The one that got away

Here is the post I started writing nearly four weeks ago, and then, wasn't really sure what to write. Or even why I was writing it. Or whether to. Time helps with most things, even writing blog posts, and mulling them over for weeks. To the extent that I know now that I am writing it because I like neat and tidy endings, and writing it provides that for me. Also because, it meant something to me for those years, it merits a post. And at least this post will be much shorter than the ones I was writing in my head three or four weeks ago. We started emailing on a pretty regular basis a few years ago. We'd mailed occasionally beforehand, and fallen out occasionally too. We were worlds apart - literally and metaphorically. Our lives were totally different, and we probably held opposite opinions on virtually everything under the sun, but I liked him. He was funny and he was interesting. He also had (has) a lovely dog which I suppose should be a minor point, but never is with me. There were lots of laughs and lots of grief. Who on earth could fall out about Sploofus, Scrabulous and Farmville? Er, we did. We fell out about sharing photographs too. Perhaps, on reflection, over the years, there wasn't much we didn't fall out about. It was, to say the least, an up and down relationship. Either we were up and laughing and having a good time, or we were down and arguing and one of us was walking away. Initially it was me, later it was him. Meeting people on the internet is like meeting people in real life. Except it isn't. There are similarities. You meet, you exchange conversations in common places, and then you drift elsewhere. But you don't really know these people, do you? It's not like socialising with neighbours or work colleagues. You can't share enough information in enough time. There is something strange about receiving a mail that says, 'don't contact me again, ever.' There was a please in front of it, but an order is an order, which is what that was, and adding 'please' makes no difference at all. An attempt at fake politeness. No more, no less. Initially, I was annoyed that someone else thought they could dictate terms and conditions of what I mistakenly thought was an equal relationship (in my dreams huh?). But should I respect that? I pondered long and hard. What about the times I had said I wanted to stop communications and my request had been ignored? Hey, when a woman says 'no', she never really means it does she? I don't like being told what to do, but what really stopped me from trying to explain that maybe we had, not for the first time, misunderstood each other, was someone telling me they wanted to have nothing to do with me again. Ever. That's pretty powerful, and it worked. So I never did write back, didn't seem much point. And in a way, there was a strange sense of relief. No more fall outs to worry about, no more thinking I'd say the wrong thing, no more looking for messages that weren't there. Every other time we'd fallen out, I'd been sad or upset, but this final one was different. Yes, I still look at my mails to check them out of habit, but knowing there won't be one. Why would there be? And maybe I breathe a sigh of relief that there isn't. I don't have to decide whether or not to reply. Yet, there are times when I miss him. When everything was stolen from our vehicle in Spain last year, he was the only person who offered practical help. Kind thoughts and good wishes from my Facebook friends (who no doubt will all be alienated at this point) are all well and good, and I did appreciate them. But how many people offer to send cash to someone they have never met and never will, because they trust it will be repaid? He did. And when I was fed up or wanted to moan, he was, in the early days, always there with a laugh, and a cheerful word. He would dish out the same sort of pragmatic advice that I do to others, but mostly he would try - and succeed - at making me smile. Things always change though. Maybe that's why I decided to clean up the finca, start blogging again. Do something that doesn't involve looking for mails that will never be there. Perhaps some good came out of it after all. Edited to add: Ironically my post here was written a couple of days before our final disagreement. A premonition? Or just co-incidence?

Facebook - Now you see me ..

Now you don't. For those of you who don't know, I have deactivated my Facebook account for a while, to take a break from my busy round of internet social networking. There are a number of reasons for this so I thought it was worth writing a post, seeing as how so many people (ie 600+ million according to checkfacebook.com) use Facebook, and of those approximately half (depending on what stats you look at) use it for gaming. To start at the beginning, I joined Facebook for no particular reason, just that I noticed others were doing so, and I thought I would have a look and see what the attraction was. There didn't seem to be any, so I promptly left it alone. At the time, most of my internet time was spent writing my own blogs and visiting and commenting on others. And I spent time on forums too, and to be fair, some of that was actually useful. I went back on Facebook to start playing Scrabulous - and it was good fun. Luckily it was constrained to his lunchbreaks and after work which meant a) we weren't playing all day and b) I had plenty of time to think about what word to make with my seven letters. I needed plenty of time. And then, while I was playing Scrab, I noticed quite a few of my (dog) blogging friends were on Facebook. So I acquired some friends. And a few more. Then I noticed a popular game - the inevitable Farmville. I hit on a lot of other games, played them, chucked them, and blocked them - the games, not the friends. (See earlier post here about my views on games, and an interesting read here that puts me in my place for my somewhat derogatory comments about mindless games. And here is a short read about why people play games on Facebook). The friend list continued to expand, again mostly based on my blogging contacts, but some were added in the need to gain extra pals for the latest farm upgrade, but even they were mostly dog people. I hadn't met any of these people, nor do I ever expect to. Well, that was true until last year when one of them did visit Spain on holiday and we met up. The exception that proves the rule. But if one of the main Facebook activities is keeping in touch with friends and family, or refinding people from the past - I haven't used any of that. The few friends I keep in touch with tend to - occasionally - email me, send cards, or write letters. Remember letters? those old-fashioned things that arrive in the post. I got one the other day, an aerogram, or rather air mail letter as I see it is called, and it was a lovely surprise. Nor would I want to share exchanges with my 'real-life' friends in public on my Facebook wall. So what do/did I share on Facebook with hundreds of people I don't know? Not very much really. A few photos, links to updated blog posts, bushels and strawberry pigs (they are worth 15,000 coins so a good one to share). I made flippant comments on some posts, and admired the odd photo. I made a few serious comments on dog posts, and once in a blue moon on some posts by feminist friends. I did use the pm service quite often though. But the more the list of friends grows, the harder it is to keep track of people. You wonder if you have missed something. In fact, I often did. Kind-thinking friends would pm me to point me to a post about something so that I didn't put my booted foot in it. Instead of relying on the news feed, it seemed to become important to click on individual profiles. Gah!!! How many clicks was that? Especially if you needed to go back to it all over again. Too many clicks. Too much time. Feeling there is a need to interact with people, or they will be offended if they don't hear from you. How many people asked where I was when I deactivated, some of whom wondered if I had blocked them? More than one, to my surprise. I'm one of the types who invariably accepts a request from people who want to 'friend' me. If they have enough decent friends in common I do feel slightly guilty about saying no. Most people accept my friend requests that I make, so why should I not accept the ones who ask me? Here is a brief summary of a study which I found interesting. I really don't care about gifts or reciprocity or anything like that but I do have an occasional guilt twinge. Occasional. When I look at the profiles of a lot of my friends, they are so different to me. Many of my American friends are the 2Rs (there are probably 3Rs but I can't think of one right now) - Republican and Religious. So not me. My profile says/said very little. Perhaps if I put up my left-wing, animal rescue, vegetarian, feminist, environmentalist, ethical, agnostic/atheist views etc etc etc on Facebook I might not have quite so many friends. Or at least I would have them long enough for everyone to expand their farm, and then be discretely deleted. I mentioned that most of my friends are from the dog world. There was soooo much drama recently on there when it seemed Facebook was suddenly policing those people who, shock! horror! signed up as dogs. Well, they didn't sign up as dogs, but they were basically an extension of a dog blogging persona eg Rover Collie. It is apparently outwith the T&C to sign up as a dog, or hamster, cat, guinea pig, pet python, you get the idea. It is also not allowed to use a false name. Yeah, so I don't know anyone signed up under either of those? And do I care? People harmlessly sign on under an alias, or play at being their dog/cat/whatever. So what? If Facebook wants to protect the image of the site from serious abuse, I do not think animal identities are the place to start. Or maybe they are. One friend suggested that sex abusers/paedophiles may well try and lure teenagers with cute animal pix. Another friend suggested that maybe parents should monitor more closely what their children are doing on the internet and on Facebook. Moving onto more dog-related stuff. I am well sick of seeing posts about the Westminster Kennel Club Show. I had to look it up to discover what it was, but apparently it is something like the American equivalent of Crufts. I am not into showing dogs, at all. To me, it doesn't seem to be all about the dogs, it is all about the vain people behind them. And, although I may well be missing something, whenever I have seen those shows - yes I did watch Crufts as a kid - it does rather concentrate on pure-breeds, doesn't it? Pure breeds are very nice. I have lived with three pedigree ones in my life in the family home, and two in my adult life that we rescued from shelters. Their temperaments are no better or no worse than a rescue cross-breed. We've rescued two of those as well. But some of the other type of posts, that sadly I see a lot of on Facebook, are requests to adopt all the unwanted dogs who have only a few days left - or even hours - before they are gassed in a kill shelter. I wondered for some time why people put these posts up. I couldn't see any point to it, so I asked a small group of friends via pm what they thought. And one of them answered that she knew of one or more dogs who had been rehomed via a Facebook post. Whereupon I stopped feeling offended about seeing a lot of beautiful dogs who might well not be alive much longer, and hoped somewhere, someone, would give them a home, and if that was via Facebook then it was worth the posts. But I got my knuckles rapped recently for commenting about breeders making money. Apparently very few do. They are only breeding dogs because they love them. Really? If they love them that much - why aren't they out there rehoming all the dogs on Death Row? And because to me, every puppy bought from a breeder potentially means one dog less that is rescued from a shelter, whether breeder specific or otherwise. And that means one more unwanted dog killed unnecessarily. So, I looked at the time I was spending on Facebook, and wondered why on earth I was doing it. Yes, I had enjoyed a few laughs and made some new virtual friends, outside the blogging ones I already knew. And I had a large virtual farm with lots of points and mastery signs. According to today's Daily Telegraph, Facebook is worth around $50bn, and Zynga (Farmville) has been valued at between $7 and $9bn. What are they doing for me? Nothing. So why am I wasting time on them? And feeling overwhelmed with stuff that is nothing to do with my life apart from the virtual circuit. Fortunately I have certainly not put real cash into Zynga, because get this:

users can also buy Facebook credits to purchase extra features. These ‘virtual goods’ provide more than 90 per cent of Zynga’s revenue stream,

from this article here. If I want to avoid doing chores, put off essential tasks, whatever, I can just as easily write blog posts and comment on others as I used to before the lure of Facebook hit. If anyone wants to email me, they can. I usually reply. Or I can pick up a book. Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier is the current one. So that my dears, is what I shall be doing, for a while at least.

Why don't things work out like we want?

Comments and conversations on Facebook are often quite inspirational and thoughtful.

Over the weekend I have read a couple of quotes that people have posted - they could be about anything, but mainly about life, I guess.

And as I was feeling philosophical, I thought I would look at why things don't work out as we expect, or plan, or hope. This could be anything - personal relationships, jobs/work, a holiday, and sometimes even life itself.

I certainly didn't plan at the age of 50 to be living in a flat in Gibraltar and not working. Nor did I plan to get married in Sydney when I embarked on my world trip some 25+ years ago.

So, back to the question. Here is a random list of causal factors, to me:
• circumstances, this could include lots of things, but I was mainly thinking time and place • external factors, eg the unexpected that is totally out of your control
• conflicting relationships and personality clashes
• health problems
• addictions - drugs, alcohol, tobacco, gambling - they are health issues too, but can be so destructive, and are not readily solved by willpower, that I figured they needed a separate category
• power imbalance
• not working hard enough to make something work
• misunderstandings.

A few comments on some of these. I'll start with the last one first and talk about general breakdown in communications, or poor communications. After all, what else would you expect from a journalist?

In my years working in the UK public sector, poor communications was nearly always mentioned in any complaints about the health service, and was often regarded as the main problem. And in child protection incidents, it always featured highly. Wherever there are multi-disciplinary teams, the potential for communication mishaps is high because bluntly speaking, people just don't speak to each other, or they work on a 'need to know' basis.

I really dislike 'need to know' because it invariably means someone else is taking decisions about what I need to know when they don't know my job. There is no way that you can advise on the best PR line to take when you don't know the full story. Similarly the medic who thinks the social worker doesn't need to know something or vice versa, can result in some tragic cases.

Interestingly, I've just read a book about the sinking of the Indianapolis, the American warship that carried the casing and uranium for the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. I added that for those of you, who like me, know very little about American history. It was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine - after, obviously - it had delivered the bomb. Of some 1200 people on board ship, only 25% survived - slightly more than 300. The ones who did survive and were finally picked up had spent days in the South Pacific surrounded by rings of sharks that invariably chomped a body in half for tea, or lunch, or breakfast or whatever.

But if reading about that was bad, what was worse was reading the communication blunders that didn't log the Indianapolis as missing. Either someone didn't get one radio message, someone else decided to ignore another one, yet someone else decided to keep information to themselves, because no-one else needed to know. It was a disaster waiting to happen and it did. Still the US Navy changed procedures afterwards which was of no use to the relatives of the 900 men killed. The navy also court-martialed the captain, the only one who was ever court-martialed for the loss of his ship as a result of an act of war.

So when people treat communications as a sort of minor, not very important issue - it isn't. People died at sea 65 years ago because of crap communications. Oh, Doug Stanton, 'In Harm's Way' if you are interested. A good read.

And still on communications, I remember endless courses and lectures during my management studies about Active Listening. It seems to me, in my cynical non-managerial older days, that this is a fancy way of saying 'listening to what someone is saying.' The difference between hearing and listening. Not what you think they are saying, not what you want them to say, but actually, what they are saying. And if you don't understand then you ask for confirmation, and if you think there could be ambiguities you do the same.

But how many of us ever do it? Especially when we are wound up over our own issues or thinking about something else. Have we any idea what issues the other person is contending with? Bad communications are a minefield (to continue the warfare analogy) on their own. When you add in any of the above factors in my original list, it's a wonder anything ever works out in life.

A couple more examples. If you have health problems, you are waiting for test results, an operation, or having treatment with nasty side effects, that's all going to be uppermost in your mind. Anything else takes second place. Relationships, whether family, friends or partners, are fundamental. Everyone needs contact and relationships (Maslow's Triangle). When they don't work out, like health issues, it impacts on the rest of your life. So try going to work and feeling crap and having argued with a friend or a partner and trying to get through an important project. On top of that, someone else doesn't want it to go through for whatever reason. Maybe they feel crap too, or don't like the project. Maybe they just don't like you. Take family issues. Those of you with happy families are lucky. Can't say I know a lot about it. Always seems to be someone, somewhere who wants to be in charge. A bit like work.

Let's finish with relationships. Of any sort as this is probably what concerns all of us so much. I like to lecture on this topic as I am so bad at it. Do as I say and not as I do in fact. But ..... try and listen to whoever it is and ask for clarity. Make sure you really are both even discussing the same topic. If you like them/need to get on with them (ie family or work) then, don't blow up unnecessarily, shrug your shoulders, and, ask if it's worth it. How many years do you go back? And if you are really sure, then yes, move on and leave them behind.

Don't burn your bridges unless you are sure though. Because each time you burn them, and later decide to rebuild them, it gets harder and harder to build that bridge back to where it was, or even anywhere near. There will come a point when you can no longer rebuild.

I want to be a rockstar?

Anyone who thought I had finished with feminist posts with my nice revived easy-going Clouds blog will be disappointed. Searching through YouTube for an original version of Nickleback's Rockstar - I was puzzled to find lots of versions of the official video seemed to have an important word taken out. What on earth was it? Swearing? Nah!! Course not. Drugs. So that very naughty word seems to have to be taken out of some of the YouTube vids. But .... it is perfectly ok to continue with gratuitous photos of scantily clad women, references to shagging women in planes (mile high club), the key to the playboy mansion, and photos of a naked woman in a bath tub, and another one gyrating sexily and - oh! wait! one photo of a not particularly attractive man with not many clothes on. What does that say to you? Well maybe not much, but it says to me that a few references to illegal drugs are worth censoring by whatever powers rule YouTube. Whereas really boring stereotypical objectification of women is not. Because it's not even important is it? It's life. We all want those hot sexy young chicks. In fact what we want is that life where.. 'the girls come easy and the drugs come cheap..' Mmmm, girls. Are we talking under age sex here? Or just crass language that describes all hot little bits of stuff as 'girls' (who come easy). Rather like.. and 'Gonna date a centerfold that loves to blow my money for me.' Very nice bit of imagery there. How are they blowing it? There was one older permed grey haired woman. She wasn't in her bikini or up to her eyes in bubble bath. Not even blowing bubbles. Good music. Shit objectification of women in both words and pictures. I have no interest in the drugs. I've got enough to do coping with the battle against women. But here is the original - because I don't believe in censorship. Rockstar - original lyrics until it gets censored again

On hitch-hiking

For no particular reason, I was recently reflecting on my hitch-hiking experiences of the distant past. I was of course, brought up 'never, NEVER, to accept a lift from a stranger.' Not bad advice by any stretch of the imagination. But what is it about parents who tell you not to do things that everyone else seems to do? You just have to try it. I went youth-hostelling a couple of times with a friend and - although we weren't hitching - it didn't stop us being offered lifts. Not surprising really. From behind we were two tall slim, young women, one fair, one dark. Catered for most tastes. We were in our mid-teens. I refused all the lifts, saying I wanted to walk - which was true. My friend would have accepted, but hey, she spent most of one night with the youth hostel warden. Nor do I mean the evening, I mean after we came back from the pub post 11pm. And my father thought girls were safe in youth hostels with wardens to look after them? But when I went camping in France with another friend - and her family - I figured a lift from the top of the camp site to the bottom would do no harm. It seemed a safe environment. So we jumped in and nothing happened. I felt very guilty though. Can't even remember if I confessed my terrible sin to my parents. It would have been pretty stupid, but there again I was naive so I may well have done. Next up was a few years later and I was a little braver. I was on a course from university in the Lake District. Being an early riser, I had skipped out of bed for a walk, and then decided I might as well wander into town and buy a newspaper. Which I did. But it took longer than I had planned and I didn't want to miss breakfast. So when some guy in a van stopped to offer me a lift I jumped right in. He dropped me off, good as gold, where we were staying in some class Wordsworth-type place, and I flourished my paper and my story of somewhat risky behaviour. I gained some street cred I suspect. After that I left the risk-taking alone for some time until I went to Australia. This is a big place for those of you who don't know it. My travelling companion and I decided to eke out our funds by hitching from Sydney to Melbourne. We got a train from central Sydney to the furthest suburb and hit the main road. Sadly, it wasn't the friend from the youth-hostelling days, this one was shorter and fatter - which does not guarantee the same level of offers of lifts. I was getting to the point of suggesting she jump in the ditch (which is classic hitching advice because people think there is only one person to pick up, whatever that might signify) and someone stopped. We hopped in merrily and eventually - hours later - approached Melbourne as dawn came. It was a beautiful sight. I've still got the memory of that wonderful Australian sunrise, the open fields, the trees, and the grazing horses. My mate had snaffled the dog box while I had spent all night in the passenger seat. My legs ached and I needed to stretch them. It was a good lift though, and he was a nice truckie. From Melbourne, we went onto Tasmania, and stayed at Launceston. The following morning we set off south and decided to hitch out. The first guy who stopped, gave us both a bad feeling and we passed up the lift. Eventually we accepted a lift from someone who 'looked ok' whatever that may mean. Looks are not everything however. He decided to take us sight-seeing. But we didn't want to go sight-seeing. Especially down some deserted road in the middle of nowhere in Tasmania. 'We want to go back to the main road, thank you, and get to Hobart.' We argued on these lines for some time. My mate of course had nicked the back seat so I was stuck in the front with Mr Sight-Seer. I was considering how feasible it was to jump out of a moving car when he finally agreed to our demands to take us back to the main road. We told him to stop, and we got out. Talk about taking a deep breath. We then got a good lift from some 'hippy-looking' types in an old V-dub sort of thing. I was wary about this lot after the last experience, but mate decided they were ok, so we jumped in the back. And they were nice. I should add that I was brought up to avoid drop-out hippy types who were always the depths of society and not to be trusted. Unlike reasonable looking middle-aged men. Ha! We survived Tasmania, and with youth, optimism, and folly, we decided to hitch back from Melbourne to Sydney for the return leg. Got a decent truck lift as usual. As he wasn't going right up to Sydney he said he would meet his mate and we could swap over. It seemed he needed to meet his mate in some obscure forest glade. What's wrong with your average truck stop? If I had been wetting myself in Tasmania - this was something else again. How do you jump out of a huge truck in the middle of the bush? You don't. Well we didn't. And, we met his mate, swapped over, and got to Sydney. Phew gets nowhere near the mark. Of course, hitching with a man is different, isn't it? So once I hooked up with my partner in Sydney and cast off the short fat mate, we gaily set off down to Melbourne (can't even remember why - wanted a cheap holiday probably). I don't remember most of the lifts but the one I do remember is the guy who proudly proclaimed he didn't have a roadworthy certificate on his vehicle. OMG I thought, it's going to fall apart with us inside and we'll be killed in a crash. What was even worse was the fact that he decided he absolutely MUST overtake every car in front of him, regardless of what was coming the other way. At one point we stopped at some lights and we said this would be a great place to leave. Jumped out, grabbed the rucksacks out of the boot, and ran. He seemed totally loopy. Only later did my partner realise very sadly, that he had left his genuine Aussie bush hat in the back seat. I still hear about it to this day. There were a couple of good lifts around Healesville and Marysville though. Someone stopped for us and we discussed walking. He dropped us off in the national park and pointed up the hill and said we would enjoy it. Of course, in the middle of summer with huge rucksacks, that's great. Hiking uphill through the bush. In the heat of the Aussie sun. We didn't have much choice so we took the route he pointed out. Down the other side, we got a lift into Marysville. Don't think there was much traffic there in those days. We got the same lift out the next day, but we avoided the scenic walk that time around. I'd almost forgotten the time when I was still freaked out about lifts and someone offered us a lift in Tenerife. We were staying at some camp site near nothing apart from banana plantations and we were waiting for the bus. I refused to get in. The driver looked surprised and puzzled, and my partner shrugged his shoulders and said 'She doesn't want.' After that, hitching took a back seat, so to speak. When we were discussing it the other night, I said I would never do it again. And then remembered in my late 30s I went on a work trip to NZ. The place I was staying at was not quite as near the main highway as it purported to be so I began the long trudge into town. Lo and behold, someone stopped for me. And what did I do? Yeah, I got in. That really was the last time though wasn't it? I said to my partner. 'What about the time you were walking into town a few years ago and it started raining?' Ah, yes. 'But he looked a nice guy, he was German anyway, and people do that sort of thing where we live in Spain....' To be honest, I actually wasn't worried. I thought he was stopping to offer me a lift because it was raining. Which is reasonable. He was. Don't do as I do or as I did, do as I say. I wouldn't do it these days. Honest. Well, unless it was raining and I didn't have a waterproof .. and .. and .. and

Head over heels

As it's (nearly) a year since I wrote on here, I thought I would start this new year off with a new post, and open this blog up for comments again.

When I first started this blog, it was intended as an outlet for a few rants, and to write about some of the issues that concern me. These are, in no particular order, vegetarianism, animal cruelty, feminism, and probably coming in second place - globalisation, consumerism and environmentalism. I'm sure there are more issues that I occasionally get wound up about for at least five minutes, but those must be the main ones as they are the ones that came to mind first. (So if the opinions of a lefty, vegetarian, hairy-legged feminist are of no interest to you, I suggest you find another blog right now).

However I no longer feel like ranting as it is far too energetic and tiring, so any posts on here will be more thoughtful (??) in a musing sort of way. That was musing, not amusing.

So, head over heels? One of the perennial discussions in feminist circles - along with wearing pink, using make-up, shaving, and other such hugely important topics - is wearing high heels. Or even anything that isn't flat. One of the other perennial discussions is why these topics even get a look in, when women are being murdered, raped, abused, and victimised because of their sex, every day of the year.

But changing opinions and stereotypes needs to be confronted at many different levels. And to me, it would be fatuous to pretend appearances don't matter. They do.

So if you are wobbling around precariously on some dangerous footwear, with baby doll smooth legs, and a face plastered with cement make-up, you may want to ask yourself why you are doing it. And you will probably answer - because it makes me feel good, and I look better.

That's what I have said in the past when I asked myself why I did it. Whether or not you have taken into account that you may be conforming to (patriarchal) societal expectations and perpetuating the 'sex symbol' stereotype is another matter. Or maybe you are aware of them and consider that they don't affect you. Or any other woman? And that's just for appearances' sake.

What about the damage to your feet, posture, back, legs? My mother had a huge array - I say huge, I mean to my small childlike eyes - of stiletto heels in the shoe cupboard. I would try them on when dressing up, and stagger around in them. This was particularly stupid as not only were they vertiginous, they were far too big. How I never fell over and sprained an ankle is beyond me, particularly as I invariably wore her overlong frocks and usually had a train, secured in place by my tiara. Still, us women have to start practising these important things early in life. In fairness to my mother she did tell me not to wear the shoes, so I had to wait for her to clear off to work when indulgent Granny was in charge and never denied me anything.

In my teens I graduated to my own high heels, I think three inches was about the highest I scaled. About the only flat pair of shoes I had at that time was a pair of walking boots and a pair of tennis pumps. It was hardly as though I 'needed' the height - at 5'8" or 9" I was well above average height.

And the whole idea of needing heels to look taller is just crazy. What is it built around? The idea of tall, slim, long-legged woman - whose role in life is to attract men. As someone who was/is tall, slim, and with longish legs I can tell you that men are just as interested in short, not particularly slim women with crap legs. So all you short women who want to be tall are just buying into a silly myth. Men are just as keen on the other female stereotype, that of the little woman who needs to be protected.

Which brings me onto that other crazy expectation. That men MUST be taller than women. Why? The same protective non-threatening theory? Imagine my chagrin when all my tiny short friends ALWAYS attracted the 6'2" boyfriends and I was stuck with the ones around my height or slightly less. If I wore those desirable heels, I towered over the men. If I wore flats, I looked soooo unsexy.

I have no idea when I abandoned these weird and unrealistic notions. Probably when I started hunting for non-leather shoes - the choice of decent synthetic shoes/boots is/was limited. Or maybe it was when I finally realised high heels were not really very practical at all. With the help of mail order companies in pre-internet days, I managed to find some decent flat boots, and scoured department stores for flattish but hopefully smartish shoes.

A couple of years ago I had been reading a discussion on a forum about this very topic. A day or so later I noticed some women in the local square wearing a variety of boots, mostly with high heels, but one woman wore a pair of flat boots. She had a free and easy walk and looked full of confidence. In comparison the other women looked slightly strained and false. Maybe just my biased view.

This year, I am amazed. Everywhere I look, 9/10 women wearing boots are wearing flat ones. Such is fashion, and our brainwashed addiction to it. It's one of the better years by far, ojalá that these wonderful boots were churned out every year and women stopped feeling the need to totter and teeter around in crazy footwear.

As for me, I found a wonderful on-line store based in London where they also have a showroom, bought one pair of boots and then ordered another two in different styles. Three pairs of flat, comfortable and stylish boots? From a vegan ethical company? I couldn't believe my luck.

Gratuitous pix of a pair of my new booties.

Morning, night ....

Two simple words. They used to mean a lot to me. It was nice to wake up in the morning and read the email that said 'night'. And then, later on, when you finally woke up - to get the one that said 'morning'. Once, long ago, when we fell out - as we did with such regularity - I asked you to at least keep sending me those mails. It was nice to know you were there, even if we'd stopped any other communication. We didn't fall out for long though, you always made me laugh and whatever it was got put behind us. (Well, most of the time). But things always change, and so they did with us. Our disagreements and fall-outs seemed to become more serious. The unpleasant words we exchanged were cruel and unkind - on both sides. Worse, it felt as though we both meant what we wrote. Innocent comments were misinterpreted. We both looked for, and found, insults and sarcasm where it was never intended. And when, in the early days, it was always me who stormed off in a huff, increasingly you started to say you didn't want to continue. Then there was the time when you said it would have to be something big for you to stop keeping in touch - but you didn't know what that was. Me, I just said I thought we would fizzle out really with too many arguments. What was it about that last day? Or that last week even? I don't know. But you ridiculed something I liked - the morning greeting. And then you ridiculed me. That last insult from you was truly disgusting. If it was remotely accurate then it was grossly insensitive to have said it. If it wasn't then it was still abusive and disrespectful to people who have to cope with a horrible illness. Every other time we have fallen out I always had regrets, maybe not the first or the second day, but in the end I liked to remember the good times. There is so much sadness and unpleasantness around that it seems silly to fall out with someone you like. The truth is that this time though, I am left with a nasty smell under my nose. You obviously had no intention of ever getting in touch again. But you could have done it in a less obnoxious way. It's not been too good a year. And on top of all the important damaging problems I've had, I believed someone's empty and meaningless words. Day 1, Week 3.

Clouds moving on

The title says it all really. Time for a change, so I am leaving this blog up, and starting a new one elsewhere. Thanks to all those who have read and commented. I have taken off the comment option, so it is now read-only. Out of interest, the post I wrote that seemed to get the most hits was the one about what to call someone who chairs a meeting. Hope it informed some people out there. Happy 2010.

Miss World - beauty parades are so nice for women :)

Miss World. Where to start? Easy really. 1) This is about objectifying women and 'judging' them in terms of their physical appearance. Naturally, this appearance basically has to fall into line with what men find attractive, or what society (ie men) currently deem to be the acceptable standard. This therefore involves tall, slim, leggy, long haired (obviously from the head - all other areas to be dutifully shaved), slightly - but not too much - curvaceous women. Oh hell! And young. I forgot that one didn't I? Gotta be young to be in there for the win. 2) The bit with Miss World about extra skills, personality and all the rest of it is rubbish. This is still about judging women on their appearance. In case anyone hasn't got the message - pretty face, nice eyes, lovely smile, long sexy hair, firm breasts of a good but not too large size, slim waist, and fit arse. Cattle market? 3) Don't bother arguing about Mr Universe - I'm really not interested. If you come out with that crap, you really have no idea what this post is about. 4) While ever women are valued, judged, and praised on their looks, all that is happening is that we are continuing to perpetuate this patriarchal society where women are no more than a token part of some arsehole's harem. A pretty possession. Don't bother telling me it is their choice to join in, and how much they get out of it. Women do this because they haven't woken up to the fact that they are being ripped off, fucked over, and generally being pissed on. They are buying into the world. A man's world. 5) And as for Peter Caruana - reported by the Gib Chron to have said: He told her that no one had ever made Gibraltar prouder and congratulated on behalf of all the people. Get real Caruana. This is a particularly insignificant event in the world. No discredit to Ms Aldorino but this whole farce demeans women. And you say that no-one has ever made Gibraltar prouder than a woman who has won Miss World?

Just another addiction ......

Computer games. I used to be amazed at the amount of people playing crazy games on the internet. When I joined Facebook it seemed to be full of posts about people moving up in Mafia Wars, or Vampire Wars. Do these people have nothing better to do, I pondered somewhat bemusedly. I never grew up in the computer games era, or even the computer era, so found all this totally bizarre. Aimlessly I clicked on one of my FB friend's requests for 'neighbours' in some game. FarmVille. Oooh, I could build my own little farm, didn't need to get my hands dirty, and could grow the prettiest crops. No problems with pests, or lack of water, or a bad crop. I could have my animals too, and a dear little cottage. I was hooked. I also wanted to gain the points. But why? I even looked at Mafia Wars and Pirates. Café World was a no-no. The first three dishes were onion soup, bacon sandwich and a burger. Once I had made the onion soup I lost interest. I do not want to be told what to cook. I started a Happy Aquarium, even though I don't really agree with keeping fish in tanks... They were very pretty. And there is Fish World, and naturally - FishVille. Oh and Island Paradise. And Robin Hood. And Roller Coaster Something. There may be others too where I still have a dormant presence. (Note, I am still on my idyllic island...) The truth is, that if other people need 'friends' to move up in the games, that's fine by me, but I don't have to play. Happy to be a sleeping non-participant. So what on earth is the attraction with the continual clicking of a mouse/trackpad to see points pointing up? Mindless? Well, in my opinion yes (and don't forget I am doing it). Escapism - without a doubt. Living a fantasy life as Robin Hood, or a Pirate, or a Mega Mafia Mobster. But the one that really seems to be on a winner, is Farmville. And Farmtown. I should say at this point I don't like the graphics on FT and I hate the unnecessary clicks to sell produce. Hence I have relapsed to an orchard where the fruit never goes off. It's the fantasy idea that we all dream of though. That little place in the country that is so easy to maintain, live off the land, and have a modest, but perfectly comfortable house. And for those of us who tend to be somewhat anal, we can lay out our farms perfectly, colour co-ordinate them. We can play the games to get more money, more points, more awards, more mastery signs - whatever we choose. At no risk. Nothing further from real life. I never watched soap operas until I hit on some bizarre production called Sunset Beach. It was too unreal to be true and a total load of rubbish - but the unreality of it was what made it entertaining. I watched soaps in Spain too - mainly because it was an easy way of learning the language. But for the most part, what are soaps? Mindless unreal escapism. Just like some of the adventure films/serials where the hero struggles against all manner of perils and always, just always, wins out. Computer games? No different. Mindless, unreal, escapism. A different screen, a different distraction. Heaven forbid we all go back to speaking to each other again - or even worse, reading books, and thinking. (For the record, Level 32 on FarmVille with 65,000+ points, and the fuck off biggest farm at 22x22).