Category Archives: Lesbians

Comfortable shoes

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I work in an office in the middle of a big city.  Everything is concrete and tarmac.  Not a fell or a rocky path, no mud, no stiles, no nothing that could possibly warrant anybody wearing hiking boots or fell walking shoes.  There is a sub-species of “that sort of woman” that dresses as if they are going out for a hike, irrespective of where they actually are.  You know the look: Merrell shoes; walking trousers (beige); fleece jacket (invariably red); ruck sack filled with fuck know what shite, a rolled up copy of the Guardian in the side pocket; non-descript short hair; metal-rimmed glasses; miserable-looking.

There are quite a few women who go for this look and it makes me wonder what they wear when they’re playing out, or if they go out for dinner at a restaurant.  Or a wedding… or funeral…

They probably don’t get invited out, other than to occasional gatherings of the local women’s walking groups where they can compare their latest support insoles and rambling sticks; discuss the Women against feminism debate and how it’s put women’s rights back fifty years (yeah, because them dressing like men helps a whole fucking bunch, eh ladies?).

I don’t know what my opinion on feminism is.  I don’t know whether I know enough about it to have an opinion.  My world view is that everybody should be treated equally, irrespective of everything. Other than if they’re a complete dick, in which case, they deserve to be treated as such.  Treat somebody based on what they say or do rather than who they are I suppose.  I’ve never experienced sexism, not to my knowledge, but I’m not saying that others haven’t. I’m not a fan of positive discrimination, and for organisations to be criticised because they don’t have X number of women, ethnic minority people, LGBTQ represented at A, B, and C levels of the hierarchy is just ridiculous.  Surely, people should be given a job based on merit and merit alone?  That’s true equality.

I suppose the reason why I naturally recoil when I hear somebody proclaim “I’m a feminist” is because people who say this sort of thing are often members of the professionally offended; they actively look for people tripping up so they can be offended, generally on somebody else’s behalf.  Get a fucking grip, loosen up.  If people like this had their way, workplaces would be so dismal – I dread to think what the professionally offended would think if they overheard most conversations on my office for example.  We can joke about my sexuality, a colleague’s son turning sixteen, who wins most points in the persecution stakes out of a gay woman and a black man, whether women are useless when they come back to work after having a baby.  It’s these conversations the break up the day, help ease the stress, let us all feel at ease.  They are conducted openly, irreverently, but respectfully and in good humour.  There’s no need for anybody to qualify anything by saying “Joke!” because we are all normal people who know which lines should never be crossed.

I can’t imagine women who wear hiking gear to work understanding this, but they could probably write an article criticising workplace banter and discuss it with their like-minded friends, while pitying people who they assume aren’t as educated as they are.  Titwanks.

 

On the subject of bad hair

I had my hair cut this evening… by my sister.  I’ve given up on hairdressers now, they irritate the fuck out of me and never do what I ask them.  Blessed with curly hair, I can get away with a terrible hair cut and just hack off any bits that stick out on a bad day.  I currently look a little back-combed, but it’ll be fine once it’s washed and dried properly.

 

Fags

I’ve not had a cigarette since Sunday.  I feel OKish.  I think going cold turkey is the best – just get it out of the system and get out of the habit.

My fingers are a little bit chewed this evening because of building anxiety regarding preparations for going to Carfest this weekend.  I’ll be camping, which I’ve never done before, and I’ll be going with my sister,  her feller and my niece.  It’ll get to Thursday evening and my anxiety levels will have reached such heights that I’ll be ready to do my usual “No, not going, can’t cope, too much to do!” like I always do whenever I have to go away anywhere.  There’s no way I’m missing out on this weekend though, no way. I mean, who’d want to miss Lamb National?  That’s right, it’s like the Grand National, with lambs!

Anyway, updates as and when.  I’m off to read up on feminism, starting with the history of Page 3 WINK!

 

These dreams

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As predicted the other day, wearing a 24hr nicotine patch has resulted in four nights of sleep that have been disturbed by vivid dreams.  I’m knackered.  In addition to this, the first few hours of wearing a new patch each day bring unwanted physiological effects, mainly nausea.  Still I suppose it’ll be worth it once I can do without both fags and patches in a couple of weeks’ time.

But back to the dreams, they’ve been quite odd.  Perhaps all dreams are; I don’t usually have or remember them, but these ones have been odd.  Here’s what I can remember of a few of them:

Night 1

Hovel

Jo had forced me to move out.  She’d identified a lovely little bedsit that was a bedroom and a sink to have a stand up wash in and was showing me around, very proud of herself.  I can’t remember much else, other than complaining that there was no Coffeemate – not that there was a kitchen or a kettle or anything.

I woke up annoyed.

Ireland and the magic fag packet

The second dream that night found me in Ireland of all places.  It was Ireland, but it looked more mediterranean.  I think there was a castle, a shopping centre, a monorail, some chips, the obligatory argument with my sister that resulted me dropping the empty duty free Marlboro Lights carton (you know the big cartons that hold ten packets, but look like a big fag packet?).  I’d been carrying this huge empty fag packet around with me and dropped it at the table of a cafe after the chips (I think this is where the chips came in – no gravy, just ketchup).  I went back to pick it up from the floor and found that it had come open to reveal a solitary cigarette inside it.

I decided to save the cigarette until later, but as the dream progressed (probably about a millisecond in real time), more and more fags found their way into the once empty carton until it was nearly full by the time I woke up at 5am.

At that very moment of hazy waking, I remember being really happy that there was a full packet of cigarettes in the house, only to realise a second later that a) there wasn’t, b) I’d been dreaming and c) I was supposed to have stopped.

Bummer.

I spent the day completely shattered and slept relatively well that night, and the night after… I think, can’t quite remember.

Last night

The stroll, the sneaky fag and the curious incident with the BMW

I’d been at my parents’ and it was getting a bit too much for me, so I found myself taking a walk and having a fag.  The top road had somehow turned into a motorway, so it took a while for me to buck up the courage (and speed, and ability to assess distance and speed of oncoming vehicles) to get across.  For some reason, when I’d got to the safety of the other side, I stopped behind a stationary BMW, which then reversed over me.  I think it was a BMW, it might have been my old car that I wrote off  – it was black anyway.  While I was nursing my bruises and being told off by the driver of the offending vehicle (a fifty-something bint with blonde hair), my sister turned up and got run over too.  She complained for a bit and blamed me… and then I woke up… at 2.39am.

An argument over a washing up bowl

After recovering I was back in the kitchen at my mum and dad’s.  Dad was doing something in the sink; he was messing about, washing something in the washing up bowl – orange bits of plastic.  He got into a strop when I told him he wasn’t doing it right, so he took the bowl out and put it on the kitchen floor.

Actually, that might’ve happened in real life a few times too.

Bette from the L Word falls in love with me

This was the best one so far.  I don’t know how it happened, but I met Bette (Jennifer Beals) from the L Word and started doing really dirty things with me.  And then she told me she loved me.   And then I woke up.

So the dreams you get with nicotine patches aren’t all that bad.  I think everyone should try wearing a 21mg patch for a few days and then tell me what dreams they’ve been having.  I don’t want to know about dreams where Bette tells other people she loves them though.

Out

I’m going out tonight, round to some friends who I’ve known forever.  It should be good, but I need to go through the rigmarole of getting ready.  In terms of outfit, this never presents much of a problem because I always wear the same thing – jeans, blouse/shirt, jumper.

The thing I’m looking forward to least is plucking my face.  Eyebrows, moustache, beard, hairy moles – they all need attention.  This will bring about much pain and much sneezing.  And lots of frustration too, as the lighting in the bathroom doesn’t favour such detailed activities.

It’s not as if there’s the chance of pulling anyone while I’m out since they’re all straight.  Then again, I have this thing about flirting with straights… and that’s probably why I’m still single.  But it’s just that knowledge that most straight women are probably curious, some have tried a bit of ladylove, so it’s nice to play on that curiosity and see how far it gets you.  In my case, nowhere, but there’s always a first time.

Template

I’ve changed my template.  What do you think, does it need a bit of colour?

Another lightbulb moment

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There are some things, the simplest things, that cause a great deal of torment every time I encounter them.  One such thing is changing the headlamp bulb in my car; I’ve never been able to do this without it being the cause of a minor disaster.  The trouble with my back is due to an incident trying to change a headlamp bulb back in 2003: bending over the engine compartment for forty minutes while attempting to get the bulb out was enough to render me crippled for a fortnight and unable to walk without being in pain for months afterwards. I actually went to the doctor at the time and, during the consultation in which he made no eye contact, he told me “Well, that’s you with a bad back for the rest of your life”. He wasn’t wrong, I can’t stand or walk for more than 20 minutes without it seizing up.

My previous car still had a snapped-off bulb floating around inside the headlamp housing when it was written off in an accident.

And yesterday, while trying to pull the connector off the back of a spent bulb, a portion of the bulb housing itself snapped off.  The new bulb is now held precariously in place with some rather  ineffective glue and a foam sticky pad to stop it wobbling about.  I also bashed the back of my hand on something very hard and sharp.  My efforts were accompanied with lots of swearing as my dad stood by, ready to help if I decided to climb onto the engine and start pulling the HT leads off and sticking them on my tongue with the engine running.

What is it with these things?  I think the latter two episodes are symptomatic of my apprehensions in dealing with car light bulbs because the first incident.  Wary of my weak back, I feel I need to rush to get the job done in case stooping over the car for a millisecond too long will lead to my back going again.

Or it could be rubbish design on the part of Nissan.  Trying to negotiate things like electrical connectors and bulb clips among the intricacies of the cooling and air conditioning pipes, while also trying to avoid getting covered in shite from a car that hasn’t been washed in seven months, it doesn’t make it easy finding the right position for successful bulb extraction and back injury avoidance.

Anyway, that was my excitement for New Year’s Day.

New Year celebration

I actually commemorated New Year’s Eve this time, I usually hate it.  This year, it was spent with a bunch of, mainly, queers round at the house of some friends.  It was actually OK, with great food, decent company and a  rather disturbing discussion about penises.  I was shocked to find that one ultra lesbian friend has what I would say is an unhealthy obsession with cocks – she likes cocks but not men, whereas my position is that men would be much more attractive without cocks.

Despite the freezing temperatures, we managed to enjoy the spectacle of a setting off a Chinese lantern to celebrate the New Year.  Look at all those people, freezing their tits off, going “Ooooh!” at the pretty fiery lantern as it floated off into the night sky… and see if you can spot the Straight.

Chinese lantern

Ooooh!

Norfolk

I spent a few days with friends in Norfolk after Christmas.  It was nice to finally get away to see them, after trying to arrange a visit for a long time.  The journey is a pig and I hate the distance between us as it would be so nice to be able to see them a lot more often than the once or twice a year.  The little dog would like to get to see them more often too, well, he’d like to get to see their dog Peggy more often as he likes the challenge of trying to touch her with his willy as many times as possible during our stay with them.

We went to the seaside on Monday. It was freezing, so I didn’t bother taking my costume, but the dogs had a good time tormenting other animals.

Rocky runs

Rocky beach

Rocky Pegger nuisances

Rocky soggy

It was quite cold down there and I was privileged to witness a beautiful starry sky one night. We don’t get to see this too much up here because of the light pollution from the big city, so it’s quite spectacular to see when it does happen. I tried to take a photo, but the long exposure (and it being too cold for me to have the patience to attempt more shots with a tripod) made the image a bit wobbly. You get the idea though.

Starry sky 1

So that’s me for you. Struggling with the tail end of my winter depression and the start of my new year blues. Just January to get through and I might just make it.