Thursday, 18 August 2011

TELL ME I'M WRONGYN!

Fair and gentle reader, I shall communicate with you one of the many words that really irk me.  Not irk as in, "I am mildly annoyed, I shall ignore you til you go away,", but irked as in "I will kill you now with whatever implement I lay my hand on first!  A penny!  I shall kill you with a penny!"

Wombyn.

What does this word mean to you?  Perhaps you find it perfectly acceptable, a gender definition that does not kowtow to da Man, does not associate itself with the old fashioned name for the female race.

It makes me think of the Wombles, but that is a recent discovery.

I absolutely detest this word.  To me it means that to be feminist, as I consider myself to be, I now have to identify myself as a womb.  I am my organs, I am the parts of the sum.

*sigh.  Deep breath*

I refuse to use this word to identify myself.  I am not just a womb, an organ to produce offspring, although I do want to use my womb sometime to produce said chicklets.  I am a woman, a person in possesion of thought, emotion, strength and self-awareness.  I am the sum of all my parts, and to single out one as being more important than another is absurd.  Ludicrous even when you consider that "Wombyn" is a female invention, as if we didn't have enough trouble getting men to think of us as something other then a nice place to deploy their soldiers and bear them hundreds of fat children.

I am woman, not wombyn or womyn (that last annoys me too), and I am an artist, a daughter, a significant other.  I am a witch, a philosopher, a wordsmith (I hope), and a darned feminist!

And now I shall end this rant with a little ditty...

"Underground, overground wombling free!  The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we!"....

Sunday, 7 August 2011

The Night The Shit Hit The Proverbial Fan

Well my fair and gentle readers, what a weekend eh?  When my Llama Rama and I came up to London for my mother's birthday outing at our favourite local restaurant San Marco, little did we expect a show as well as dinner.  For right outside the windows we were treated to the first few sights of the Tottenham riots, as youths in hoodies and scarves gathered and proceeded to fell a bollard by the railway bridge.  One can only assume now that they had thought to use it as a weapon, but was too heavy, having cement still attached and being made of solid metal.

We had no clue as to what was going on, being sans radio or TV set.  But drifting over the raised railway tracks we could see black smoke, from what I can now say with confidence were the police cars that the mob first set alight.  Of course we did not know this, and carried on with our meal.

We observed, thinking why were people gathering (as it had been some time since the football match at Spurs had ended), why were buses and traffic being turned round.  It was late when we left the restaurant, and could see that there was something wrong in the way that gangs of youths had gathered in front of shops.  It was when we saw them try to break in en masse that we decided a safer distance was required. 

We walked up Bruce Grove to Bruce Castle Museum, and were there picked up and driven to where we were staying for the night, a house owned by friends, near Wood Green.  My Llama Rama did try to get the news on the telly, but alas, we only got terrestrial and there was no news.  We had no idea what was happening around us, so ended up watching a bit of Watchmen before retiring to bed for the night.

And then dear friends, the real fun started.  And not what you might think either, you dirty minded little things.

As we were drifting off to sleep, the sounds of someone trying to break in woke us, loud bangs echoing throughout the house.  It sounded as if it was coming from the front door.

We jumped up and my Llama Rama rang the police while barricading the bedroom door with the bed, as we were the only ones in this strange house.  I peeked through the blinds and saw a man standing outside in a hoody and scarf.  He looked up and must have seen me, as the next moment he was gone.

The police advised us to wait, to stay in our room until officers could arrive, but of course the police were busy with the riots.  They rang us back half an hour later to say that no one was coming, and as we had not heard anything for the duration of that time, we decided to survey the house (my Llama Rama had his belt wrapped round his fist to protect his lady and himself, just in case).  From what we could see, it was all clear.  No damage to the front door, where we thought the sounds had come from.  Nothing from the garden either.  We decided to settle back in front of the telly until we felt we could get back to sleep.

And in the morning we finally found the damage that had been done by the would-be burglars.  The back sliding door had been hit repeatedly with a rock, cracking the double glazing.  Thankfully they had not been able to gain entry, though from the look of the glass, they had given it a pretty good try. 

We surveyed the garden and saw that they had come over the garden wall, as the house we were in was on a corner.  They had scrapped off the cement on top of the wall, in which had been embedded shards of glass.  Taking advantage of the absence of the police no doubt.

But as true Brits, we prepared our breakfast and sat out in said garden, having informed and checked on our friends next door, as the gardens were connected by a gap in the fence.  And then attended on my mother as it was her birthday and we were having lunch and profiterole cake.

At the moment my dears, I am watching the news and lamenting the fact that, the first time I come to London in ages, for my mother's birthday no less, a bloody riot breaks out and my love and I almost become victims of robbery. 

Charming eh.