the UK,

We are sorry we were caught regret the honest mistakes systemic failures and staggering inactions on our part which led to what seemed like a nice guy serial sexual predator John Worboys (aka the Black Cab Rapist) carrying out countless attacks over a period of years on drunk slappers numerous victims, none of whom we believed when they came forward.

While we take allegations of sexual assault not at all seriously, the investigations stemming from these female fairy tales allegations were completely inadequate not quite up to our usual piss-poor high standards. For this we are totally unrepentant sorry and have resolved to get the media off our backs make changes at no all levels of the department, including a new unit specialising in regret sex sexual offences committed against whiny feminist bitches women. At all times At this time, we do not feel that any further disciplinary action against the officers in charge of the utterly failed mismanaged investigations is deserved needed.

Fuck Thank you very much,

The Boys Met

I’ll just pause while you refocus your eyes after all that reading between the lines (ahem).

Obviously, that wasn’t the exact wording, but you get the drift. If you are of a more exacting nature and wish to read the nauseating excuses comments from deputy chair of the Independent Police Complaints Commission (IPCC) Deborah Glass on why the body decided to only issue the officers with written warnings, see below.

“I think on the evidence available the written warnings outcome was right,” she said. “They are a serious sanction requiring officers to accept they have breached the police code of conduct and have failed in some way. People will say, if you cannot sack them what’s the point? But there is still a point, there are important points around learning here. It is not about slamming the Metropolitan police. This is their wake-up call.” She acknowledged that had the police officers at the centre of the inquiry not committed “serious errors of judgment” and “missed crucial investigative opportunities” when Worboys could have been stopped before he went on to assault more women. “There’s certainly a likelihood that if they had followed up lines of inquiry he would have been in custody much earlier,” she said.

Whew! And here I thought that written warnings were just a weak, one-digit tap on the wrist: not even akin to a slap! Thankfully we have Deborah to explain that, actually, writing the words ‘You were naughty…but carry on as you were” in an officer’s file (perhaps alongside a frowny-face doodled in the margins) is an adequate reprimand for “serious errors of judgment” and other perfectly understandable breaches of professional misconduct like laughing at the victims, failing to follow up crucial leads or interview any potential witnesses, failing to fully investigate Worboys or obtain a warrant to search his home and, most of all, failing to believe that anything could or even should be done about it.

For the Met and the IPCC to act like this was some kind of shocking revelation and that the individual officers in question conducted themselves (and the investigations) in an unusual, non-sanctioned manner is absolute and utter bullshit. For as long as they have been reporting sex crimes (a long time) and for as long as they have been police officers themselves (not such a long time), women have been belittledharassed, bullied and disbelieved by the boys in blue. Those meant to protect the people and uphold the law have often been accused of protecting one another from criticism and even from criminal charges, despite compelling evidence to the contrary. They have botched other serial rape cases. The rape conviction rate in this country is the lowest in Europe, a measly 6%.

This is not a recent phenomenon.

Why, just as recently as 2003, a Met rugby team put together a magazine for its players with sparkling sexist gems such as: “Why did God invent lesbians? So feminists wouldn’t breed,” and “Women: can’t live with them, can’t force them into slavery,” not to mention “How do you know when your wife may be dead? When the sex is the same but the washing starts to pile up in the sink.”

But hey, I need to lighten up, right? It’s all just a bit of harmless fun and in no way influences the way these men think, behave or do their jobs, yeah? Tell me it doesn’t contribute to rape culture or the belief that a woman who reports a sexual assault is to be shooed away, fobbed off or altogether discredited unless she has irrefutable proof, has been battered to within an inch of her life and/or is a ‘respectable’ white woman who hadn’t been drinking, wearing revealing clothing or flirting before she was violated.

If you believe that I’d also like to talk to you about tropical jungles in Siberia and ocean-view property in Nebraska. Call me.

Hell, even the Guardian reporter from whom this information comes in today’s paper (and who, on the surface, seems quite repulsed by it) subtitled his article, “Boys will be boys. But shouldn’t the boys in blue know better?” suggesting that men naturally feel and think these things about women (by the way, it’s called m-i-s-o-g-y-n-y) but that, as police officers, these guys should have hidden it better.

So thanks, Met police, for the fucking pathetic half-hearted attempt at making yourselves blameless accountable, but your words, I’m afraid, hold no value. Your actions speak louder and ring truer than any statement you could ever make.

A new NS venture

NS January 20th, 2010

FF Symbol (1)

I have to admit something and it’s going to be very difficult for me to say. Okay, here goes.

I’ve been cheating on you, Noble Savage. I’ve been working on this other website and it looks like it’s gotten serious. I’m not breaking things off with you (No! Not at all!) and it doesn’t mean we can’t still be together, create new memories and share good times; it just means that I have so much online love to give that no single blog could handle it. I have to spread myself around, you see. It’s in my BLOOD. But you know I still love you, right?

I’m sorry if this sounds exactly like a pathetic excuse given by a two-timin’, lyin’, cheatin’, no-good man in a country song but that’s just how I roll, see what I’m saying? So without further ado (*drum roll please*):

I am happy to announce that my new website, Fertile Feminism, has launched as of today. It was designed and created with an enormous amount of help from the amazingly skilled and oh-so-professional Aaron Smith of 100000words. I’ve copied the ‘About’ section below to give you a feel for what its purpose is. I’d be oh-so-grateful if you came over to have a look and, if you’re interested, subscribe.

This site’s chief aims are: Fostering a greater understanding of women’s issues amongst mothers and helping those who have been alienated by feminism to feel more included and invested in it as a social movement; exploring ways in which mainstream feminism could better advocate for mothers (and their children); and creating an honest, realistic and mutually-respectful dialogue on how each can merge into and strengthen the other.

The discussions here will stem mainly from relevant news items, the feminist and parenting blogospheres and both UK and US politics. This is not a personal blog, as such: it is a community project intended to showcase and discuss the various viewpoints, ideologies and challenges facing mothers, feminists and that not-uncommon creature, the feminist mother.

Fertile Feminism is about bringing the activism already present within the vibrant, ever-growing feminist movement together with the vast army of mothers who are also disillusioned with the status quo. It is about addressing the challenges and injustices we all face, but with a particular interest in issues most effecting parents. Mostly, it’s about using our voices and our numbers to demand and create the kind of change that will benefit us all, regardless of gender or parental status.

We’ve got to start somewhere — let’s get our hands dirty.

Here I explain how I came to be interested and involved in feminist mothering and the first post, ‘The public policing of pregnancy,’ is ready and waiting. If you have any comments or experiences to share I’m all ears! My loyalties will not be divided so feel free to read and take part in one or both.

Thank you kindly, dear readers, and I hope to see you at Fertile Feminism soon.

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