Blog While You Can...

Also known as the 'crap, my Internet/laptop/life is broken so make the most of the access while you can!' post...Except this is actually a serious blogging. Which must make a change. Right, better get on with it, then...

There are some things about my job that I really, really enjoy, to the point that it becomes so much more than just a job to me. One of these is the research project I'm currently undertaking - and have been doing off-and-on for a while now - on prostitution. What started as a throwaway comment in a meeting six months ago and then became a request to find out a bit more from my boss a few months later has shifted and turned into something that is now making me question my morals, opinions and everything I ever thought I stood for.

I have to be honest - while I would always have considered myself a feminist for my unswerving belief that women should not be subservient to men, a lot of the 'big issues' that feminists have discussed over the years kind of passed me by. I guess I was very fortunate that I was born when I was; my generation didn't have to fight and die for the right to vote and, by the time I'd started work, much of the original fighting for equal pay had been done. There are still battles to be fought on that front for sure, and like many young women my age I suppose I've been a bit lax and blase about the whole thing and done very little about it, but the fights over pornography and prostitution which characterised the early feminist marches never really entered my sphere of thought. I knew they happened, but I never gave much thought one way or the other to whether I considered them 'offensive' or not. As far as prostitution was concerned I had a vague notion that it ought to be legalised, if only to help protect the prostitutes themselves, but the amount of research I've done into this has made me completely and utterly rethink my opinions on the subject. If I'm honest, I'm still not entirely sure where I stand, but I know that I'm fascinated - hello, 4 new text books on the subject - and I'm almost positive I've found a cause...

The main feminist stance on this matter seems to be the radical feminist one, which basically states that all sex work equates to a violent misogyny and therefore is used by the patriarchy and its institutions to oppress women. This 'violence against women' discourse does NOT refer to the assaults, rapes and murders which sex workers endure; instead, it focuses on the idea that the actual SELLING of sex, the commodification of women's bodies (because in this view of prostitution, male and transgender sex workers are non-existent) is violence against women. Whether you're a student pole-dancing to help pay your extortionate tuition fees at medical school, a mother working in a massage parlour to help supplement your benefits, or a street sex worker funding a drug habit, you are all victims of this violence because (allegedly) a woman's essential being is so invested in her body and her sexuality that she is intrinsically damaged by being paid for sexual acts. I clearly missed this memo...Anyway, flippancy aside, I have serious, serious problems with this stance. Yes, I can sort of see the commodification argument, but I am deeply uncomfortable with the implied notion that 'violence' in this case DOESN'T focus on the higher-than-average rates of ACTUAL violence (murder, rape, attempted rape, assault etc) that sex workers face. This also implies that all men who pay for sex do so because as a gender they have an innate need to victimise, degrade and dominate women; that male sexuality is not about pleasure but a perversion born of their need to control and subjugate. Now I've met some bastards in my time, but come off it; how naive would you have to be to believe that every single bloke on the planet doesn't give a damn about anything other than reasserting the patriarchal dominant order every time he sleeps with someone? The human race would have died out long ago if that was the case.

A lot of the feminist opinion also highlights the plight of trafficked and exploited women and children in the sex trade. Now I'm not stupid; I know the sexual exploitation of children DOES happen and that women and children ARE trafficked across the world, but actually the numbers are not as high as certain sections of the community and media would have you believe. Where this happens, of course, we should do everything we possibly can to catch the perpetrators and help the victims (although just sending them straight back to their country of origin can often lead to them being resold to other traffickers, so there's lots of international work to be done there). Similarly, I fully support the flip side of the argument that there are sex workers who CHOOSE this line of work and again, I think we should respect that decision. It's not for everyone, but then again neither's flower arranging and we don't condemn florists in the Daily Mail. Personally, I guess I'm in the middle ground here; while we should support those who choose sex work and help those who are being trafficked and exploited, the majority of prostitutes are plying their trade to fund drug habits, supplement their incomes etc. There are a huge number of social and economic factors that drive people into prostitution; make headway on those and you'll start to deal with the issue itself.

There seem to be three main schools of thought on the prostitution problem and how to solve it: legalise it, or at least parts of it, as in the Netherlands and parts of Australia; regulate it, as in Ireland, or decriminalise the sex workers and instead focus on the 'punters', as in Sweden. The 'Swedish model' is what the last Government was seriously considering in 2006 when they last reviewed the situation; quite what the ConDem Nation (thanks, Ryan!) will do remains to be seen, but I have reservations about all three approaches. Legalising brothels, as in Victoria in Australia, or having managed street zones were touted as being safer for sex workers; however, illegal prostitution rocketed in Australia and so did the numbers of criminal gangs controlling the industry, which also happened in Amsterdam and led to the mayor removing the 'tolerance zones' in 2003. The managed areas often have strict codes of conduct as well, which can lead to prostitutes with drug problems not being permitted to work in indoor settings; and in countries such as Greece or Germany, where registration is a legal requirement for sex workers to regulate them, many simply refuse to sign up as they don't want the stigma of prostitution following them for the rest of their lives, especially if sex work is only a short term thing. The Swedish model focuses on arresting punters rather than prostitutes, which may well stop the 'revolving door' problem of fining sex workers and forcing them back onto the streets to pay said fine, but means that punters will be more nervy and may drive away the 'decent' ones, thus exposing the sex workers to even more harm.

And it's the harm statistics that have really opened my eyes to how horrendous the situation actually is. The mortality rate for sex workers is twelve times higher than the general population and in several different studies across the UK, over two thirds of the women spoken to had been attacked in some way. The rates of assaults, rapes, robberies and murders are horrendous; sex workers, especially street-based sex workers, are among the most vulnerable groups in the country. And not just by punters, either; in December 2003, a 25 year old woman who worked as a prostitute in Ipswich named Cara Martin-Brown was kicked and beaten to death by a local man who was NOT a punter. Be honest - you haven't heard of Cara, am I right? That's another thing that has made me feel ashamed: thank the Gods, the serial murder of women who work as prostitutes (because they are SO much more than that stereotype, thank you, mass media) doesn't happen very often; Peter Sutcliffe, Steven Wright and Stephen Griffiths are thankfully anomalies rather than the norm, but how many women who work as prostitutes who have been raped or beaten do we hear about? For that matter, unless it IS a serial killer running riot, the murder of sex workers generally goes unreported. These women are highly vulnerable; to enact laws that drives the sex trade further underground and forces sex workers to make snap decisions about which clients they'll go with is frankly irresponsible. For all the handwringing that went on at the time of the Ipswich murders, the country as a whole has done remarkably little to change either its opinions, moral judgements or anything to try and improve the situation. Handwringing doesn't save lives. Actions do.

I don't know what the answer is - if I did, I'd be either ludicrously rich or an insufferably smug know it all - but one thing I DO know is that, unless Britain as a whole wakes up and collectively does SOMETHING to get to grips with the issue of prostitution, even if it's just starting a debate on the subject, more women will be raped, beaten, robbed and killed on our streets. Jack the Ripper wasn't the first; Stephen Griffiths won't be the last. Not unless we do something.

I also know this: putting aside all issues of prostitution's morality, inevitability and the radical feminist and other debates, as you read this blog somewhere in the UK a woman is going out to sell sex. She might be lucky and come home again safe and sound; she may be robbed, or beaten or killed, but she will be out there and no amount of horrifying statistics is likely to change that. I know because I've spoken to several of the girls in the local area who work as prostitutes; I've done outreach with them and I've seen what they endure. I hope I never hear that any of them have been murdered, and I'm hopeful that the work I'm doing at the moment will go someway to bringing in a local strategy that can help us tackle the issue. I don't know. But I think about them a lot, and this whole thing has made me think again about my own moral judgements and opinions. It's not going to be easy, but we HAVE to start thinking about this otherwise we risk sending out the message that, as a society, we're content to condemn an entire section of the population to violence and death. After Ipswich we said never again. After Bradford we said never again. How many more times do we have to say never again before we really mean it...?

To WAG Or Not To WAG...?

Happy New Year, Blogverse! I know I’ve been MIA recently, but Real Life has been slightly mad over the past few weeks and shows no real signs of getting back to normal, but I have at least vaguely remembered how to write. Here goes…

As you probably know by now, my taste in men is somewhat eclectic (much like my taste in art, films, books, music, shoes, clothes…hey wait, I’m sensing a theme here…) This analogy also extends to sport. Well, to sports MEN at any rate…I’m the first person to admit that I love rugby more than any other sport as much for the (ahem) talent as for the game itself; there’s something to be said for hulking great forwards and super-speedy backs, and I even find the broken noses attractive. Well, in some cases, at least. But, fickle woman that I am, my early adolescence was shaped by my complete and utter devotion to football. Not for the game itself, you understand – I support West Ham, for gods sake; it’s a running joke among my friends that this means I don’t understand or like football – but for the men who played it. My first crush was Ryan Giggs (ahh, Giggsy…*sigh*) and then I fell headlong into the path of Liverpool’s ‘Spice Boys’, headed by Jamie Redknapp. By the time David Beckham came along, I was a fully-fledged adolescent WAG-in-waiting. Long after I turned to other specimens of masculinity to lust after, there was still a teeny-weeny part of me that hankered for WAGdom.

And why not, I thought? After all, when your other half earns X-many squillions a week and all you do is (seemingly) shop, what’s not to love? To be able to say, “Ooh, original vintage Vivienne Westwood pirate boots? I’ll take six pairs please!” – Well, that sounds like my kinda heaven! I dreamed of being a ‘lady of leisure’, buying tons of gorgeous outfits so that when the cameras spotted me in the stands on Saturdays being ‘supportive’, I’d look good on the big screens. And I could holiday ANYWHERE I WANTED. In the WORLD! Cushty…I’d even make like the Victorian philanthropists of old and do Good Works, giving time and money to charity while looking stunning in the latest outfit especially designed for me by Alexander McQueen. And all I’d have to do was look vaguely interested on Saturday afternoons and pretend I understood the offside rule. Piece of cake. And we loved them, didn’t we, the WAGs? They were like gorgeous, glamorous butterflies who, for the briefest of moments, captured the country. No, make that the world.

And oh, how I wanted to be one; to be gorgeous and glamorous and jet out to Bali for a month in the off-season without thinking about it! But then I grew up. I don’t have the face, the figure or the hair to be a WAG and, as footballers were replaced by others in my affections, my dreams of WAGdom became just that: a dream; a gloriously childish fantasy I had once indulged in before actors, rock stars, vampires and rugby players took over. (What can I say; I had a thing about James Marsters in Buffy, ok?)

But then, as dreams do, things started to turn sour when the reality check finally kicked in. Getting married in Vera Wang and having the whole thing covered in OK magazine seemed less appealing when the revelations started; infidelities, affairs with lap dancers and prostitutes...suddenly the whole thing seemed less glamorous and more tawdry, and we realised that being a WAG and ‘standing by your man’ meant so much more than freezing your D&G-clad arse off on the side of a football pitch. Wayne Rooney, John Terry, Ashley Cole…not even the Queen of the WAGs, Lady Beckham herself, was immune to the scandals when it was revealed that David had had a ‘thing’ with Rebecca Loos; the whole thing became frankly unpalatable and, although many made the decision to not castrate the ungrateful wretches with a pair of blunted nail scissors, who among us didn’t give a tiny cry of, “about time she saw the light” when the lovely Cheryl Cole finally gave that scumbag Ashley the heave-ho?

The reason for writing this entry is that I’ve just read an interview with Abbey Clancy, the impossibly tall and glamorous girlfriend of the impossibly tall and, er, not Peter Crouch. Last year, having just found out that she was pregnant with their first child, Abbey also found out that Peter was alleged to have slept with a prostitute who had sold her story to the News of the World. As you do. Naturally, the tabloid press went wild, and Abbey was plunged headlong into the media spotlight. She refuses to comment on whether he did or didn’t do it, but she has stood by her man and as far as she’s concerned, that’s that. What struck me about the interview with Abbey were the comments she made about the misconceptions Joe Public has about the WAGs: that they all set out to snare a footballer husband; that all they do is shop; that they don’t have two brain cells to rub together. As she points out, you have to be able to take care of yourself, even if you do end up living the dream and attaining WAGdom. She freely admits that the thing she’s most proud of is that her work as a model and TV presenter meant that she could afford to pay for her younger brother and sister, who were having a terrible time at school, to go to a private school; her little brother went from failing everything to taking and passing all his GCSE’s a year early.

The funny thing is, she’s right. Suppose you do end up marrying the next David Beckham and living the high life as the new Queen of the WAGs (sorry, Posh). And suppose that Lover-Boy ends up having an affair with someone else and you decide to do the sensible thing and kick him to the kerb. What are you going to do with yourself then? Even the current nation’s sweetheart, the lovely Cheryl, has had to make a go of her solo career and her work on the X Factor (although it must make Ashley sick to his stomach that his ex-wife probably earns more money than he does and is more loved by the lads who would previously have worshipped his skills on the pitch. And here I refer to a quote from my brother who, when discussing Girls Aloud and the lovely Cheryl, noted “oh, they sing as well?” Bless…) So long as the women who plough the fields of WAGdom are prepared to work for their designer togs, they’re all right by me, cos once he’s gone, girls, a woman has to pay her own way.

And you know what? Good luck to ‘em, I say. Because there is no way in hell that anything could induce me to nail my colours to the mast of WAGdom these days; not for a whole shop if Vivienne Westwood pirate boots. Although if David Beckham ever DOES come knocking, I may well be persuaded to change my mind.

Now being a rugby ‘Scrummy’ on the other hand…

On Board The Good Ship Friend...

...or in other words, I should have just called this 'on friendship' but I was being a smart arse.

I have the most amazingly wonderful friends in the entire history of the world. Seriously. My friends are better than your friends, and I know this because they are able to put up with me without wanting to strangle me with a sock. Or, if they ever HAVE wanted to strangle me with a sock, they've been awesome enough to keep it to themselves and never act on such an impulse. What can I say? My friends just rock.

Some of my friends I've known since forever, and it embarrasses me only slightly that they can still recall what I looked like at that school disco; bless them for their sweetness in never mentioning it. Others have fallen by the wayside but a very rare few are still hanging around. Quite WHY they're still hanging around I haven't entirely figured out, but it shows that I must be doing something right. I love you muchly.

Others I have only known for a couple of years or so, and this includes the mighty tribe of Forumbat, who are actually THE most awesome people you could ever hope to meet. Whenever I find myself in a down moment (which, lets be honest, isn't exactly a rare occurrence for a mardy cow like me), I just think of all the epic times I've had as a Forumbat and before you can say Robert is your mother's brother I'm laughing like a fool. Although apparently not everyone gets the joke and tends to look at you a bit oddly if the answer to their question, "er, what are you laughing at?" is the ecstatic response "squirrels with beards!!" What can I say, it's their loss...Anyway, I love you very muchly also and insist that you all remain as bonkers and brilliant as you are now.

However. Oh, but however. If there is one thing guaranteed to make me turn into a snarling, spitting, biting, scratching she-wolf (yes, one that's even worse than I normally am) it's anyone foolish enough to attempt to rain on my friends parades. I had fisticuffs in secondary school with a few people in defence of my friends and believe me, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. My friends are amazing people, for reasons that I couldn't even begin to list, but the main one is they put up with me and my madness and for that they deserve to be defended to the death. (Or possibly sectioned. Or a medal. Or all three). I can't stand it when my friends are unhappy, and although it's taken me a while to learn that sometimes I can't actually fix it and the best thing I can do is just be there for them, there's still an instinct inside me that makes me want to go charging into battle on their behalf. I fail to understand why anyone would want to do something to make any of my friends unhappy when they're such amazing people; it's complete anathema to me. I'm not saying they're perfect (sorry guys) because they're only human, after all, but actually they are pretty darn special and I pity anyone who can't see that.

So this is a friendly warning, a heads-up, a shot across the bows, if you will. If you are one of the foolish, foolish people who have ever dared to upset one of my friends, any of them, you better pray like hell to whatever-it-is you believe in that our paths never cross. Because let me tell you something, only one of us will walk away from the encounter unscathed and it won't be you. I can do things with plastic teaspoons that are hitherto unknown to man, so you better wise up and shut up if you want to keep walking the way you do. I don't intend to kill you, I'm not that soft, but you may well be left wishing I had. Don't say I didn't warn you.

And if you are one of my friends, especially the one who inspired this rant because of some morons pathetic opinion and complete lies, listen up because this bit is for all of you. I love you, I will always be there for you and even if I can't fix it I'll do my darndest to try. If all I can do is let you cry till snot dribbles all over my favourite jumper, it's a sacrifice I will gladly make. I won't even charge you for the dry cleaning. I can't fight your battles for you and I can't always provide the right answers, but even if all I can do is be at the end of a computer screen or a phone, I am here for you. We may argue, we may disagree over stupid things and I know for sure I'm not perfect, but I love you all and will cheris every single memory we've shared - even the not so great ones, where we fought over a boy in college or something equally stupid - until the day I die.

Thank you for being my friends and thank you for giving me so much love, laughter, inspiration, frustration, jealousy, pride and every other emotion possible. You are, quite simply, the best.

Love Kate xxx

And So The Epic Adventure Begins...

Well, that was an unqualified success...not. Having set myself the task of writing two novels for NaNoWriMo this year, I've stumbled at the first hurdle. And so farewell, Morgan LeFaye and King Arthur in your Swinging Sixties remake - 300 words in and I could tell you weren't going to play ball. (Although bugger the lot of you for annoying the hell out of me for weeks and then getting stage fright at the last minute...) Even the turning-of-the-short-story-into-novel may not be as straightforward as I initially thought, so this could be a very long 30 days.

Having said that, I have just opened a blank Word document and might just go with what I did the first year and write whatever comes into my head, with no thought of plot, marvellous prose or what the hell my characters think they're doing. Watch this space...

And to all those who are also embarking on the long and perilous NaNo voyage, I bid you luck and shall see you all on the other side. It's a long and ardouous journey, but at the end of it we'll emerge blinking into the sunlight wired on caffeine, skinny as they come and rambling incoherantly, but dammit, we're writers...bring it on!!

A Walk Between The Worlds...

So today is Samhain, the Witches New Year and a celebration of all that is past; when the last of the harvest has been gathered and our ancestors looked forwards, no doubt with some trepidation, to the winter ahead and trying to get through it in one piece. I'm kinda hoping that the next 12 months are slightly better than the last 12 (although there have been some seriously wonderful moments), but although I'm feeling all reflective this is not going to be one of those 'oh do you remember when we...?' posts. Instead, as the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest point tonight and the realms of the living and the dead become intertwined, I'm going to honour my own dead...

My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.

Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.

My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.

Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.

So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.

There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.

To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.

And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx

Lorem Ipsum...

And so November is almost upon us, which means several things...

1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.

Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!

One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.

Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.

In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...

A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…

It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...

I Have A Dream...

No, before you ask, this is not me doing my Martin Luther King impression. Not that I've ever done such an impersonation but, hey, there's a first time for everything...I digress. No, this is about an actual dream that I have and the great Dr King's word's just seemed appropriate.

Not that this is the sort of politically-charged ideological dream that he had. Don't get me wrong, I have my own Utopian fantasies where everyone gets along with everyone else and everyone is happy and there's no war/famine/pestilence/Simon Cowell, but it's not that kind of dream I'm blogging about. Nor is it the sort of dream where I'm slowly spit-roasting David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osbourne over an open fire whilst cackling like a hag, although maybe both of those are worth blog entries in their own right...nope, this dream is both a little more sensible, a little more modest and a little more fantastical.

I have a dream. My dream is to have a library.

Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing now. It's true - I am absolutely desperate to have a library of my own. I feel dreadful for my poor books at the moment, scattered around in two bookcases, various boxes and several piles on the floor; it's inhumane to treat them like that. My books deserve to be on beautifully designed shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling; in an ideal world they'd be spiralling round and round in an endless labyrinth (like in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's masterpiece 'The Shadow of the Wind' - if such a place really existed, I would move in at once), but if not then just shelves as far as the eye could see would do. I've been fascinated by libraries ever since I was a child and I was taken to get my very first library ticket; having become an ardent reader and lover of books by the age of 3, the idea that I could just go to this place and take out as many books as I wanted, before bringing them back and exchanging them for more, was a concept that seemed too good to be true. Second-hand and antique book shops have always cast a spell over me, but so have libraries, and every time I was taken to a Stately 'Ome or still-inhabited castle, I was always endlessly delighted by the different libraries I saw (and always slightly put out that I couldn't go up to the shelves to a) see what Lord and Lady Such-and-Such were reading and b) take a book down from the endless shelves and curl up for an hour or so to have a good read). I was fortunate to have been blessed with a godmother who is a librarian, so she was always able to provide me with hits of the good stuff, and so enamoured was I of libraries as a child that I was library prefect at both Primary and Secondary school (yes, yes, I was a girlie swot for a time). Books have been my saviours, my friends and my kindred spirits since my early childhood; their myriad voices speak to me across time, space and language and they have both moved and inspired me in ways I could not have imagined when I first started out on this journey as A Reader.

And now it seems I have discovered a new friend who feels the same way about books as I do and who has written books of his own, one of which has inspired me to give further thought to the idea - the dream - of My Library. Alberto Manguel's two most recent books, 'A Reader on Reading' and 'The Library at Night' are like elegiac love songs to both books and libraries; personal journeys, literary histories and sociological encyclopaedias, they are also brilliantly written and are fast becoming new and treasured friends of mine. Alberto (because I'm on intimate terms with him now, don't you know) has a 30,000-volume library of his own at his home in a 15th century presbytery in France, built in the grounds and adjoining the house, yet completely separate from it. Naturally, I'm incredibly jealous, not just of the library or the number of books in his guardianship (because after all, you never really 'own' a book; you befriend and take care of them for a while before eventually relinquishing custody) but because living in a 15th century presbytery in France sounds like heaven. I digress…again. Anyway, reading about his library and the libraries of others has made me yearn even more for a library of my own; somewhere the books in my keeping can live and breathe, where we can all find sanctuary and renew our friendships, as well as having plenty of room for new acquaintances to join us. The fact that I currently have neither the space to assemble such a library or my own home in which to attempt it (or the money such a project deserves, although I’m quite certain that any right-thinking judge that has to hear the case when my bank-robbing spree comes to an end would understand the reasons for it) is neither here nor there. Everyone has to have a dream, and this is mine.

Of course, taking all my beloved friends over to such a place would be quite an adventure. All my antique books would have to have special glass-fronted shelves to live in, to protect them from the atmosphere and the ravages of time, although they are still able to be read and are happy to be so employed. And in their company would be books on innumerable topics and themes; my crime psychology books would have to be close at hand (what is a library if it doesn’t have a forensic dissection of the mind of Ted Bundy, after all?), as would the books I loved as a child and have kept ever since (step forward Fancy Nancy, Ramona Quimby, Junk and Stargirl). Alice in Wonderland and her journey Through the Looking Glass will converse with Tim Burton’s Oyster Boy and Edward Gorey’s tragic Gashlycrumb Tinies. The fairy tales that I have loved all my life – Charles Perrault, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson and the grim Grimm brothers – are here, along with the poets whose words give voice to my own emotions. My ‘witchy’ books, both historical and less scholarly, must take their place, along with the art books that carry the images I only wish I was able to create. The comic and the serious will have their own space; Shakespeare will dally with the myths and legends of other countries and different times, and historical and sociological books on countless different subjects will be given homes. Then there are the novels of course, both ‘classic’ and ‘modern’; fantasy, chick-lit and anything and everything in between will line the shelves. Money being no object (this is a fantasy library, after all), there will be numerous editions of books from the Folio Society scattered throughout the room, and my antique book collection will no doubt continue to grow. There will be sacrifices, of course; to own a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays would be an absolute blessing in any library, but I’d be so terrified of damaging it that I’d never read it and what is the point of a book if you can’t make it live by reading? And, of course, there would be space for new friends to join the old, because when you’re a reader there are always new discoveries to make…

My Library may be a long way off its full realisation, but I cannot wallow in the valley of despair. I have a dream, a dream that is deeply rooted in the dream of all readers. I have a dream that one day my books will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed; that they will sit on the shelves of brotherhood and find their own oasis where they are judged not by the colour of their bindings but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day, one day, my books will be able to sing the words “free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Until then, I guess they'll have to stay where they are...

Crashing Back to Reality....

Hi there, Blogverse, remember me? I'm that weird person who writes complete and utter crud and rants a lot! I have returned from the Frozen Wastelands of the North (Scotland - and yes, it was frozen) and thought I'd better check in.

I had intended to make this a rather marvy post all about my awesome holiday and how beautiful it all was, but as I've just spent the best part of an hour swearing at my laptop and Facebook while trying to upload the snaps from said holiday, I've now lost the will to live. There will be holiday details and piccies and stories and stuff to follow, but for now I thought I'd nick this from GemGem's blog (and she stole it from Holly, so all's fair in love and blogging!)

If I were a time of day, I’d be midnight.
If I were a planet, I’d be Neptune (it's an icy bitch).
If I were a sea animal, I’d be a seal.
If I were a direction, I’d be lost. (Ask Rich!)
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be a squidgy armchair or a bookshelf.
If I were a liquid, I’d be blood.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be an emerald.
If I were a tree, I’d be a rowan (it's for protection).
If I were a tool, I’d be a hammer!
If I were a flower, I’d be a sweet pea.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be a thunderstorm.
If I were a musical instrument, I’d be a cello. Belonging to Perttu.
If I were a color, I’d be indigo blue.
If I were an emotion, I’d be tempestuous.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a peach.
If I were a sound, I’d be laughter.
If I were an element, I’d be earth.
If I were a car, I’d be either a VW Camper or an original Mini Cooper.
If I were a food, I’d be chocolate.
If I were a place, I’d be the Isle of Skye.
If I were a material, I’d be velvet.
If I were a taste, I’d taste of lemon and ginger.
If I were a scent, I’d smell divine!
If I were an animal, I’d be a wolf.
If I were an object, I’d be a key.
If I were a body part, I’d be the heart.
If I were a facial expression, I’d be a smile.
If I were a song, I’d be Feint by Epica or Unintended by Muse
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be T.U. K's, baby!!

Wow, random...

On 9/11

Nine years ago today, I was preparing to embark on one of the biggest adventures of my life. In a week's time, I would be starting university, the first person in my immediate family to do so, and I was simultaneously excited and terrified by the prospect. Enjoying my last week of freedom before I had to knuckle down and become 'a university student', I was also glad to still be at home because my mum was recovering from an operation on her neck and although she was well on the road to recovery, it was good to be able to keep an eye on her. We had spent the morning watching trashy TV, gossiping and discussing my upcoming student-ness. That was when the BBC announcer advised that they were going to the newsroom for a special report. We rolled our eyes, laughed about "what the hell has happened now?" and waited. And then didn't move for the rest of the afternoon.

We sat and watched in horror as the cameras focused on the North Tower of the World Trade Centre, smoke billowing from its heights. A tragic accident, we surmised, as did most people caught up in the news story. And then...well, we all know what happens next.

On the ninth anniversary of the terrorist attacks on America, the sight of the second plane ploughing into the South Tower of the WTC has lost none of its impact or ability to shock. The iconic images of that day and the associated feelings that they conjure up, even after all this time, can never and should never be underestimated. Many people I know roll their eyes when people say 9/11 changed the world, dubbing it a product of media overraction; of American grandiosity and self-justifaction, but the truth is that the events of that day did change the world: it changed America; it changed the Islamic world and it changed, overtly or not, every other nation. It led America, Britain and other allied nations into the wars in Afghanistan and, subsequently, in Iraq. It changed the way we travel by plane. It made a previously unheard-of Saudi man the most wanted man in the world and it tested politicians, military personnel and civilians to the limits. Nothing like this could have been foreseen; no plan could ever have been laid down for what to do in this situation and yet ordinary people somehow, someway found the strength and resiliance to get through and to help others. Men and women who previously had been office workers, flight attendents, former military personnel; people who were husbands and wives, parents, brothers, sisters...they found the courage to cope with this extraordinary set of circumstances and, in many cases, to perform unthinkable acts of bravery.

9/11 changed the world as we know it but, nine years on, can we really say that we've learnt anything from it. The recent furore over the Florida preacher threating to burn the Qur'an today, the ongoing struggles in Afghanistan and Iraq to this day, the rise of Islamophobia and fundamentalism of all kinds...there were lessons to be learnt and I wonder whether people really have. Hatred and intolerance seem to be on the increase, and it's those attitudes that increase the likelihood of another attack somewhere in the world.

Hatred begets hatred. Intolerance begets intolerance. Discrimination begets discrimination. We need to learn the lessons that 9/11 and 7/7 taught us and rise above these things, to work together to overcome the evils of this world and do what we can to make it a safer place for the generations to come.

Fundamentalism, Tolerance and the American Dream

Next week is the ninth anniversary of what will forever be known as '9/11'. What happened on that day is something that lives in the collective consciousness of everyone who witnessed the event; we can never underestimate the worldwide changes that were brought about by such shocking events. The civilised world stood shoulder to shoulder with America in grief and shock; when the US President and Senate advocated war with Afghanistan and then Iraq, America's allies - Britain included - went in with them.

This isn't going to degenerate into yet another anti-war rant; frankly, it seems ridiculous to keep going on about how legal or illegal the war was, or how justified we can claim it to be. Not even the recent shenanigans with the US finally pulling combat troops out of Iraq (cos we won that one, apparently) or the hoo-ha about Tony Blair's book are justifications for going over and over what happened. Besides, I'm fairly certain that those of you who know me are pretty clued in to my feelings about the two military campaigns...But what has completely pole-axed me - and yet doesn't really surprise me in the slightest - is the recent news coming out of America relating to the news that an Islamic Cultural Centre is to open two blocks away from Ground Zero.

I'm going to indulge in a few sweeping generalisations here, for which I hope anyone reading this will forgive me. Naturally there are exceptions to every rule; indeed, I know several exceptions to the very statements I'm going to make, but there are times when the old sweeping generalisation is the most accurate statement. So...America has always traditionally harped on about being "the Land of the Free" and how tolerant and accepting they are; look at us, they cry, for did we not rise as a nation from the ashes of other countries? Are our people not the people of the world, for we came as immigrants from far and wide to settle this land. (This of course conveniently neglects the indigenous population who were there all along, but as many Americans have and still do the same thing, I find this a justifiable statement. I digress...) With this historical melting pot of class, culture, creed and country, you'd think that the US of A would be the most tolerant and compassionate nation in the world, right. Well, I guess it is...if you happen to be a right-wing, white male Christian fundamentalist.

The reactions of the people that I've seen interviewed about this centre have completely beggared belief. One guy, whose firefighter son was tragically killed in the 9/11 disaster, stated the following (and I quote):

"'It is hallowed ground to us. There are porn shops and other things down there, but they didn't murder my son. Muslims murdered my son. And that is why I don't want the mosque there. They were cheering in the streets of Cairo, Baghdad, all through the Middle East, they were cheering the murder of my son that day. All we are asking is, practice your religion, but just move it a little bit further away.' He says he is not a bigot and this is not about religious freedom. 'All Muslims are not to blame, just like all Japanese are not to blame for Pearl Harbour, but you wouldn't put a Japanese centre at Pearl Harbour. I would say they promised to come back after '93 and they did, they promised to come back after 2001, I bet you it will be through that mosque if they do.'"

Whoa, whoa, whoa...let's just back up here a wee bit, shall we? First of all, it's not like they're erecting a mosque on the exact site of the World Trade Centre. I appreciate that he notes that it's not 'all Muslims', although subsequent comments about the fact the mosque (it's not a mosque, by the way, not by Islamic standards) will be used to launch the next attack on America detracts somewhat from that. I am very, very sorry that this man lost his son; what happened on that day was absolutely horrific and we should never forget that, but Jesus how paranoid could America be? And of course the right-wing nut jobs like Sarah Palin (Goddess help all of us if that woman ever gets into the White House) have jumped all over this particular bandwagon. And frankly, his comments and those of many other people about "oh yes, we're tolerant and don't mind you practicing your religion as long as you do it a bit further away" are verging on inciting religious hatred - how much further away is good for you, America? The Middle East? All this comes after a taxi driver in New York was attacked explicitly because he was a Muslim and a mosque in Tennessee was the target of an arson attack - be careful, America, because you're starting to resemble the intolerant hate-filled insurgents you claim to be going to war against. This all comes, of course, in the same week that the Israeli and Palestinian presidents meet in the US to try and salvage some form of treaty and hope from the dreadful situation in those countries, which is another ranty-filled blog entry yet to happen I feel (hint of my feelings - Israel has a collective short memory).

The lesson of 9/11 should not be that hate begets hate. The lesson should be that, by working together to understand the vast disparity of cultures and religions that this world has to offer - without pushing one or the other onto the rest of it - we can combat the small minority of religious fundamentalists and terrorists who seek to cause fear and bloodshed and hate. Don't let them win by assimilating their views and becoming the same intolerant and hate-filled people. We're better than that. We are.

Bleats and Ramblings

Some days, no matter how hard you try, the words just don't wanna come. Today is one of those days. Personally, I blame the shitload of research on prostitution that I've had to do today (and will end up doing tomorrow and the next day and the next day...) - I could just do another feminist political uber-rant about how completely stupid some of the legislation around the subject is, but frankly I'd probably end up wanting to scratch out my own eyes as a result. My one consolation is that the police won't like about 98% of the recommendations that seem to be coming out of the "how to not end up like Ipswich" thing, so being the one who gets to deliver the news is a constant source of gleeful amusement when I want to throw myself out of the window after reading some of these reports (anarchy rulz!) But that kinda leaves me with the problem of "what to write about today?"

So after some half-arsed false starts, I decided to see what the hell happened on today's date in history, after I was reminded that Princess Diana was killed 13 years ago today. One quick Google later and I found some interesting titbits...

1745 - Bonnie Prince Charlie reaches Blair Castle
1897 - Thomas Edison patents his movie camera
1924 - Paavo Nurmi, the 'Flying Finn', runs the 10,000m in world record time
1978 - The Harris' plead guilty to the kidnap of heiress Patty Hearst
1985 - Capture of Richard Ramirez, the 'Night Stalker'

So, just a few of my favourite things, then - Scots, movies, Finns, psychology and serial killers! All summed up in one day...hey, what about my other great love, music? Let's see....

1957 - Elvis played Vancouver, the last time he would play outside the States before his death.
1963 - 'Be My Baby' by the Ronettes entered the charts, their first and only Top Ten hit.
1968 - First Isle of Wight festival!! What a line-up - The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, T-Rex, Jefferson Airplane...wheee!
1969 - The mighty Led Zeppelin played the Texas International Pop Festival with BB King and Janis Joplin. Zeppelin, Janis and BB King, POP?!?! Are you sure, Texas...?
1980 - Karen Carpenter got married.
1984 - Purple Rain, the movie starring Prince (or whatever the hell he calls himself these days) opened across the UK.
1986 - Bob Geldof married Paula Yates.
1987 - All known pre-order records were broken as 2.25 million copies of Michael jackson's 'Bad' were shipped to US record stores.
1991 - Guns 'n' Roses, Skid Row and NIN performed at Wembley, and Metallica started their four-week number one on the US album chart with 'Metallica'.
And Van Morrison, Rudy Schenker of the Scorpions, Glen Tillbrook of Squeeze and Del Marquis of the Scissor Sisters (among others) all celebrate birthdays today. As does my Gran. Marvy.

Right, that's enough rambling from me. Bed, I think...

General Ramblings

Bit of an assortment on the blogging front today. Mainly because I have nothing really to say/rant about this evening, and partly because I've been doing about five different things at once tonight.

1) I have been an 'expert' (HA!) on all things witchy/pagan/witch trials
2) I have got slightly too excited about the fact that there were ancient Goddess figurines found in Orkney (I love archaeology programmes on telly!)
3) I have been annoyed because Epica posted that they were doing a European tour; I got mega overexcited and went to their website; the UK is apparently not in Europe because they aren't playing here. WHY?!?!?!
4) I have worked out that there are far too many gigs and albums coming up in the next few months that I want/want to go to.
5) I am considering going to the Bridge Fest at Canning Town on Sunday, mainly because the fabulous and wonderful Sarah Jezebel Deva is playing, even though I have no one to go with at present.
6) I am also considering entering a few writing competitions - and that's the second place that I've put it down in black and white (well, type) and so now I suppose I'd better do it.
7) I am on a total music obsession at the moment; it's getting ridiculous. If I don't stop listening to Pendulum soon, I'm going to bugger the CD...

Wow, seven things! Who says women can't multitask?! Although everything has been underwritten by the seventh thing, it has to be said: for a girl who hates dance music, I have become seriously obsessed with Pendulum; their most recent album has been on my 'must buy' list since it came out and I finally got around to it this week - now I can't stop playing it! Mind you, when a song is as beautiful as 'Watercolour', it's kind of hard not to...



Right, I'm off to bed to have dreams about the lovely Rob Swire singing this song to me...