BRANDED.

 
I have a rather turbulent relationship with the idea of tattooing. Some days I covet the courage to let that needle make its mark. Others, I shudder at the very thought. I know deep down that I'll never actually end up in the artist's chair, I'm just too sensible.

I'm also a believer that (in an ultimately sexist way that I should probably be ashamed of) tattoos 'suit' men far better than women. It definitely takes a certain 'type' of lady to pull off the indelible ink, however subtle or outrageous a design might be.

Mossy manages it, obviously.

WLTM: aka: Wondrously Lovely Tattooed Male

trust, anyone?

I simply have no idea why I was contemplating this particular topic whilst being rocked gently (or not) by the high-speed train on my latest London-Liverpool return, but trust is an issue, right? I mean, the age old question of 'can anyone really be trusted?' is ultimately rhetorical in nature. I'm not an ultra-optimistic person or anything, but I guess I do like to hold onto the idea that, yes, some individuals can safeguard your privacy/hopes/dreams/life, even? Not everyone, however. And, in fact, how can you ever know? Hence it becomes a 'thing'; the big fat proverbial elephant-in-the-room thing.

Some people choose to go through life refusing to empower any fellow human with the notion that they might be close enough to them to merit the title of trustee. No doubt, it is often one of those unspoken concepts, and yet, therein lies the very danger. What if you don't realise that you have been entrusted? Confusion ensues.

But, there remains those other cretinous creatures who simply waste their days raping innocently trusting victims; like the child-catcher, only worse. Sounds shockingly ott? I'm putting it mildly, 'mate'.

The Descent of [Wo]man.

Although I do subscribe to the theory of evolution as an inevitable part of being human, I am not a huge fan of this whole inheriting genes thing. Not that I'm all for genetic engineering or anything. I find the idea that one day we might be able to pick and choose what hair and eye colour our babies end up squeezing their way out of our nether regions with, terrifying. I do not, however, appreciate having no say whatsoever in the 'dud' characteristics of my genetic make-up that I've been dealt. Seeing as I am a female, and therefore exempt from the line of male pattern baldness, the onus falls on my mother dearest for her hand-me-downs.
Indeed, following a bout of rather aggressive travel sickness on, what should have been, a relatively pain-free train journey yesterday, I realised that this was just one in a long line of examples of miserable genetic traits.

Along with the Herpes virus (aka horrible bubbling sores of cold on my lips/up my nose/thank god nowhere else), here's a few of the wonderful prospects that await me as the aging process takes its toll:

> Varacose veins
> A strong aversion to coffee/spicy food/anything generally fun of the food/drink ilk. (Although, having said that my matriarch does still enjoy rather-a-lot-of champagne.)
> Motion Sickness brought on by fairground/theme park rides (or anything that moves for that matter, hence my already highly developed lack of sea legs.)
> High blood pressure/cholesterol
> A knack of being riled up by pretty much anything/anyone, to the point where you can't even remember what/who you were angered/irritated by in the first place.
> General irrationality/lack of direction/map-reading skills/notknowingleftfromright

I'm almost certain there's more. Oh joy.

a whole lotta lady love.

So, today marks the centenary of International Women's Day; big deal? Well, yes, actually. Despite the opinion of some nagging, dried-up feminists, us girls have come rather a long way in the last hundred years. Equality is still regarded as somewhat of a dirty word in many spheres, both public and private, but no one can deny the fact that WE ARE HERE. Yes, we might not be proportionally represented in politics, and receive significantly less pay than our counter-sex doing exactly the same job, and yet, the mere fact that people are aware of these issues is demonstratively positive.

I am proud to be female, I do not suffer from "penis-envy", as Freud would have it. No. Plus, if the odds are still stacked against us, this makes any sense of "plight" even more poignant, surely?
I'm not a man-hater-eater-beater either. Having said that, I did not appreciate this latest attempt at male empathy, or whatever, and I think less of Dame Judy for having been involved in such trite. Quite frankly.

 

And there you have it. I've had my say, as I can, as a woman, in this day and age. So yeah, cheers Mary, I'll raise my pancake to you for that.