Hi, I’m fat. I’m over a size six.

If you are a twitter user, you might have seen the recent drama involving an account belonging to some idiot called Kenneth Tong. In case you missed it, this ex-Big Brother contestant who seems to have done absolutely nothing (including that) of note, began promoting his magicalicious super fun happy pill that could make even the most disgusting fatty into a desirable size zero.

A size zero is a UK size four. My skinniest, boniest friend is a size eight. In the modelling industry, despite many rumours of the pressure put on young girls to achieve unrealistically small figures, the standard sizes are between a six and a ten. Sample size garments for runway shows are often on the smaller end of this scale.

A size four is so small that only a tiny handful of highstreet stores even stock it, and even when they do, it is only in their petite range. (Namely River Island, but only in jeans, as well as Miss Selfridge and Topshop).

I am veering away from the point, but I wanted to give a little perspective as to what Mr Tong was promoting. Along with his miraculous skinny pill, he called for admiration to be given to the emmaciated models who serve as “thinspiration” – a term thrown around within pro-anorexia circles to describe images and people so thin their bones protrude, their periods stop and their hair falls out. How desirable.

Mr Tong today retracted his statements made recently, and claimed that they were made as part of a hoax. They were an experiment of how to become globally famous within a week, he claims. He apologised in the same paragraph as he boasted proudly of the publications that have chosen to feature him in response to his recent comments and the outrage he caused. He said he was going to make all the offence he has caused all better by donating to an appropriate charity, like kissing a booboo makes the nasty wound go away.

Except it really doesn’t.

I am not saying anything new, here. The internet has its gameface on with regards to this man and his various words. Basically everyone who has an ounce of sensitivity and a twitter account is pretty appalled by this hideous man and his bullshit. But it did prompt me to look up some stats about anorexia and how the media influences body image, because I think calling this crap a “hoax” is an insult to anyone with body image issues, and letting Kenneth Tong apologise and fuck off back to obscurity is like forcing a playground bully to apologise under duress.

• Studies show that girls as young as five years old report being concerned about their body and wishing to go on a diet.
• 30% of anorexia sufferers continue to experience the disease long-term. Only 40% of sufferers recover completely. 5% are fatal.
• A history of sexual abuse is present in 30% of cases of anorexia.
• 92% of people with eating disorders do not feel like they can tell anyone at all – not parents, not friends, no one.
• An estimated 90,000 people are being treated for anorexia or bullimia at any one time. Often, only the most serious and extreme cases result in treatment. This figure does not even come close to the number of people suffering from these illnesses.

This website provides further terrifying reading. All in all, what I am trying to present here is that this is not, in any way, an acceptable subject for hoaxes, jokes or publicity stunts. While this shit, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to qualify as a crime (fuck you, freedom of speech!), a media career is clearly what Mr Tong is aiming for, and I would hope that his method of attaining it is never forgotten.

Sources

A good year.

Well, for the next week or two, we’re all going to end up sitting down for a minute at some point or other and deciding for ourselves whether or not we’ve had a good year. Good is, incidentally, a bit of a bland label to slap onto something so complex.

Part of the way my mind has worked for a while has been to stick to the assumption that me and everything I am, do, and think is shit. But I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mum’s car somewhere on the A38 today when I had the realisation that… this year has involved leaps of progress that I am actually quite proud of.

Let’s not get too excited, mind you. I’m still a bit grumpy about living at home, but the me sitting here today has come a long way from the me sitting here last year. While it may be true that the metre sticks I measure my achievements against are different from many other peoples, I am proud all the same.

This year, I quit smoking. For ten years I was a polite addict, smoking away from others and not around children, but all the same my habit was setting me back, at its worst, £2,500 a year. I had absolutely nothing to show for it but an apologetic smile full of yellowed teeth, a morning cough and really smelly clothes.

Quitting was not easy – in fact, it never got easy until after ten months I finally gave in and had a cigarette. It was absolutely, utterly fucking disgusting, and not something I will ever be doing again. I still miss it though, which is so strange. But I am so pleased for myself that I finally quit.

This year, I finally went and saw a bit of the world that I’m so in love with. Going to the USA felt like coming home, even though it was my first visit. Turkey was brilliant, it genuinely felt like we were experiencing a different culture, and I loved that.

This year, I admitted I wasn’t well, and I went to the doctor. I can appreciate how, to many people, this doesn’t seem like a particular feat. To people with depression and other problems with their mental health, it might strike a chord. To people who know me – the idiot who never asks for help with anything, ever, and usually turns it down when offered – it’s probably about fucking time.

Finding the right medication for me has taken a long time. It has been difficult and frustrating, wanting so much for there to be an easy way. I call them my happy pills but that’s not true – happiness is still a battle that’s hard to fight even on the good days. All the pills can really do is help you realise that it’s worth fighting for it.  I know eventually I’ll need a lot of counselling too – and maybe that can be a goal for next year, when I feel up to it!

This year, I went to… the dentist.

Oh yes, six month checkups meant nothing to me. A heavy dose of dental pain went along with a heavy dose of painkillers (and the knowledge that you can safely take 600mg of ibuprofen instead of the 400mg it says on the box was such an enabler).

It’s not to say my teeth were particularly gross, but I was aware that I needed work doing. There were a few cavities I could feel with my tongue, and a few areas where I knew I’d need work done. But then one day, when eating pizza of all fucking things, sitting on Abbi’s sofa… a tooth broke. At the fucking front.

Luckily my mouth is pretty small, so even when I smiled it was barely noticeable unless I was pointing at it and making a sad face. (This happened often). But all the same, the day it broke, I knew it was time to man the fuck up.

I’ve found a brilliant dentist who I get on well with, which puts me at ease. He understands my nervousness, he drugs me up to the eyeballs and he talks to me like I’m a toddler who just did a poo in the potty. (“Well done, you did really well, I’m proud of you!”)

I would recommend him personally to anyone in Bristol, because to get a person like me comfortable enough to attend a dentist on multiple occasions speaks absolute volumes to him personally. So here – and if you call Bristol Clifton, ask for Dr Jason!

Anyway, all in all, my life as of right now isn’t as different as I had hoped it would get. I am still an idiot with a myriad of problems and issues and bullshit. But I am proud of the steps I have taken and the progress I have made, and I know they must seem small to anyone else.

And you know that they’ve been taken in fantastic shoes. Is there anything else that really matters?!

Addicts of the Modern Age part 2: The Retweeting

A while ago, I wrote a blog about how I became addicted to the information age, and I resolved to make some changes. I have since shut down my Twitter updates and only occasionally check my Facebook page.

It’s a start.

However, I now feel compelled to defend Twitter and the instant-information age a little more. There are problems, as any new technology is wont to have. Inevitably, Twitter has seen its fair share of faux pas, such as Arnold Schwarzenegger posting a clip of him wielding a knife whilst discussing budget cuts, to a man potentially losing the job he had just obtained thanks to some indiscrete tweeting http://bit.ly/Q5MNo . Any sane person must also acknowledge the fact that Facebook and Twitter can be very invasive. We sometimes know too much about people and we tell others more than we should, occasionally for the worse; this is mostly down to the fact that the medium in which we communicate alters our sense of what is private.

However, making faux pas or sending out information we shouldn’t have has been around long before the age of the email and the internet. To err is human and, to paraphrase the NRA’s infamous slogan: “Twitter doesn’t fuck up – people fuck up.”

At any rate, I believe Twitter to be one of the most fascinating recent developments in information communication. In fact, you could say I am a little in love with it. Obviously not everyone shares that view, so if you are not a fan, cease and desist: you won’t much like the rest of this article.

Anyway, as is the case with most of my stories, it begins with, “So, I was getting plastered with my friends…”

So, I was looking forward to getting plastered with my friends, enjoying a nice evening of alcohol and board games (I’m middle class). The aim was to drink and be merry, or at least drink and eat some awesome chilli. I cannot remember how it began, but Twitter and its purpose came up.

Now, as mentioned before, I admit that I have some issues with Twitter (oh, blog-reading-people, how many times have I used it as a place to moan about my life, without thinking about who was reading it or whether they would care? Yes, I am aware you may be reading this thinking the same thing, but shut up, that’s why). However, I see it as a useful tool for everyday, modern life, and I was discussing this point of view.

One of my friends did not agree. Her main issue was: “I just don’t see the point of it!” I explained all the uses I got out of it: politics, comedy and, most recently, the events surrounding the Twitter Joke trial.

The Twitter Joke trial is something many of my friends and colleagues have not heard of. For those of you not yet familiar with the Twitter Joke trial, see here: http://tinyurl.com/36wb6bp It is, to me, a fascinating tale, detailing abuse of power by the CPS, who really should have known better. Was Paul Chambers a foolish man? Probably. Should the CPS have pursued the case when even the police, after investigation, dismissed the threat as ridiculous? I’ll go with a big “no” there.

Anyway, I used this as an example of a news story I would have been unaware of and explained it to my friend. The reply was, “But why do you need to know that?”

This, I’ll be honest, stumped me. I have very rarely asked the question, “Why do I need to know that?” To me, knowledge and facts are fascinating things and I love absorbing them. I want to know everything. I remember that my desire for reading when younger, for gathering new stories and information, was a slight cause of concern as I tore through books voraciously.

So, Twitter is a good surrogate for my information addiction. Why would I need to know all these things? To paraphrase some of my favourite characters, my beloved Tramalfadores from Slaughterhouse Five, “Why anything?”

But apart from giving me bits of news I find intriguing, what is the point of Twitter? Well, for one, it’s not just about finding new information;  Twitter can be the perfect place to expose information and trumpet freedom of speech. Take the case of the attempted silencing of The Guardian by the law firm Carter-Ruck. Using a super-injunction, Carter-Ruck (acting on behalf of their client, Trafigura, one of the world’s largest oil companies)  wanted to prevent The Guardian newspaper from reporting on any details of a question posed by Paul Farrelly MP in Parliament. You see, he had asked a question about the right to press freedom, as well as the dumping of toxic waste by Trafigura on the Ivory Coast. This sludge, by the way, caused a number of deaths.

Trafigura obviously did not want this little comment getting out. Unfortunately, a super-injunction was not something that would prevent Twitter getting a hold of the details. Soon, thousands of users had seen and spread the information. After the Twitter outbreak, Carter-Ruck and Trafigura gave up their attempts to gag The Guardian because it was just too late. Soon, Carter-Ruck became synonymous with heavy-handed tactics and cover-up scandals. The attempted silencing of a national newspaper by an oil company badly affected Trafigura’s reputation and meant they could not dodge the bad publicity for their actions. There is something deeply satisfying about watching the public hold a financially powerful company accountable.

Twitter isn’t all just exposing scandal and news, however; it can also be a powerful tool for charities and campaigns.

Thanks to tweets and retweets containing links to the Red Cross website, Haiti’s earthquake disaster victims received massive amounts of charitable donations. The Red Cross received $35 million in donations in 48 hours, with the Red Cross saying Twitter had played a “substantial” part in achieving this. Wyclef Jean, through his tweets alone, raised $1 million for the earthquake victims through his followers and their retweets. A recent charity Twitter auction also raised money for Haiti in an innovative way by getting people to bid  for a tweet/retweet from celebrities such as Jessica Alba or Simon Pegg, or to have said celebrities follow them on Twitter. On the first day I checked the bids, amounts were already in the thousands of dollars.

I suppose my point is this: yes, there are many tweets containing irrelevant and useless information, but it also does a lot of good, too. It is easy to reject out of hand a piece of technology that many use simply to stay connected, or to post photos of their pets in amusing outfits. However,  when others dismiss why I use Twitter, I can point to things like the overturning of a super-injunction thanks to a Twitter campaign, or the raising of millions of dollars in only two days for earthquake victims. Then I can say, “There. That’s why.”

Adventures in Burlesque

“I can’t find it!”

These words were the first indicator that I was about to attend a burlesque show.

I was on the verge of killing Emma for losing the tickets. You see, we were in Edinburgh, back in 2006. Emma, Maddie and I were attending our first Fringe Festival and we were having the most amazing time. Everything was new and vibrant. Everything was exceptional.

And then Emma lost her tickets to a comedy improv show, one I’d been dying to see.

Standing outside the venue, bereft at what was happening, I contemplated what we were going to do that evening.

“How about going to that burlesque show? It’ll be on in a bit.”

I don’t remember who said this, but in hindsight, I should have seen it coming. Maddie and Emma had been so excited when, earlier that day, someone on the street handed us a flyer for a burlesque show. It was called “Warming her pearls” and showed two flawless-looking, buxomly seductive women wrapped in an embrace.

I remember pointing out to my giggling companions that, unfortunately, the burlesque was on at the same time as the comedy show for which we had just bought tickets.

Now, you make up your own mind as to whether Emma really lost her tickets or “lost” them. Either way, we ended up standing outside a doorway on a cold, Edinburgh street, before extravagantly dressed people ushered us downstairs.

What followed was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. It was silly, ridiculous and full of colour and music. The expressions on the burlesque players are still burned upon my memory; they looked like they were having more fun than all of the audience combined. Their joy was infectious and we were sad to leave it behind when the show finished.

Fortunately, we didn’t have to. We were one of the last tables to leave and, as we sat there, a member of staff came over and asked if we were there for the cabaret afterwards. Sadly, we hadn’t bought tickets and so got up to go. Maybe they were short of audience members or maybe she was just nice, but the staff member told us not to worry and just to stick around.

We left at 3 am, four hours or more after first arriving and having enjoyed the actors’ after show frivolity, too.

It is, by far, one of the best things I’ve ever experienced.

The reason I mention all this is so that you understand the fondness I have for this kind of entertainment, how any burlesque show I now see has a lot to live up to in the face of these memories. Last week, for Maddie’s birthday, we enjoyed an Afternoon Tease at Volupté. They’re located down a little side street just past Chancery Lane tube station (http://www.volupte-lounge.com/), which just adds to the fun of feeling like you’re discovering something no one else has.

To give you an idea of what the whole afternoon was about, let me just say that they make the best cocktails ever. Decadent little cocktails made from freshly smushed ingredients in front of our eyes gave us a hint of the indulgence to come.

And by God, was there indulgence. The lovely thing about the place is that people are encouraged to dress up in 20s or 40s dress. The effort our fellow diners had put into curling their hair or searching out authentic vintage dresses put me to shame. I had gone for an evening dress approach. Let me tell you this – evening dresses on the Shenfield to London trains do not go down well with bemused fellow passengers.

Anyway, a member of staff escorted us from the bar to our table. The restaurant and performance area were atmospherically lit, with room for about 100 people. The idea is to serve you a high tea in these surroundings whilst performers come on stage at various intervals.

The food was delicious and, despite Maddie’s increasing demands for scones and other food as quickly as possible (try to imagine a pixie screaming for clotted cream and you have a good idea), they were worth the wait. We were kept amused by the antics of our ninja burlesque waiters, stealthily cleaning our tables whilst we weren’t looking (“I’ll just tidy up the…HOLY SHIT, where did the used plates go?!”). Some people may think a cream tea during a burlesque show sounds like an odd combination, but there is a weird feeling of sophistication one feels eating cream scones whilst watching a woman dance around with pasties and fishnets on.

The performers were by turns funny, titillating or both. The first act was an angst-ridden character called La Poule Plombée, created by Sarah-Louise Young. I think Maddie and I were the only ones laughing at this tortured French singer’s lines about self-harming and open wounds, but everyone generally enjoyed her darkly humourous songs and digs at “hooker” Edith Piaf’s relative success to hers (“She was the little sparrow, uh? I am La Poule Plombée: the frumpy pigeon!”).

There were two main burlesque acts: Kiki Kaboom and Tallulah Tempest. Tallulah performed a feathered fan dance, mostly en pointe, which looked painful yet energetic. She captivated the room as no one could take their eyes from the sight of the burleque dancer ballet-dancing around, slyly revealing and then covering her skin with giant ostrich feather fans.

Kiki Kaboom was on twice. Whilst her geek to freak routine (where she slowly transformed from a 50s-looking geeky girl to a black corset-clad temptress, gyrating to the sounds of “Superfreak”) was fun, her Judy Garland tribute was most memorable. Kiki quickly moved from miming an early recording of Garland discussing her Dorothy audition, to popping pills in reference to Garland’s long battle  with addiction to prescription drugs. It was a sight to behold, as was Kiki stripping down to a silver corset and red heart pasties, singing “That’s Entertainment!” whilst wrapped in the American flag.

It’s one of those things you know you’re unlikely to see ever again.

All the way through, there were also some “Gateaux Vivants”. Tableux vivants are “living pictures, costumed people who stand, often in striking poses, without moving. In our case, the theme was cakes, and so we were treated to the sight of a striking redhead coyly covering herself with baking books, a mixing bowl and, at the end, cherry bakewell tarts.

What impressed me was how many women were there. Some were there for birthday parties, another for a hen do. There is nothing really erotic or sleazy about it; it’s just some fun, naughty but nice.

As I left the club that afternoon, I recalled the joy I had felt upon leaving the Edinburgh show, the night we walked up to the top of a stupidly high hill and gazed out at the city until 6 am.

I don’t often focus on the good times – it’s nice to be reminded every now and again that something in the present can jolt those memories so vividly back to life.

You’re all a bunch of…

I got told off today for my language. Apparently, it’s bad.

OK, so yes, I do swear a lot. I’m not about to stop. I regularly call my best friends cunts. I say fuck this, I tell people they’re a cock. I only really censor myself when I’m working and that’s only because, well, it’s expected and I can respect that.

But, here’s my issue. I am told off for calling someone a cunt. It’s not in a malicious way, and in any event, even if it were they would have done something to deserve my ire.

What really annoys me though, is that the vast majority of people who criticise swearing wouldn’t even think twice about saying things that, when you consider them in detail, could be equally (if not more) offensive. I mean, people who would jump on you for calling someone “a fucking cunt” but wouldn’t think twice about saying “I’ll kill you”. Think about it. You’re saying it’s wrong to allude to sex and female genitalia, two things that are wonderful and amazing, but it’s more than fine to say that you want to murder someone?

A lot of what is deemed acceptable to say and what isn’t deemed acceptable seems to stem more from what we are told we should believe is wrong rather than what is actually logically wrong. Threaten physical violence – yes, absolutely fine! Talk about a penis… oooh, can’t do that I’m afraid.

I’m not in any way saying that we should all start to go around telling everyone to fuck themselves, oh no. But please, stop telling me off for doing it.

Different rules

When people write on the internet, I sometimes doubt that they realise the power of their words. Cardiff councillor John Dixon was recently pulled up for posting a tweet on his Twitter page: “I didn’t know the Scientologists had a church on Tottenham Court Road. Just hurried past in case the stupid rubs off.”

Personally, I think that’s hilarious, but that’s because I agree with it. Scientologists did not and made a complaint, ensuring Mr Dixon was referred to an ethics committee. I started to wonder whether people in the public eye are aware of how much they reveal online (I’m not talking dodgy photos, I’m afraid) and, more importantly, what is considered appropriate for them. Should there be different rules for them and for us?

Writing online as a nobody has its benefits but, as someone who writes on a blog, it is difficult to know how much of yourself to give away. Once you get your words down, they are out there, available for judgement and comment. This can be a scary prospect, especially as a commenter’s anonymity makes for good protection. Message boards are an excellent indicator of how feedback can get out of hand. I was tempted, recently, to sign up to a teachers’ discussion forum until I noticed threads where grown adults (teachers, I should remind you, as well) were hurling insults at each other for petty grievances, ganging up against others and shouting down anything they didn’t agree with. Did I mention they were teachers? Actually, now I think about it, that might explain a lot.

However, writing a blog can be a useful process. It can act a means of practising and honing your skills as well as providing a way to express ideas. It can also become a source of income or a rallying point for important issues.

For others, it is the only way to cope with a situation. An amazing case in point is http://tarquinchronicles.wordpress.com/. If you haven’t already heard about Justine Barrett, I suggest you look her up. Her blog is about Tarquin, a tumour doctors recently discovered in her brain and how she is dealing with the diagnosis and forthcoming operations. If you take the time to read it, her writing is full of honesty, small tragedies and dark humour. A great example of the latter is Justine having to explain to a nurse that the nurse’s gesticulations towards an eye chart will not help her locate it, as she is now blind in her right eye.

Reading blogs like this make me realise how lucky we are to have such a tool in order to cope with the various shit life throws at us instead of simply keeping it all inside and “getting on with it”, a process few find productive in the end. Justine Barrett’s blog has provided her with many positive reactions and support; it provides the reader with a bit of inspiration in maintaining resolve and humour in the face of horrendous situations.

Nevertheless, I cannot help but think that there are different rules for those that already exist in the public eye. Today, for example, was one of those days when I had to ask, “What were you thinking?” Andrew Cohen, who appears as a contributing essayist on CBS News, wrote a column, published online last week, in which he thanks and extols the virtues of the love of his life, who was sadly getting married that day to someone else. In it, he praises how she put up with him and made him a better person. It can be found here: http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/07/24/on-her-wedding-day-saying-the-things-left-unsaid/. Now, on paper, that sounds like a sweet thing, but this was dedicated to her. On her wedding day. It has to be questioned just how appropriate this is, especially if it is presented as a gift. As Cohen said: “The present I humbly send her today is this column; this public note, this irrevocable display of affection and support and gratitude; this worldly absolution from any guilt or sadness she felt between the time she said no to me and the time she said yes to him.”

Another contributor took umbrage with this and Lizzie Skurnick posted a reply to his column: http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/07/26/how-not-to-congratulate-your-ex-on-her-wedding-day/. In it, she points out that only congratulating your ex on how she did things that made you better as opposed to, say, mentioning some details about her, gave the impression that Cohen’s open letter was somewhat self-serving. She mentioned many other problems with his column, but I shall let you read that for yourself.

It poses a tricky question – how personal should you get? If people write blogs or columns to get things off their chests, this is a healthy thing to do. It can be entertaining and helpful, as well as perhaps reaching out and touching the lives of readers. The Chronicles of Tarquin is obviously a great example of this.

Andrew Cohen’s column is the perfect example of what should not be done. For one, it’s a column, not a blog post. This usually means national or even mild awareness of who you are, so you threaten exposing yourself, removing even more of what little privacy you still have. In this day and age of media intrusion, it seems odd for a public figure to willingly hand another piece of himself to the world. However, expressing thoughts and feelings is not a taboo. Columnists rail against their hates and proclaim their passions, daily, online and in print. That’s their job.

Unfortunately, I take the view that a person with a very public profile spilling out feelings of unrequited love is stepping a little over the line, especially when it’s essentially the online equivalent of running into a church and saying, “I object!” That is too much information to come from a public figure, even when he may have meant well. “Meaning well” is not protection from the power of your words. I’m sure Kanye meant well when he stuck up for Beyonce, but I bet he did not envisage having to grovel for forgiveness on the Jay Leno show whilst Leno asked Kanye what his late mother would think of such behaviour.

I also wonder how the love of his life would feel reading it. Would she take comfort in Cohen listing how she improved his life, or would she take offence that he was a) congratulating her on being a woman who does not focus on her career and b) granting her permission to be happy?

We can gain so much from being ourselves online. In it, we can find a freedom that can spill over into our real lives. We can discuss problems and find solace; we can share and communicate faster and better than ever before.

However, I’m still not certain if people in the public eye can afford to take such a risk when it comes to what they can divulge. If a celebrity is battling with a problem or trying to raise awareness, his or her revealing their true feelings on a blog or column can be a very positive thing. Those in the public eye have many things to consider, however. Though I agree with Mr Dixon’s sentiments about Scientology, what if he had been talking about Christianity, Judaism or Islam? It would have been a matter of resignation. It seems naïve of Mr Dixon to forget that, as a public figure, people are waiting for you to slip up and make a scandal out of it.

Most importantly, however, if a public figure is online to tell an old love and the world that she should feel free to move on with her life and thanks for everything, perhaps a toaster would be a better choice of present than a column on a heavily viewed newspaper site.

Everything is not as it appears

(Originally this was going to be a long discussion on the nature of Feminism in this day and age. However, in examining it, I have sort of stumbled onto a slightly more personal truth. Excuse this – I’ll be back to ranting in my next posts.)

Anyway. Have you ever come to the realisation that you are not quite the person you believed yourself to be? I don’t mean in a Scooby Doo-rubber-mask-reveal-the-villain way. Those sorts of events do not happen in real life, though it would be cool if it turned out that my local shopkeeper was masquerading as an evil gargoyle bent on sabotaging plans for a new supermarket. However, “Curse you pesky kids!” is something she would more likely shout at the ASBO wannabes who sling back White Lightning outside her store.

My point is that, recently, I have become unsettled. A news story of late has caused me to question something I thought fundamentally true about myself: that I believe I should look how I choose to look, that I choose to be who I wish to be.

Do not get me wrong. This is not about women overall, though I initially thought it was. I did not suddenly wake up and start chaining women to kitchen sinks or insisting they wear ankle-length skirts (I live in Essex – the latter would be a futile exercise in Chelmsford on a Saturday night, anyway). What it is about, however, is just how unaware I was of how my low self-esteem affected my life.

The first thing that triggered this train of thought was the discussion of the burkha ban in France (this has now passed into law). The response was mixed over here. Some took it as an affront to individual rights. Some welcomed it as a sign that women would no longer be subjugated in Islam. Some saw it as racist.

I am in two minds about this ban. Does it give women the chance to be free of this garment, or is the French government being patronising in assuming that all women who wear the burkha do so because they are forced to and not because they choose to? It poses the question of whether the French government is being any better in telling these women what they cannot wear as opposed to what they should.

In any case, this was side-stepped by saying it was a “security issue” rather than about the liberation of women. A comedian I adore seemed to agree. There was an interesting tweet by Jeremy Hardy who said that the whole “doing it for women’s rights” argument was bullshit because if we truly wanted to live in a society without stupid restrictions on women, we would ban hair removal cream, high heels and uncomfortable, dental floss underwear.

Now, as we live in a society where a recent poll of teenage girls indicted that some wanted to grow up to be WAGs, this may seem perfectly reasonable. However, I felt the need to object. I do not wear heels everyday or have stupid underwear, I said. I am a practical person. I felt resentful that men believed women were incapable of saying, “fuck off, those shoes are ridiculous!”, as if we truly were slaves to fashion.

Unfortunately, I found, to my utter dismay, that I was capable of totally disproving my own point. And, rather annoyingly, a pair of shoes was the cause.

I recently went shopping for a wedding and found a dress I liked. I was told I needed heels to go with them. I asked why and the person (female) with me said that the outfit wouldn’t look right if I just wore flats, that I wouldn’t look right. I insisted that I was more comfortable in flats. I like flat shoes. I think they look just as good but, most importantly, do not give me blisters or sprained toes (that did happen once – I had to take two days off work because I couldn’t walk). This was met with eye-rolling and I eventually buckled.

I am not saying the person was wrong in their opinion. In fact, I seek out her advice regularly for help with clothes. That dress with heels probably looks better, aesthetically. The problem is that I really did not want to wear them but I gave in. In that moment, I threw out everything I had insisted before, that all women are quite capable, if they choose, of saying “no, thank you” to the painful and idiotic things we are told are necessary.

Maybe many women are and do, but it turns out I am not. If I had any real backbone as a confident woman, I would have said, “You know what? I think some DMs will look amazing with this dress!” What’s happening instead is that I will wear a pair of shoes that will rub and annoy me for ten hours. I will go through Compeed plasters faster than Kay Burley will tear through someone’s vulnerable mind.

I spent some time wondering what brought about this decision. I do not often like to contemplate why I do things as it usually ends badly, a path that leads to the consumption of whiskey and the singing of Coldplay songs on Singstar until 2 am. However, after a few days, I have come to the realisation that I am still a feminist in my beliefs. I believe that women have rights that society often ignores, that we need to fight to ensure an equality we mistakenly think exists. The problem is not that I lack belief in women – it is that I lack belief in myself.

You see, I recently looked at my wardrobe and about 80% of the things I bought are in there because other people told me they looked good, not because I necessarily liked them. My home is decorated in colours other people told me would look great and the small touches I have added are so very small indeed.

My boyfriend insists I am beautiful and strong and I wonder who the hell he is talking about because, the more I started to think about it, the more I realised that any choice of new haircut, any choice of clothing, any choice of home or work or life: they had all been based upon someone else’s advice. I had never done anything without checking for someone else’s approval.

Getting a second opinion is fine – we all do it. Sometimes we need another perspective to make our own a little clearer. However, it turns out that this is not what I do. I take someone else’s opinions and use them instead of trusting in my own.

This is not an easy problem to fix. After spending ten of my educational years being told that no one likes who I really am, I was lucky enough to meet people who did. By then, unfortunately, the damage was done. I still do not voice my real opinions or thoughts, instead taking the diplomatic (or manipulative?) route when dealing with anyone who is not in my group of friends. In fact, this blog is one of the few places where my real thoughts get spoken aloud.

So, how do you fix such an issue when you realise it exists? Well, I have made a choice, one I have pondered for a few days. From now on, I will only seek opinions on extremely risky decisions (things that could lead to bankruptcy, for example, if I do not get some sound advice). I will stick to my guns and wear flats when I should wear heels, dye my hair black even if it “doesn’t look right” with my clothes, tell my manager and colleagues my real opinions without waiting to see what they think in order to go along with it. I’m not going to start ignoring basic social politeness rules, but I’m going to stop letting them run my life. It is about time I started making up my own mind, don’t you think?

Actually, don’t answer that.

Hiding places

I feel a bit weird having the most recent post here still being me ranting on endlessly about depression, so let’s move it down a bit and replace it with a photo I took at Westonbirt a few weeks ago.

It makes me think of hiding places, the little pockets inside of us where we store the bubbles of memory and emotion that really matter. Sometimes they’re good things and sometimes they’re not, but they all go somewhere.

Can you ever really find a new hiding place when an old one gets found? I’m not so sure. But sometimes just hiding things isn’t enough. Sometimes you just want it to fuck off.

This makes no sense to anyone but me.

Addicts of the Modern Age

After reading Ian’s recent post about Foursquare, I was forced to confront some troubling realisations that I’ve been having lately. No one likes realisations – they’re Inspiration’s inbred cousin, sat in the corner of the room as people try to ignore them and enjoy Eastenders instead.

Anway, a few years ago, I was sat down in an afternoon class, being taught how to be a teacher, whilst I stabbed pens into my hand to remain awake after an excessively carbohydrate-laden lunch. It was a very good class, I might add, and it was my own fault for feeling sleepy: I had eaten more chips that afternoon than can safely be imagined without feeling a little bit ill.

Anyway, I remember perking up when the teacher started talking about digital immigrants and digital natives. This is the idea that new technology is something adults struggle to learn and use whilst, to students, it is simply innate: they grow up with it and so do not see it as new or scary.

Someone asked how old digital immigrants were.  ”Over 25″ was the answer. I was as pleased as punch at that, being the lithe and svelte 23/24 year old that I was at the time (I was never lithe or svetle; I have never been even mildly fluid). My pride at being a digital native was well-founded after it was  later  discovered during class discussion that I was the only person who knew what a blog was short for, or even what it was, or had one.

Up to a few days ago, I was under the impression that I still was a digital native. However, it appears I have evolved into something else.

Let me set out my credentials. I text,  Facebook, Twitter and use nouns as verbs  like crazy. I have my mobile phone set to receive updates so every now and again I can read what my friends are up to. I surf the internet from my phone, scrolling through links to Twitpics or news stories, hash-tagging ironically as I go #obviously. I have four different email addresses and use one purely as a spam shield (i.e. if I think typing in my email address to a website competition will result in spam for penis enlargement ads – which websites, you ask? – I use that one). I listen to music digitally and only use CDs as a last resort. I am up to date on trending memes and know what DRATW is all about and also know that, by this time next week, no one will have a fucking clue what DRATW is. I read webcomics instead of newspaper ones and, for comments on the gaming industry and game reviews, I sit back and enjoy some bitching from the legendary online reviewer, Yahtzee. I very rarely watch television – I access iPlayers and On Demand internet sites through my PS3 instead.

In summary, I am your average, plugged in, technology-aware young adult. These things are an everyday part of life.

Oddly, I used to be a technophobe. For example,  Sat Navs were and are still beyond me. This is how my last excursion with a Sat Nav went: Do I come off at this exit, or that one? Where’s the car gone? WHERE’S THE FUCKING CAR GONE?! Hang on, why is it recalculating?! No, I don’t want to go to Basildon High Street – I’m meant to be at Basildon Hospital! Right, I’m turning you off and on again, you fucker. Pin code, ok…no, oh no no no, don’t lock me out, you, you…BASTARD!

Hardly unusual to see people threatening to throw Sat Navs out of their car on the A12, I hear you say. That is very true and, apart from the map machines of Satan, I’ve adapted well to most of the technological features of daily life. However, I’m beginning to get a bit…overwhelmed – unable to cope, in fact. For one, my phone is a constant link to the world and this bombardment of information can be a bit too absorbing. Whereas before, I could leave a message and expect someone to get back to me after work, I’m now wondering why they haven’t responded to my emails, Facebook pokes, tweets or two page texts. Because, ultimately, I really need to know right this very minute if this particular red dress would suit me (I’ll send an attachment later).

I started to notice a problem when I would check my phone every half hour for my Twitter and Facebook page, or just to idly browse for news and emails. Perhaps that’s just the nature of having nothing else to do, or the nature of my brain not being bothered to actually engage with the world around it.

Then the other day I left my mobile phone at home and the internet fluctuated on and off at work. I cannot begin to tell you the crushing anxiety I felt. Who might have called me? Am I missing an important text? What news am I missing out on? How will I find the resources I need without the web? Oh God, what if my manager’s sent me an important email?

I’d just like to pause here a moment to point out some things: my manager works in an office across the very narrow corridor from my office. It’s maybe 25 steps, maximum. Hardly an epic journey to make in order to ease my concern; we are not talking Lord of the Rings, here.

Secondly, I managed to get the resources for my class sorted without having to print things from the internet. Did they work, you ask? I wish I could take a photo of their bewildered and despairing faces for you, I really do. Let’s just say that my shouting, “She’s got a stomach tumour!” at the TV during the “What happens next? You decide!” BT advert was not the worst thing I’ve done this week.

Lastly, no one had texted me when I finally got home to my phone. The only messages on there were Twitter updates. Oh, and Orange had texted me to ask if I wanted a credit card because God knows increased credit card debt is the key to our financial recovery.

I think there’s a difference between being a digital native and being an information addict. I believe I have become the latter. I’m certainly not a tech geek, that’s for sure. I just spent 45 minutes trying to work out how to put an image on my comments and was met by a barrage of computer code so complicated it nearly blinded me. I have still not managed to load an image, only giving up when I started to weep softly.

What really concerns me is how little I think about the information I absorb, these days, or how I cope without it. Maybe it’s the fact I now skim and scan much more than I used to in order to cram in as much information as possible. The easy access to these fact snippets encourages a person to dip in and out of important issues without really contemplating what’s just been found out. Analysis is, to a great extent, thrown out of the window and is instead replaced with knee-jerk reactions. If anyone wants a good example of not thinking things through properly, look at the Raoul Moat fan group on Facebook. I doubt very much that the creator of the group really took the time to examine the possible reactions or consequences, or how it would affect the families of the injured police officer and the murdered boyfriend. Then again, she may just be a very stupid person.

In any case, there is no substitute for this addiction to “must know NOW”- there is no methadrone equivalent for instant access information. The only solution is to gradually wean myself off it, like I did with cigarettes. Apart from the occasional slip, I’ve done quite well against cigarettes; everyone knows cigarettes smoked at parties don’t count, anyway.

So, I have decided to make a stand. I will turn off my Twitter and Facebook updates. I will start leaving my phone at home unless I really, really need it. I will stop wanting a shiny iPad just because it’s shiny. I will try to absorb information in a more meaningful and evenly spaced out way. Starting from next week.

Probably. Maybe. Well, maybe just one more article from BBC News…

Ben

Very soon, for the first time in… well, in ages, I will be living on my own.  I don’t think I’ve ever actually lived alone so it will be a bit of an odd experience.

At the moment, my brother, Ben, lives with me.  But, he’s gone and bought a house so will be buggering off soon.  He’s really pushing the boat out; he’s moving about 2 minutes walk away from me!

I’ll miss him once he’s gone, but at the same time I’m kind of looking forward to it.  Ben is very good at looking after me – I often say I have no common sense, and that’s because he has all of my share.  He tells me when I’m being a twat.  He does my dresses up for me when I can’t quite reach the zip.  He’s a million times better at cooking than I am.  He remembers things like putting the rubbish out and buying milk.  He gives me a hug when I really, really need one.  He acts as my short term memory.  In short, he’s awesome.

When he’s gone, I’m going to have to do all of these things myself.  Some of them are doable.  Like remembering the milk.  However, some of them, like dress zips – not so much.  It’s kind of hard to hug yourself as well, I find.

The extra room I’ll have will be odd as well.  I mean, I live in a three bed house, ffs.  I’ll have three bedrooms to fill with my junk!  I have plans to make one of them a dressing room, and I’ll sit in there all dressed up, pretending I’m 3 again and playing with my mum’s make up.