Supermarket rant

I just loathe going to the supermarket. At any time. However, these nasty chores have to be shared. So I trotted down there tonight to get a few essentials which all fit nicely in a hand basket. I can't drive the trolley anyway - or rather - choose not to. Now Morrisons in Gibraltar has installed a few 'Hand basket only" tills. I think previously they were 12 items only. Either way, I don't really care. But, hand basket does not mean one trolley. Just like, 12 items does not mean 15 or 18 (I can live with 13 or 14 without whingeing). And there is nothing more annoying than unloading your shopping and getting a strict cashier telling you that you have missed the sign above your head and need to load everything back and clear off to the appropriate check-out. So, normally, if I am standing at a basket-only counter, I helpfully point this out to people with trollies so they don't waste their time. It makes no difference to me because I am in front of them. Today, as I wandered round to the bottom of the supermarket, I noticed a couple of British women who were unloading their trolley and clearly hadn't seen the sign. "Excuse me, I said," interfering helpfully. "It's hand baskets only." I walked on. But turned round and saw them continuing to pile on their stuff. Picked up my two items and went back. Puzzled, I said, "I told you it was hand baskets only." "Oh, we've got a hand basket," they said. And pointed to the one they had taken from the pile under the counter. "Yeah, and you've got a trolley too." "Well, we're sharing the shopping," they said. At which point I was losing the plot. "Excuse me," to the cashier. "Isn't this hand baskets not trollies?" "Yes." "Well, this is a trolley." It was feeling surreal by now. Is this hand baskets or trollies with baskets? "Oh, but they have a basket so I can't do anything," replied the cashier. Well, I was so stunned I couldn't think of anything to say. Bleached Brits could. "Get a life!" they said smartly to me. Smirking. So I went to another till, where the people were pleasant and easy-going. The woman in front of me went to get something she had forgotten so I looked after her stuff. The man behind had a trolley but so little stuff it could have fitted in a basket. Nobody was precious. Truth is, I've got so used to Spanish supermarkets that whenever I see someone behind me with one or two items I always say 'Pasa'. I do it in Gib as well. But why do people just want to get one over on you? Why do they want to be so fucking clever? Why take your trolley full of stuff and pretend you had baskets when you didn't? Anyway, I'll know next time. I'll just ask the incompetent cashier to note that you have a trolley and this is baskets only - before you get that basket from under the counter. And as for you Morrisons. If you have a policy, shame you don't stick to it. Finally. Bleached Brits. I have a life. And I bet it is a shit load better than yours. Fuck right off out of my face, you are ignorant and disrespectful.

Evening walk - the other view

I wrote about my Sunday evening walk over on Itchy Feet. Well, actually I didn't so much write about it as post up some photos. It was a pleasant walk and I didn't feel like adding my moans to that post. So here they are instead. After leaving the gardens I turned down to go down past some blocks of flats. On the one side of the road was a pleasant leafy green shady spot, that seemed to be the local rubbish dump. Two complaints here: 1) Obviously. Why are people so disrespectful of their environment that they just thrown things over the fence for it to sit there endlessly. 2) What's wrong with the government clearing it up? Oh. I know. It's not on the tourist route. So if the residents choose to make their own environment into an urban rubbish dump, they have to live with it. Going further down the road, I noticed an overgrown cemetery. I've been down the road before, just never noticed the cemetery. Even I can't blame scruffy locals for this, so it is just a shame that whoever does have responsibility for the burial ground lacks either the resources or the motivation to keep it tidy.

Time

Writing about the bus strike and the prospect of possibly having to get a bus at 7.15am from La Linea brought another thought to mind. There is something about getting older that seems to result in needing to allow more time for getting moving in the morning. For waking up. For drinking enough cups of coffee for the caffeine to kick in. For actually getting the brain half engaged, let alone totally. This is the woman who would merrily fall out of bed at any given hour, rush round, take a shower/bath, have a coffee or two, maybe make something light to eat, put make-up on, and rush out of the door. All in half an hour if necessary. I can't even remember what time I used to get up to get the 5.30am train to London so that I could get there for a 9.30am start. Invariably meeting a load of other work colleagues on the train - no need for breakfast at home on those days as a meal ticket was included. Or alternatively, I could grab some food quickly at home, skip breakfast on the train, but have dinner on the way back. Total day - 16 or 17 hours usually. Nor can I remember what time I kicked into gear for the drive to Birmingham for a similar start. But I remember enjoying setting off on the empty roads somewhere between 5.15 and 5.45am. Listening to a mix of quiet music, well, noisy music played quietly, and Radio Four. As I moved down through the country I would swap to local radio stations, partly for the traffic updates as I started to meet everyone else who was rushing to work. The adrenalin was buzzing all the way. And then there was the journey back in the late afternoon. Around 700kms return trip. But since I have dropped out of the rat race, I have truly learned to slow down. To the point of stagnation I think sometimes. And I am really not sure whether it is an age thing or because my lifestyle has changed so much, and I am no longer pressurised to rush around like a blue-arsed fly. When Partner started work again, he originally got up around 6am or 6.30am. I thought that was shockingly early for a job that started at 8am and was five minutes walk away. He always got there early and would spend a few minutes chatting with his colleagues before they started. Since then, he has changed jobs and now starts at 7.30am. He gets up around 5.30am or sometimes 5ish. Walks the dog, has coffee, has breakfast, and generally wakes up. When he gets to work he starts immediately. When some of his colleagues get to work - assuming they arrive on time which isn't always the case - they stand around having a coffee, chatting, smoking, and finally pick up a tool sometime after 8am. When I get my idle arse out of bed, I drink the leftovers of the coffee that amazingly do not taste stewed (coffee machines have improved over the years), and flick on a few blogs to see what is happening in the strange world of people/dogs I will never meet but like to read about. Then I decide what to eat. But this is no longer that fast half an hour job that young me did. This takes a couple of hours before I feel awake. So I can see why Partner gets up early so that he has enough time to start functioning clearly - especially when he works manually and has to be alert all the time. Yesterday I had a conversation with a woman in a book shop. We spoke about where the year had gone and that it would soon be September. And then did the usual philosophising about life and how it went quickly. She said even her children were saying that too. And she suggested that maybe because life was so instant these days - flick of a finger on a button - that it seemed to be moving too fast for everyone. When I was in the rat race, one of my bosses told me that lack of money wasn't a problem, but lack of time was. Now I know what he meant. Time. Where on earth did it go? I don't think it is on my side any more.

The complacency factor

I am doomed not to eat out in the near future. Why, when you find a decent restaurant and go there more than a couple of times, do they get complacent and treat you as though you are a money-loaded piece of rubbish? Usually with vastly over-the-top obsequiousness for further insult. Restaurant 1 - Quattro Stagioni Italian restaurant. Reasonable prices, good pizza, dog friendly (sitting outside) - always bringing water for the dog, olives with drinks, nice views. Having finished our food, well almost finished - I left some for the dog for the morning after - we asked for a bill and the doggy bag. An hour or so later, the waiter came out shame-facedly to tell us that they had put the left-over food in the bin. I had left that food very carefully so that Pippa would have some tasty food with his breakfast. I can't bear waste at the best of times and I think throwing food out is verging on criminal. I am not interested in what anyone thinks about my request for a doggy bag, I have paid for the food and I want to take it home. Thank you. Then we had to wait another half an hour for the bill. Restaurant 2 - Waterfront International cuisine on the waterfront. Good choice - four options can be regarded as a good choice - of vegetarian main courses. Potato and Carrot Tarte Tatin, Pepper Coulis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £12.95     Mushroom Stroganoff, Rice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £12.95     Vegetable Wellington, Red Wine Mushroom Jus (contains cheese) . £13.95     Potato Cake, White Rice, Sweet Chilli Dip . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . £12.95   Note, the potato cake and mushroom stroganoff are both accompanied with rice. According to the menu. As part of the main course. Note also: All main courses served with either Chipped potatoes or Potato of the day. Vegetables, Rice or Salad can be served instead of Potatoes So for example, if you have the vegetable wellington, you can choose between, potatoes or vegetables or rice or salad. But equally, when choosing mushroom stroganoff and rice, or potato cake, rice and dip, one should also receive something else, eg potatoes, vegetables, rice or salad. Because the rice is described as a part of the main course. So I asked for vegetables with my mushroom stroganoff. The very pretty and totally dateless waitress - who had already brought ice in my drink when I asked for it without ice - came back and told me that wasn't possible. Well, I wasn't happy with that so I called out the manager. I didn't think it was too difficult to understand. I was ordering a main course which included rice. And I also wanted one of the extras that are served with all main courses. No, he was adamant, if I wanted vegetables I would have to pay extra. So I said no. Well, guess what? The vegetables arrived anyway. So I sent them back. Guess what again? Instead of being charged out at £12.95, the stroganoff had mysteriously escalated to £14.50. So, I pointed out the bill was wrong and got it reduced to the correct price. Bye bye Waterfront, you won't be seeing us again for a while. Restaurant 3 - Maharajah When all else fails, go to the Indian. Great choice of vegetarian curries, freshly cooked, inexpensive. But when there is only a handful of people in, why do we have to wait over an hour after we have made our order? And no, we didn't want another drink while we were waiting. And no, we didn't want any poppadums or anything else you suggested we stuff ourselves with. Eventually Partner stormed in and said we would have the food as a take-away as we were both falling asleep waiting for it. Then two hot plates appeared while we were waiting for the take-away. The plates went cold. Nothing appeared. Not a take-away or any food. At which point I went in and told them to forget it. I didn't want the food in any form, either on the table or in bags. Sad waiter pointed to the bags sitting ready for us to take out. Tough shit. I really didn't care and had sat there so fucking long I had totally lost my appetite. It was a nice gesture though not to charge us for the glass of wine and the bottle of beer that we toyed with while waiting for the non-appearance of the food. And I am sure the delay was nothing to do with the fact that you had a take-away customer who ordered lots of food for six people and spent far more than us. So I hope that there is a sudden flurry of new restaurants opening in Gib, otherwise I will run out of places to go if the complacency factor creeps in after two visits, which seems to be par for the course based on the above three experiences.

The price of fruit

I staggered on the bus with three very heavy shopping bags. Fortunately one of the front seats was empty and I could dump the bags in the luggage spot which avoids putting them on the floor and having stuff rolling out of the bags and down the bus. Which has happened before. I heard some bloke wittering away and suddenly realised he was talking at me. He was jabbering on about the price of fruit. Obviously a variant on the price of fish. He seemed to be telling me how expensive fruit was in Morrisons and was smugly telling me about his shopping expedition to Spain that morning. Apparently he had bought four grapefruit for two euros. What did I think to that? Very little, in all honesty, but I did ask if they were white ones. No, they weren't, they were red. Well, Mr Cheapskate FruitShopper, I don't happen to like red ones, I like white ones. And I know how difficult they are to buy in Spain. And if you think I am traipsing over to La Linea to buy red grapefruit that I don't want for 50 cents each when I can get white ones that I do want for 39p in Gib, you can think again. Oh, I didn't say all that. Just that I didn't like red ones. Arguing about the price of grapefruit seemed somewhat tortuous. Then he got onto the price of grapes. Well, I don't usually buy grapes so that was of no relevance to me. It turned out his shopping expedition had taken four hours to go round three supermarkets and spend one and a half hours to get back in across the border because the Police Nacionale are still checking everyone's papers as part of their work-to-rule. I do not wish to spend four hours on a shopping expedition driving to three separate supermarkets followed by a boring wait in a queue. I prefer to walk for 20 minutes to one supermarket, and if I have lots of stuff, I can then jump on a bus to come home. If I don't have much, I walk back. Or I walk down the road to one of the local veg shops. Depends what I want to buy. Then he started bragging about his place in Portugal with 3,000 square metres of ground. He wished he was there, lots of space, no parking problems, cheaper, but his wife was here in hospital. So he was staying at his flat in Gib. People really irritate me when they moan about the price of everything in Gib, spend ages going shopping in Spain, and yet they are quite happy to take advantage of things in Gib that they do want, in this case the health care. I know lots of people do cross the border to shop in Spain, but I would have thought someone with a place in Portugal and a flat here could afford to support the local economy. Good thing not all of us choose to spend our money outside Gib.

Call centres

So last night I made the mistake of ringing a call centre. I think I did it to prove to myself that they really are the most irritating invention ever. Maybe I did it on the offchance that I would be pleasantly surprised by an efficient and competent response. I wasn't. It's a UK bank call centre. This said bank has a call centre in Ireland during normal banking hours, and for the rest of its supposed 24 hour service it is farmed out to somewhere on the other side of the world. We used to have a savings account with them which we have recently closed. We could actually close that one over the 'phone. I say actually, it took three separate 'phone calls before it was logged and registered by them as closed, and it took at least three weeks, probably nearer to four before the notification arrived. The out-of-hours staff were terrible, and even the daytime staff were of dubious quality until we finally hit lucky and got one that knew what she was doing. We now want to close the current account. Pretty simple eh? So I rang to ask the helpful call centre staff what I had to do to close it. "Just go into your local branch," he said. "Can't do that," I pointed out. "I don't live there." "Just go into your local branch," he repeated, obviously thinking I had not heard him the first time. "I live in a different country," I helpfully added, thinking this might be a key bit of information that would make him realise I couldn't just nip down the street and call into my local High Street branch. "Just go into your local branch," he said yet again, perhaps thinking that if he repeated it enough times I might finally understand. At this point I was starting to lose what small amount of patience I still possessed. It wasn't a lot anyway because as soon as I pick up the 'phone and know I am going to be dealing with Call Centre Syndrome, it starts ebbing away from me in bucketloads. I explained that I thought it was a bit inconvenient to have to get on an aeroplane to visit another country just to close an account. "I can just write a letter can't I?" I said giving him A Very Big Clue. This was not easy. Long pause. He obviously searched up and down his crib sheet, or up and down his computer crib screen, but there was clearly no mention of Writing A Letter. "I don't know," he admitted. Then a bright idea came to him. "I'll go and ask my supervisor." "Oh no you won't. I've just explained I'm ringing from another country and the 'phone call is expensive so I'm not hanging on any longer while you disappear off to chat with your supervisor. I'll just write the letter." So I put the 'phone down and then sat there uttering every obscenity I could think of about whoever first came up with the concept of call centres. To be fair, my gripe is not with the poor staff who get paid peanuts for dealing with cantankerous customers like me. But I am annoyed, that in the search for cost-cutting and boosting profits for shareholders, resaonable customer service has disappeared into the ether. And even worse that it is portrayed as being an advantage and a benefit for us customers. Ringing somewhere miles away where finding the answer to even a simple question takes on the complexity of completing a doctoral thesis in nuclear physics is not what I want. It is also beyond me why someone can't put together a decent Q & A brief for the poor creatures on the end of the telephone. It seems they can manage to check balances and answer basic questions about an account, but over and above that they are stumped. I shouldn't be surprised though. Some years ago I was in charge of complaints. Complaints came into my office, my admin staff wrote an acknowledgement letter, and then asked an appropriate professional within the organisation to look into it and draft a response. Then we also tried to see if there was anything we could do to improve the procedures so that it wouldn't happen again. If we made changes as a result of the complaint we told the person who had complained so at least they didn't feel they had wasted their time. My administrator was efficient. She was so efficient that she basically liked to get things off her desk. Or to get people off the 'phone and then she could get back on with her typing and chatting to the other secretary. So on a few occasions I would hear her speaking to people who had rung up to ask how to complain. Very nicely she would tell them how to go about it. If they weren't happy, she would repeat it. If they asked if there was any other option she would say no and repeat the whole palaver again. This was not strictly true, as although there was the basic complaint route taken by most people, there were alternatives. But this made life complicated, and Efficient Admin would have had to think and work out which was appropriate. It was not on her neat sheet of "What Happens Next." She didn't want to get it wrong and she wasn't confident enought to treat each call individually, so she stuck to her crib sheet. So ironically, I can understand why call centres are so utterly useless. Staff answering the 'phone are not paid to think. They are paid to give out easy answers according to their script. If the caller deviates from the script, they can't respond. Or only with the one answer that they know. In my new world order of things, I would make call centres illegal.

Funding for health services

One of the comments on my last post about smuggling cigarettes ("Risk free or duty free?") suggested increasing the taxes on cigarettes in Gibraltar and added that the additional revenue generated could go directly towards treating smokers. (With which I do not disagree I should add). Smoking is a contributory factor to a lot of chronic illnesses and serious disease. Cancer, heart disease, bronchitis, emphysema, COPD, DVT, asthma, off the top of my head. But it is not the only factor, or the only determinant. To take the obvious one - lung cancer. People who smoke get lung cancer. People who don't smoke also get lung cancer. People who smoked 40 or more Woodbines a day lived to the age of 80 something or 90 something. Maybe they ate well, or had an active lifestyle. Maybe they were just lucky. Life and health are not so simple that any of us should be pointing fingers and saying "You can't have treatment because what you have done is self-inflicted." Let's take this further. I like to go cycling. A healthy pursuit, yes? Or no? It's dangerous. I shouldn't be on the road. I might get knocked off and killed by a driver. A driver, who, in Spain, is legally required to remain a minimum of two metres away from a cyclist. So why is cycling dangerous? Because some drivers break the law, drive badly, and knock cyclists off. Someone else's illegal and dangerous driving should stop me from a healthy and enjoyable exercise? I don't think so. They shouldn't be driving, not I shouldn't be cycling, or not treated for an accident incurred while cycling. Now what else? Oh, fat people. They shouldn't have weight-reducing operations because it is all self-inflicted. In fact they shouldn't have any operations because the risk is too great and no-one wants to be sued if the operation goes wrong (because they are so fat etc etc). I should declare a slight interest here. My BMI has increased from 18 something to 20 something so I am very sad. I don't think I am approaching obesity yet. So that won't be an immediate burden for the health services to consider. Fertility treatment. I have met a number of women who have undergone fertility treatment, and it doesn't work for everyone. When I worked in the health service we went down the controversial road of rationing fertility treatment. Is the inability to conceive an illness? Should it take precedence over life-threatening diseases or serious accidents? The trouble is when you try and prioritise funding for health services (the pot is limited in case anyone is unaware of that) people do not want to play. Self-interest always takes precedence. Plastic surgery. Another health service tale from my previous life. The young woman whose GP put her forward for breast augmentation to boost her self esteem, her breasts and her modelling career. For which, incidentally, I totally blame our appalling sexist society that she felt she needed to have bigger breasts in order to feel good or succeed in life. I have a very simplistic view of health - or sickness - services these days. I think priority for funding should be for emergency treatment and serious illnesses. By serious illness I mean life-threatening or chronic (long-term) illness that ruins people's quality of life and mental illness that similarly can make a devastating impact on people's lives and that of their carers and their families. Or to put it another way, wanting something you haven't got - whether it be large breasts or children - wouldn't be my choice for priority funding. So to come round full circle to my opening point, I would never advocate the refusal of treatment for someone who has smoked, or taken drugs, or made the "wrong" choices in life. I think a health service should be there for everyone, but funding choices do have to be made. And if someone thinks large breasts or a desire for a child is more important than treating someone with COPD, or heart disease or easing the last few days for someone with lung cancer, who am I to argue? We live in a must-have society.

Risk free or duty-free?

Readers of Pippa's blog will know that last weekend we were stopped at customs by the Guardia Civil who looked inside our vehicle. I don't just mean they looked through the window, which they've done once before. We actually had to pull over and open the vehicle up so they could see what was in the back. I was shaking like a leaf for absolutely no reason at all given that we had no cigarettes (we don't smoke and wouldn't even consider taking any out for friends), we rarely drink spirits, and beer and wine are cheaper in Spain anyway. So there was no way we were exceeding our allowances because there wasn't a single duty-free purchase in the vehicle. But the whole idea of being stopped by the police just leaves me cold. The first thing I wonder is - do I look like a criminal? Whatever a criminal looks like. Or have I done something wrong that I'm not even aware of? Ignorance is no excuse. Basically, I don't break the law so I leave the police alone and expect them to leave me alone. Logically, I know they are doing a job and they have to stop people for random checks. And the guy was polite and actually quite pleasant - not something for which the Guardia Civil are normally noted. As it is the first time in the 18 months or so that we have been travelling backwards and forwards that we have been searched, I can hardly say I am suffering from a persecution complex. But I did wonder when we were over the border and on the road again, whether or not they have a clever strategy. Let you go backwards and forwards for ages, lulling you into a false sense of security that you won't get stopped so you merrily smuggle stuff - usually cigarettes - across the border. And then one day, bang, they've got you. Loaded up with your illicit purchases. Anyway, that's totally hypothetical. What is not hypothetical though is the amount of smuggling that does go on. By people who do not need to do it. By people who are in full-time jobs - both Spaniards and British. They just want that extra buck or two. We've met pensioners in Spain who go on the cheap day trips to Gib, or drive down themselves, and promptly fill their shopping trollies or their boot with cigarettes. I suppose it tops up their pension. But if people live in Spain with all the advantages that brings with it - virtually everything is cheaper in Spain apart from cigarettes, spirits and telefonica - what is the need to buy goods smuggled from Gibraltar? If cigarettes and spirits are dearer in Spain than they are in Gib, they are a damn site cheaper than they are in the UK. But no, greedy grasping human nature always wants the cheapest possible deal - even if it involves breaking the law. Some years ago, friends from the UK came to stay with us in Spain and included a trip to Gibraltar as part of their holiday. They all gaily came back from their brief stay on the Rock loaded up to the eyeballs with cigarettes - including their two daughters who were both under 17 (there is no duty-free allowance for children). None of the family smoked. The two girls planned to sell the cigarettes to their friends at school. Their parents - both civil servants - were obviously going to flog them in the office. Did any of them need that extra money from their smuggling activities? No. Especially as they had a week's free accommodation in peak holiday season courtesy of us. To me, it is sad the lengths people will go to just for a few extra quid. Greed is so depressing.

Virtual friends

Some time ago, someone I "met" over the internet asked my advice about something. I'm not sure how much use I was at the time, but I hope I helped them a little. I never did meet this person, nor have I spoken to them. Today I told the same person about a problem I have, as you do, looking for ideas and inspiration when you can't see a clear way ahead. And I received some excellent and calming advice. So firstly, thanks very much to my virtual friend. I hope my advice to you back then was halfway as constructive as yours was this morning to me. And secondly, to everyone on the internet who gives something - whether friendship, advice, help or whatever. It is appreciated, as I discovered today. You don't need to meet someone or know them personally to be able to help them. There are bad points to the internet, but there are good ones too.

Daddy's Little Princess

We've all been there. Or at least, I'm guessing all us women have. Daddy's Little Princess. And Daddy's Little Girl. The one who is a Little Girl until she is in her late teens, her twenties and even her thirties. Well, according to my dad anyway. "You will do what you are told until you are 30. At least 30. I don't care about the age of 21," he said with all his patriarchal, empowerful authority. "You are my daughter and you will do what I say." A few years later on, it was "You spent your time trashing around." Wow. From Daddy's Little Princess to an abhorrent sex-worker in one easy step. So why is it that women are brought up from a very early age with the idea that they are a princess? Or at least that they should be treated like one not just when they are young, but throughout their life? It is hardly helpful is it? For most of us, we are not going to become a real princess. There is a vast shortage of royal princes in the world and in most cases they don't look at marrying commoners from a working-class background. So it must be about imagery. That women should be worshipped, looked after, and more importantly - behave themselves, because one day, their prince will come and marry them. And their prince will look after them, and give them a luxurious life. First we do what daddy says when he looks after us as a little girl. Then we swap daddy for our prince, and he too will look after us. Of course we all know that women are totally incapable of looking after themselves. Hence they need a man, to guide them in life, to pay for them, to provide for them - so long as they are suitably subservient and do as they are told. Life is a fairy tale. At least it is for women. Indeed it is. Or at least sometimes I can't believe it is true. Not quite the same thing though is it? What is wrong with telling young girls that they need to make their own way in the world? That their main aim in life should not be about entrapping their prince ie the richest, best-looking man available? Best-looking doesn't really come into it to be honest. Money makes even the ugliest man look attractive. Why bring girls up with such a false impression to believe that they will have an easy life ahead of them? Who knows what fate is going to throw at them? It is unlikely to be a prince though. And why give them the illusion that they are someone special? They may well be Daddy's Little Princess, but to everyone else they are just Ann, or Beth, or Carol. Just another girl who grows up into a woman. But they don't always grow up into women do they? Alas, not just daddy, but society in general continues to refer to adult women as girls. Both men and women continue to infantilise women throughout their life. We women are denied our maturity. We are not grown-up. Unlike men of course. To put it very simply, we are inferior, unequal, and childlike. And we all buy into that too. I was brought up to think that nice girls suddenly turned into ladies and that women were sort of, well, rough and undesirable. Better still of course, was to be called a girl all the time. Because that suggests you look so young, and pretty, and all the men appreciate your youthful looks. And it is just so important to look pretty for the men. One of the first books I read about feminism pointed out how early in life we start to treat boys and girls differently. I'm not just talking about the colour-coded clothes or the different types of toys. (Incidentally I had a lot of building-type toys which were ace fun, and a physics-and-chemistry set too). What made an impression on me in this particular book was the description of the way adults respond to little boys. They pick them up and show them the world through the window, because that is where they are going to make their impression in life. And they need to learn at a very young age that they are going to go out into that big wide world and they don't need to be frightened of it, because it is there for them. In fact it is their world. And when adults meet little boys, they ruffle their hair, and play little fighting games - because little boys are tough, and they will grow into big tough men. What do we do with the little girls? We cuddle them. Nurture them. Protect them from that big nasty world outside. Because when they grow up they won't be able to manage on their own. They will need a man. And even then, we still treat them as the little girls they really are. Wrong. We can manage on our own. But it would be a damn site easier if we weren't disadvantaged by being brought up with ingrained, sexist, patriarchal values designed to keep us in our (inferior) place. And not treated as little girls when we have reached the age of maturity.