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!