A Blog of One’s Own

Dear Mum,

After the security of my script diary I drew a bit of a blank with what to blog about next.

It was a bit of a shame to disrupt my script diary with that rant of a blog about Samantha Brick but, like I said, I couldn’t sleep with all of this feminist babble whizzing about my head. The room span.

I think perhaps I ought to clear up a bit more about this subject, though I’m not quite brave enough to approach it. I will endeavour to keep this short and succinct.

I hope I don’t frighten anyone off with my feminist rants. I do not intend to, and I certainly don’t aim to encourage intolerance or make any assumptions about the strengths/weaknesses of the sexes, as several of my feminist uni lecturers certainly did.

(Although I must confess when helping out in your class, Mum, a group of six year old boys persisted in exclaiming “boys are better than girls.” You’ll be pleased to hear I upheld my end of the debate).

I have thus far lived a comfortable, largely prejudice-free (I have faced some opposition to my state education) existence.

I don’t have any cause for complaint, which I think is the root of my feminist attitude.  

I thought we’d moved from simplistic, belittling attitudes toward women. The past one hundred years has seen daughter/wife/spinster instead become Woman, no longer defined by her marital status.

My eyes were first opened to the trials of women by my degree. I shan’t bore you with the details but if anyone wants to hear more about whether or not Austen’s heroines were lucky in marriage please pop the kettle on and I’ll be right over.

More recently ‘Mad Men’ has exploded onto the scene and I am the only person in the world who cannot watch the programme.

I realise it’s different, it’s a refreshing concept, the costumes are fabulous, Jon Hamm is a dish and it offers wonderfully dramatic moments. (I do remember January Jones shooting pigeons in her garden, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth).

But I personally find the sexist attitudes, double standards and derogatory treatment of women unbearable. Ridiculous, I know. I’m not a 1950’s housewife. And thank heavens for that, because I clearly wouldn’t make a good one.

I find it best not to watch it. That way I’m not rolling my eyes and tutting at the fictional entertainment (I know it’s not real life – BUT, importantly, it once was!) and ruining if for those watching it with me.

Then there are magazines. I’m not a massive magazine reader. I find them quite patronising – “10 ways to achieve the impossible”, “6 utterly obvious suggestions to improve your situation” and “5 ways to wear a blouse”.

I can think of just one, which has worked well for me so far, thank you.

Then there are the adverts. Forgetting that the women are all slim, high-cheekboned Amazonians, more often than not they look evocative and desirous. And I don’t think it’s desire for a slap up cooked breakfast.  

Their heads thrown back – but not in “I just heard a brilliant fart joke and can’t stop laughing” way, as this is often accompanied by them touching their lips – perhaps with their arms behind their head, or looking moodily into the camera.

How does this appeal to women???

I can’t be faffing around, leaning alluringly against graffiti walls in a brand’s new maxi dress, my lips in a permanent pout. It doesn’t look comfortable. And, frankly, she looks like a bit of a cretin, a bit puzzled by the camera.

This is not to say I think women should be straight and stony faced, constantly wearing a dark coloured over coat, keeping their mouths firmly fastened. Far from it.

I was required to wear a uniform in my summer job, 2011. This consisted of an ankle length black skirt and a black blazer, my feet, hands and face offering tiny flashes of skin.

It was very hot, very uncomfortable and VERY unattractive.

One woman in her 60’s told me I looked ridiculous and a bit unhappy and proceeded to repeat this to my supervisor.

Where is the middle ground? We’re not in a Dickens novel!

So, to conclude, I am a modern feminist who has lived a wonderfully unprejudiced life. As a result, hearing of the past gets be hot and bothered and glimpses of lingering sexism makes me want whack the TV/magazine/sexist individual with a high heel shoe.

But, fortunately, I have a blog of my own to express these concerns in a more civilised and articulate fashion.