Your bare feet hardly make a sound as they carry your increasingly wakeful body from the failed sanctuary of your home. Blood pumps hard through every vein as you struggle to maintain the frenetic pace of escape, but every fibre of your being aches for you to keep running. Every step brings a half-remembered thought of dread, of pain, of horror, of fear – the wrenching knot of your gut taunting you as you turn corner after corner. The darkness of the pre-dawn urges you on, whilst the unnatural silence dares you to continue into the black, for surely even oblivion is better than that hideous alternative? But each tiring step also denies you of evidence, your ears strain to hear any sound in the gloom, the unfamiliar surroundings work the inner recesses of your imagination hard, but there is also doubt here. For as you slow, you realise that this must be just another night terror, a by-product of a grossly over-active imagination, and as you turn yourself homeward you chastise your indulgence of one too many horror stories. But it is real… and it is too late.
In the space of the past 48 hours I have witnessed three distinctly different reactions to the warm weather. All of them were realised in the pursuit of the flesh, but I was interested to note how the power dynamic was actually quite similar in all three situations. (hint: if you’ve got something that a guy wants to “get involved with” – you have the power).
Spring has sprung!
The first observation was made in my local gym. I was there at around 5pm, so a similar time to when the local colleges are kicking out I guess. It’s an earthy kind of place, with the young, lithe types sneaking looks at each other whilst huge-thighed men and women stomp away on treadmills and the rest of us world-weary folk just try and get by without anyone noticing how small the weights we’re lifting actually are. Anyhew, I was balancing on a bosu in the “floor space” – as you do – with a half dozen other people. When in walks your archetypal provocatrice in a low-cut (and wholly inappropriate) top, all giggles and hair and barely-contained boobs. I swear that everyone under the age of twenty-five stopped what they were doing. And boy, did she know it. Before long she was asking for “tips” from some of the guys, which obviously involved her lying on the floor and letting them loom over her, concentrating hard on not letting their panting tongues slip out of their mouths. And the banter, the banter! There was innuendo that Freddie Mercury would have been proud of all delivered with a coquettish smile not unreminiscent of what the Argonauts must have gazed upon before hurling themselves into the briny deep. But there was a sad edge as her confidence in her powers increased, she dumped the punier 19 year-olds in favour of sidling up to the larger, well-sculpted gentleman with the rock hard abs (occasionally flashed in the mirror). Sadly she had at this point overshot herself, for as anybody who as ever been to a gymnasium knows, there is no getting between the gym bunny narcissist and their own reflection.
The second encounter of the “mad March hare” kind came as I was caught short after a prolonged tube journey and on my way to the park. Now I know public conveniences have gotten a lot of stick in the past, but really if you’re a guy and all you need is to pass water then frankly it’s not that much of an ordeal. Now I don’t know about you, but the one thing that does cross my mind every time I use a public loo is. Is this a cottage? I have never been able to 100% formally confirm the existence of such a venue. Well that is, until now… I’ve always wondered how you could tell whether a toilet was – you know – just a toilet, but now I know that I’d never been in a functioning cottage until this week. The distinction appears to be that if you’re there for anything other than what they were designed for, you’ll stay unnaturally long and make way too much eye contact. Or you’ll hang out nonchalantly (!) at the entrance whilst pretending to check something on your phone. Please, you’re not fooling anyone, it’s a lovely sunny day and you’re standing in the shade surrounded by the odour of public toilets. You’re not here for the free wifi… It was all so furtive, people standing at the urinals for minutes and minutes on end. Then changing positions, moving down the wall! And drying their hands for the entire time it took me to go in, do my business, wash and dry my hands and leave. The thing that struck me the most about all the meaningful glances and subterfuge was quite how many guys there were just standing around in there. Waiting. It wasn’t until I left that I realised how much of the power I had held in that room, none of them were looking at each other. It was like being behind the looking glass.
It was when my journey ended and I sat down on a park bench when the third in my torrid triumvirate was completed. I was surrounded by pigeons feeding of stale foccacia or whatever else the Italian tourists were feeding them, when I noticed two individuals had become separated from the rest of the pack, one was following the other with quite some intent. It became obvious that the one in front was the lady pigeon and the one trailing was her erstwhile suitor. As he approached her he lifted his head to reveal the opalescent feathers beneath and strutted in a circle before running a bit closer and performing the whole ritual again. Now I’m no animal psychologist and certainly not adept at reading the body language of the Columba Palumbus, but she was clearly having none of it. Leading him on a merry and unflattering dance, she shook him off like a mere irritation, comfortable in the knowledge that she was in charge. At one point it looked as though he was getting somewhere as she turned her head to gaze upon the face of her potential mate. Would this be the point at which all his efforts would be rewarded? And would I finally work out where exactly the baby pigeons are…? Sadly not, at this point he was almost trampled to death by an over-zealous pair of runners obviously out on a run from work. The man was holding back, with an ungainly gait designed only to impress. The woman wasn’t wearing a sports bra. And it is thus that I shall leave you on this sexy circular story.
It may seem that I had given up posting on the blog for Lent, but let me assure you that this was merely a function of not having anything to post about, followed by having lots to post about and then getting overwhelmed at what was an increasing time between posts and then worrying what my “first post back” should be and how I should say it and what my excuse ought to be. But then I thought I’d just get on with it and type the first thing that came into my head. And the result is this paragraph. Hmm. I think I spot a trend occurring. So moving on…
This weekend I went to a 30th birthday party of a very good friend of mine. Beforehand we’d been told that the party was being put on by Vintage Patisserie. Now I hadn’t heard of them before, but apparently Angel, the founder, appeared on Dragon’s Den and did rather well. The basic concept was a completely personalised vintage tea party experience, including special cocktails drunk out of tea cups and a bevy of beautiful sandwiches. They take over a room in the upstairs of a pub in London’s trendy Shoreditch and set the whole thing up like a post-war celebratory event. Not only do you get food and drink, but there are opportunities for dressing up as well as a chance for the girls to get their hair and make-up done in the style of the period.
Prosecco and jasmine green tea cocktails
Now I’m no style maven and whenever I frequent vintage shops, and frequent is a deliberately ironic word to use, I tend to wander around without the first clue as to which patterns are kitsch fun compared to those which are just kitsch crap and generally wondering why the smell of jumble sales has burgeoned into a big industry. Despite this and having hair too short to be styled (believe me, I’ve tried) – even I had an absolutely brilliant afternoon. I would put the reason for that solely down to the attention to detail that had been lavished on the occasion. There were cupcakes and bunting with pictures of the birthday girl, old school board games littering the table, a gloriously eccentric collection of teacups and china as well as the impeccably turned out waitresses – all seamed nylon and victory curls. But beyond that, I had my own special needs sandwiches and scones (I’m wheat intolerant) and couldn’t have felt more looked after – but in that good service way, not that irritating and ingratiating way. It’s very rare for WF catering to actually taste good, but I can tell you that those scones with clotted cream and jam were like a personal gift to me, something I never thought I’d be able to eat again (if you don’t know, WF cooking usually leads to rather dour, dry and dense desserts).
The best thing for me though, was to see this entrepreneurial individual, making a go of a niche business with passion and obviously succeeding with gusto. There was a great feeling in the room for the entire duration and I’m sure that Angel will receive repeat business from some people who attended. And that’s why brand and “soft” attributes are sometimes more important than the dreaded P/L sheets – if you have a passion and a skill, and you are a genuine person (and don’t let yourself get taken for a ride) there is every opportunity for you to excel in whatever you put your mind to.
I’ve been thinking about this post and whether I should write it or not all day. In the end I thought that it would be a betrayal (of sorts) to censor myself, just because the subject is likely to be controversial. So, I would truly appreciate any comments or thoughts you have on the subject.
Let me explain. I actually consider myself, if not a true feminist, then an ardent supporter of equality issues. But therein lies the rub. Equality means that everybody should have equal chances in life, equal opportunities and a right to be treated fairly no matter what circumstances life has thrown at you. I’m not for a moment going to suggest that there ought to be an International Man’s Day to keep balance, as that would be ridiculous, but why do we feel the need to highlight one day a year to celebrate the achievements of around 50% of the world’s population?
OK – strictly speaking, women are a minority but what I fear is that this tokenistic show of support threatens to undermine the ongoing (and sadly likely to be eternal) struggle that the female half of the population have to try and overcome. Great – so we spend 24 hours thinking about women doctors, women inventors, women soldiers, women scientists, women protestors, women pioneers, women musicians, women volunteers and women workers; so who do we think about tomorrow? I’m sure there are more than 365 worthy minorities whose struggles against prejudice deserve recognition at some point in our calendar – as a white, middle-class male living in one of the richest countries in the world I am unlikely to feature in many of them – should I be listening to and celebrating all of them? In a truly egalitarian society, at what point do I draw a line and stop caring?
And on top of that, are there really any long-term benefits to this endeavour? Do we really think that someone who doesn’t view women as an equal will change their views as a result of this day? Or do we think that there is anybody who doesn’t already know that women sometimes have a tough time of it that will hear about it? Will enlisting James Bond himself make an appreciable difference?
Granted there may be specific instances of inequality that may be raised or promoted – but I think using the banner of International Women’s day is facile and actually a bit patronising in a post-feminist world. Does this day make women feel good about themselves? I’d genuinely like to know.
But then again, I’m a white male living in one of the richest countries in the world – so I probably don’t understand the true gravity of the situation.