The price of love

Unlikely....
I really love my iPhone

Well it's that time of year again, the time for roses, chocolate, and Sophie writing a blog which makes all of her loved up friends glad not to be her. I jest (mildly) of course, as most of my mates view my dating life as one to live gregariously to.... “he said WHAT?” (something very rude on only our 2^nd drink), “he did WHAT?” (cried about his soon to be ex-wife over starters), “he dumped you WHEN?” (day before my birthday since you're asking), followed by the inevitable “Oh Sophie, your stories do make me laugh” etc etc. And while my love life is indeed quite the laughing matter, I'd now, on this most romantic of days, like to tell you it aint all coming up roses. Especially in the financial department.

You see, you smug marrieds (or long term relationshippers) have your costs to bear, them flouncy, bouncy wedding dresses don't come cheap after all. But that aint a patch on the costs we have to bear in single life. Naw, am not talking vast boxes of tissues required as we weep into our solitude on Valentine's night (and since tonight I'm watching 3 hours of Idris Elba prancing around on my tellybox, kickboxing in nowt but his altogethers, no sobbing required thanks very much), but the price we pay for just existing without throwing ourselves off the nearest bridge, well that is some financial burden to bear.

The Valentine's Card
I found today

Think about it, we pay all of our household bills and housing costs alone with no one to share the bed with, and speaking of beds, them hotel rooms get kinda pricey holidaying alone. And don't get me started on gifting... I mean, we're not resentful of your joys in life, and engagements, weddings & christenings cost everyone. However they costs us twice the price and goddamnit, we want someone to celebrate us every now and then. Carrie Bradshaw got it right when she said “If you are single, after graduation, there isn’t one occasion where people celebrate you”. In fact the only day we make a saving is Valentine's, unless you count the piles of chocolate we bought ourselves or the latest bulk purchase of therapy sessions which we inevitably need at the realisation we are utterly repulsive to the opposite (or indeed same, let's not be heteronormative) sex. So overall life is pretty pricey when you go it alone, and 25% off our council tax cuts very little mustard.

Oh, and dating, oh dating. Smug marrieds, do you know just how expensive it is to date nowadays? A study by The Centre of Economic BusinessResearch concluded a few years ago that the average single now spends £127 per date! Cor! That's nowt to be sniffed at, especially for this girl who doesn't like a guy to pay for everything. But £127?? While it may not include the cost of the valium when it all goes wrong, it does apparently take into account the following factors:

The  guerilla marketing ploy
it turned out to be

- Clothes: Understandable, turning up naked might get the date off to an entirely awkward (to say nothing of chilly) start

- Transport: I rarely travel beyond zone 5 for a date, but still Transport For London make a pretty penny out of my love (or lack thereof) life

- Hairdressers / beauty treatments: That said, mine goes no further than a good hair straighten, perhaps where i'm going wrong?

- Gifts: considering last year I didn't get a Valentine's Day card, let alone a gift, from a guy I had started dating, I think we can wipe this one off his lists of costs if no one else's. Needless to say, the gift of a bottle of rather nice port I got him stayed on the shelf for some time.... until I drank it all myself while skyping my similarly single Canadian friend at 3am, obvs.

- Cosmetics: well, understandable, no one wants to see my unmade up mug

- Contraceptives: you have to admire the optimism on this one!

And this doesn't even include any pretty penny spent on dating subscriptions neither, which begs the question, can one put a price on love? It seems very much so.

But apparently with all of our £127s splashing about all over the shop, we're doing wonders for the post Brexit world. That self same report said that in our quests for love (or sometimes just lust), us singletons are contributing over £5 billion a year to the British economy! Not chuffing bad single lonely people, we're doing good! We're very much a one man, or indeed one woman, Brexit recovery plan! GET IN! So next time we're down the pub, out for dinner, buying paltry gifts for your 3^rd child's latest birthday/exam celebration/christmas present, take pity on us. Don't pity us for our singledom, don't pity us for our solitude, pity us for our empty bank balances and get that next round in on our behalf. Cos we might not be feeling too flush after all of our unsuccessful dating forays. Saving the economy one date at a time really does cost, and in a post Brexit economy, you owe us one.

Now I'm off to watch Idris Elba & knock back some vino, enjoy your overpriced steak and chips and cost of a ramped up Uber home. This single woman has some perving to do. 

HELL YEAH

New Year, New You & other such nonsense

Another dollar another year, or something like that.... And while I still seem to be recovering from the nut buckling doozy that was 2016, time marches ever forward with the inevitable tedium that draws us all one day closer to our own deaths. So hello 2017. You better not be the fuckwit your predecessor was, or I'm gonna have to have words.  

On the whole it seems a case of same me, different year, with a momentary pause for reflection. Now I'm not holding aloft the greater matters of the year gone by for pontification, but there are some things that inevitably come with a new year... and I'm not talking hangovers. Yep, it's the fodder of January editions the magazine world over cos it's resolution time. 

Now, usually I'm not much of a one for resolution. It demands a framework for action, a plan, a commitment to 'something'.... basically not very me. However THIS year there's a difference. This year there's something new in the air, I can positively sniff it, and trust me, it's smelling peachy. What is it that is aroma might you wonder? That waft under the nostril that is tainting my January so? Well, doggone it, it's only the sweet smell of success! And I likes it! 

My very own scarfgasm

Y'see last year, last year I made My First Resolutions (ladybird edition), and wouldn't you know? I only went and stuck to em! I know! Amazing! Me, the ginger of very little willpower! But I'm not just resting on my resolutory laurels for 2017, oh no. This year it's time for more, and I don't care who knows it. Previous readers of these here witterings may be aware of my 2016 intentions, which included my determination to learn to knit as well as achieving great acclaim on the Fantasy Football pitch.  Although I may have dropped out for this year, I was positively thrilled with my Fantasy Football accomplishments last year (in which I only had a little help), but what about the knitting? Well my friends, colleagues, distant relatives, bare assed strangers (ok, maybe not the strangers bit) will all attest to my knitting prowess. 2016 was the year of the needle, with home knitted Sophington Towers scarves positively flying out the door. There were stripey ones, solid ones, red ones, black ones, green ones, ok, I'll stop listing here, but needless to say there were scarves making up the whole colour spectrum, all knitted by myself and gifted to grateful associates. Well, grateful might be overstating it, but people got scarves, and if nothing else 2017 is gonna be a whole load toastier for all everyone involved. But that brings me to resolution number 1, that of knitting. Goddamnit I'm gonna learn to knit something that isn't a scarf! I mean, scarves are all well and good but one's neck only takes so much warming, so it's time this girl learned to knit round corners and I'm starting with hats. There's a limit to how many scarves a world can take (or knitted boob tubes if you get creative), but hats? Now that's a whole different kettle of fish and it's time to get my pom pom on. 

The post death dive Kamikaze iPad

You might think one resolution is enough for anyone, but oh no. I'm doubling up, cos it's time for resolution number 2.... safe hands! Right peeps, I'll fess up. I'm a klutz. I fall up things, down things, over things, under things, generally fucking shit up with my blundering ways. Despite the great efforts of my childhood Irish dancer teacher, I have all the grace and poise of a baby elephant (or small heffalump as my dad aptly named me – cheers pops). Sadly 2017 has already suffered it's own casualties, namely that of my iPad who took a kamikaze death plunge from my hands this week, throwing himself out of my clutches, preferring the solid, calm assurance of a laminate floor. Unfortunately for Mr iPad, the flooring did not welcome such a union, choosing instead to attack Mr iPad with such violence that his screen shattered into a squillion different pretty patterns. Aww, laminate flooring, you're SUCH a dude! Needless to say, pounds are out of pocket, and little Mr iPad is off for repair. Hence resolution number two NO MORE BREAKING OF IPADS! No more Apple suicides! No siree,  cos I'm gonna be careful. I'm gonna be coordinated. These hands are gonna be safer that Seaman's (the footballer! Ew, you guys!), there'll be no more broken iPads on my watch! Or at least, I'm gonna buy myself a case, which in itself is a Very Fine Start. 

Don't mess with the LouLou

But why stop here? Two resolutions? Whatevs. Pussies. Bring on the third! 2017 is the year of the resolution and I'm blimmin well having it! And trust me, this one's epic, cos I'm getting meself a catchphrase! Now, the words in question needed discussing, I needed an outside opinion and who better to ask than my mate Lou?  Lou is a never one to keep quiet, she has an answer for everything, she's known for her 'bantz' and more often than not, it's downright filthy. However, she's not a catchphrase girl, with her phrases not really catching & more floating along on the breeze of her conversation, drifting in and out like a Harry Potter dementor. But after I had revealed I'd spontaneously busted out the same words several times on New Years Eve (no doubt fuelled by cider) she thought it was phrase that needs to be adopted sharpish. Since you're asking the phrase in question is the ever so modest (but entirely true) “I'm amazing”. After all where's a girl without a little positive affirmation in life? And according to Lou, it's got legs so that's it sorted. No one argues with Lou.

So that's me. Those are my resolutions for the year. So watch out 2017, you're the year of the hat, and what I don't spend on iPad repairs, I can invest in wool. And trust me, that's A LOT of sheep. And thank you 2016, not for your unflinching barrage of celebrity deaths, nor your torrent of political buffoonery, but for your ability to give me a resolution and help me keep it. You've been helpful, but now your time is over. Just step out of the way, cos it's my turn now, and I'm amazing....

My Big Fat Election Diary Part 3

Day 5: ELECTION DAY

Donut? What donut?

So here I've been, out in the ole US of A, intrigued by the machinations and excited in a rather weird pervy way for the outcome of this election. And putting to one side the amusements of previous days, today has been a big day. Y'see, not only am I lucky enough to have a Dad based in the US for me to have a homestead from which to observe the goings on of an American election, but also he has some friends who absolutely don't mind involving a random Brit in their election day activities.

The first highlight of the day was at my Dad's girlfriend's polling station. Now, I don't know where I got this from but I've had this notion that Americans give out free food on Election Day. I think the West Wing that gets the blame for this, I am sure someone gave out waffles on Election Day? I have been contradicted by several people on this point but when I saw donuts at her polling station, I made a beeline for them, and helped myself. Upon scoffing at least half it turns out that these donuts were not only not intended for random Brits with a predilection for pastries, or indeed for yer run of the mill voters, they were in fact electoral staff snacks.. And here comes this Brit just snaffling them at will, putting firmly to pay the theory that Brits are naturally imbued with manners, decorum and etiquette that Yanks could only dream of. Oops. My only saving grace was that they were paid for by the local Republican candidate, who looked only too pleased to meet a potential voter covered in chocolate frosting.... until he found out not only was I not a potential voter, but that the closest I would ever get to a Republican is bellowing OFF WITH HER HEAD at dear Queeny should I ever get the chance. Ach well. Onwards and upwards I thought, and bring on the waffles.

Stage 2 of democracy day came courtesy of my Dad's mate Peggy. We'd never met, but as a Democratic volunteer hearing about my interest in all things American electoral, she asked if i'd like to join her in getting out the vote.... Fast forward from that very kind invitation and you get my second highlight... GETTING OUT THE VOTE! Upon opening my mouth at Fishtown (weird name I know, but lets gloss over) Vote Hillary HQ, I was met with an enthusiastic welcome. Not only were they grateful for all and any volunteers but they were especially taken with the idea of a Brit lending a hand. And I wasn't alone. Apparently they'd had visitors from Sweden, Australia and even New Zealand who had flown over to lend a hand in ensuring that the orange faced, hamster haired, click bait candidate didn't get a sniff of the White House. So armed with a script and a clipboard, out I went with Peggy, knocking on doors for all we were worth, alas only let down by the fact that no one actually appeared to be at home. Out of the 80 or so doors on which we knocked, we only met 2 people, one of whom was heading out to vote, and the other was soon to do so. Although I would've loved to have seen more, we did our job, and if our small part in encouraging people to go and vote (but yet never telling them for whom upon to lay their democratic hat, after all, I wouldn't like it if a Yank told me what to do in a British election) makes a difference, I'm glad. I took part... and I got a free donut out of it. Actually a donut and a 'munchkin' (a donut in miniature for the uninitiated) handed to me by a local Senator's wife at a local polling station at the end of the day.... yes I met a Senator too, and I got more baked goods. And frankly, who wouldn't love that?

It was odd y'know, in fact with results only just coming in and a large glass of booze in hand, it still is odd, knowing I've taken part in an international election. But the thing is, this election has an impact, and not just in the States. It has the potential to affect the rest of the world, no matter whom the winner. After all, whoever wins they are, apparently, going to be the leader of The Free World. Commander in chief of one of the biggest militaries on the globe with potentially an itchy trigger finger over the nuclear button. It impacts upon us all. Hopefully for the better, but who knows? Only a crystal ball set 4 years in the future will be able to tell us. All I know is I've done my bit, this citizen of the world has contributed, and most importantly, I was right all along about the pastries. TAKE THAT AMERICA!

Pre-emptive celebrations?

My Big Fat Election Diary Part 2

Day 4:

Your local senate candidate

Another day, another dollar, or so the saying goes. Or indeed in the world of Sophington Towers, another American election observation.... and today's is on necks. Necks you say? Yes. Necks. Weird I know but I've clocked this recurring theme in this here political shitshow, and it is that of the neck... or lack thereof. American politicians are very good at a photoshoot I've noticed, them with kids, snuggling the obligatory baby, looking serious in schools/workplaces/ construction sites etc, all to show off their connection with REAL people, ie potential voters. However in said photoshoots what I've observed is just how many of them seem to go straight from shoulders to head, no neck in between. Like the impending weight of political responsibility has squished their very bonce onto their shoulders, leaving no room for actual neckage and rendering them rather turtle like in return. Some might say that some of the candidates standing for election have a lot of brass neck in requesting we vote for them considering their recent actions, statements and misdemeanors, others might suggest that they are afraid to put their neck on the line, but do so they just, even if we don't agree with everything they say. Weird but true.

And speaking of necks on the line, it's time to put mine on. Well and truly. Cos, and hear me out peeps, I've got something to say about Trump supporters, and it aint all bad. Y'see I know most Brits, and indeed rest of the world, stand agape, mouths wide in horror at the prospect of Trump becoming President. It makes no sense to us (in fact in a recent survey, apparently only a mere 10% of the British public questioned would consider voting for Trump) but the more conversations I have, and the more news I am watching, I can kinda understand the appeal.... to some.

Now, don't get me wrong, I would never vote Trump, even if I did have the right to. He is abhorrent to me, and rightly so with all of his lies, misogyny and inane rantings... not to mention the hair. But he does have that appeal to a certain proportion of the population, and it's not dissimilar to our very own British shit show. That of Brexit. The way I viewed Brexit is that not all Brexiteers were evil, racist, small minded idiots. Granted some were and the Leave vote gave license to many of them to behave in such a way, but there was also a huge swathe of the population that responded to the call to leave with what they felt were very valid reasons. A huge chunk of society that used Brexit as a protest vote at the complete disenfranchisement they felt, a complete removal from the machinations of Whitehall. They felt belittled and worthless following years of being ignored by what has been termed the London, or metropolitan, elite. And I get it, I really do. I don't agree with how they used their Brexit vote to say so, but I can see where they came from. And the situation here in America isn't that dissimilar.

When you got this man supporting you,
you know you're in trouble

There are pockets, even states of people who have felt ignored by Washington for years. They've seen their jobs disappear overseas with no income, retraining or even bloomin jobs to replace them. Simultaneously while their incomes have disappeared, their cost of living has risen due to the corrupt and irresponsible actions of Wall Street and these voters see politicians courting those very institutions that brought recession, job loss and despair to their doorsteps. They are consequently suffering extreme financial instability, seeing little or no hope for their children's future. Compound this with an education system that has in certain geographical areas, suffered under investment for decades, leaving them to encourage their children into careers where violent death or injury is a very real daily possibility (the military) just as a route out of poverty. I mean, that aint right is it? These voters have been complaining for years, but just like with the London political elite, Washington hasn't listened. And now they are reaping the consequences in the form of a candidate that tells these people what they want to hear, even if you and I know he's never going to follow through. It's just like the £350m-a-week to the NHS pledge that the Brexiteers trotted out, only to find out the day after the referendum that this was a big fat lie that no one would ever have implemented, could never have implemented, it was just a tactic to capture votes. Sound familiar Donald? No wonder he's had Nigel Farage out here stumping for him.

So to certain people, I understand Trump's appeal. This is a man who they feel is speaking their language, even if he isn't paying his taxes. He's speaking to them, about them, and it's the first time a politician has done that in years. Why wouldn't they respond? At last they aren't being ignored. They are the ones being courted instead of left out in the cold, they feel involved, enfranchised, engaged.

Tbis. Just this.

Now, obviously this isn't all Trump voters. There are those 'ist's out there. The racist, sexist, bible bashing, tub thumping, die hard Republicans for whom I have no words, and even less regard. And there are also some very smart & lovely people voting for Trump who I have a lot of time for and am pleased to call my friends, well, friend. And if you're reading this buddy, you know who you are. I can't fathom your reasons, but you have them and I respect your right to do so. When this shit show is over, I'll still be your little commie pinko, and you'll still be my favourite fascist friend. And that's ok. But when those from overseas are watching this election with mostly fear in your heart for the state of the world should Trump get into power, please don't dismiss all of America (or at least the popular vote) in one fell swoop, and please remember it's not that simple. After all, these things rarely are.

My Big Fat Election Diary Part 1

Now, as some as you who read this may know, there's nothing I like better than a political ding-dong, and right now in the U S of A, there's a ding-dong going on of epic proportions. It is ding-dongtastic, and from a purely voyeuristic point of view, I'm loving it. In recent weeks I've been hooked on all things American political. I've been keeping a firm eye on CNN and Fox News (calm down peeps, I do it in the same way that I occasionally cast my eye over the toxic misogyny ridden pages of the Daily Mail – purely to keep an eye on the enemy) and boy, this election is not disappointing, unfortunately in a very terrifying kinda way. However, slightly more fortunately, I have a foot on both sides of the Atlantic, a home in the UK and an adopted bolthole in New Jersey, that of my Dad's house. So when Dad invited me out to visit him this November, what could I do but take him up on his offer? I wanted to watch this political shit show in action. This election after all is very much a spectator sport, and I've got me a ring side seat..... with pretzels (crappy Bud Lites optional).

So here I am stateside and counting down the days. Several friends have been much amused with my dedication to the cause, and requested regular updates on the circus that this election has descended into, so what better than a Big Fat Election Diary?

Day 1

I arrived last night, and although not yet fully immersed into elect-o-mania, I have already seen my first indication of voting choices.... That of the yard sign. No cheap A4 coloured posters a la Blighty elections, oh no, it's a full stick it in your garden and pronounce in a VERY LARGE FONT your electoral preferences to all and sundry. Alas the first I spied was a Trump sign, or to be precise a Trump-Pence yard sign, lest we forget vice presidential candidates. Now apart from triggering that immediate sicky, stomach in back of your throat feeling one gets when one zips over a humpback bridge too fast, these  pro-Trump signs have induced another unexpected phenomenon. That of a Mary Poppins ear worm. How unexpectedly British (putting to one side Dick van Dyke's squiffy mockney accent), I can't believe I've never noticed it before, and now I can't stop humming it. Unfortunately it's less feed the birds, and more feed the incessant & draining 24 hour news cycle, but still it's Trumpence a bag. Trumpence, Trumpence, Trumpence a bag. Consider this earworm my electoral gift to you dear readers, and enjoy. Then vote sensibly please. Ta v much.

Foot pump not included

Day 2

Well, here's a turn up for the books! We know America is the bastion of all things commercial. After all, the American dream is a capitalist's wet one, soggy sheets n all, but today I espied something entirely new. That of the presidential candidate sex doll. Oh yes, for where there's a dollar bill there's a way, and one to be fully enjoyed with the swift intervention of a of bicycle pump (which somehow seems entirely appropriate given Trump's readily inflated ego). Now I'm fully not having a go at the Yanks here, that American dream is an admirable one, if you work hard you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and succeed, no matter what your background. It's an optimistic one (hastily glossing over the fact that often equality of ambition is entirely negated by an inequality of opportunity) so I don't want any American readers to think I'm entirely taking the piss with my British accent and grumbling rancour at having lost the colonies to a bunch of gun toting rebels. Howevs, there are some things that I just couldn't imagine rearing their head in a British general election.... and prime ministerial sex dolls are definitely one of them. We have neither the imagination, nor, looking at the vast array of wet blankets we have continually competing for the number 10 spot, do we have the inclination. And for that USA, I salute you, and remind you to have a puncture repair kit on had come November 9^th.

Day 3

I don't want to know about her
oval orifice

Never have I been so glad for the very British concept of a 'snap election'. I heard a rumour recently that Theresa May was considering calling one this year, no doubt Brexit related, and from what I understand from chatting to various Americans they would be eternally jealous of such eventuality. From repeat viewings of The West Wing (Josh Lyman, President Bartlett & Co. your deadline for saving the world is getting pretty close, so please do hurry on over) I know just how long these elections can drag on. But in reality 22 one hour episodes can never induce the absolute look of zombification you see when gazing into the average American set of peepers right about now.Any and every time I mention the dreaded E word to them (& just before they comment on how much I sound & even look like North London songstress Adele... don't ask) their eyes glaze over with despair at what has been a very lengthy campaign. I mean, this shit has been going on for the best part of 18 months. EIGHTEEN MONTHS!!! That's the average gestation period for a killer whale and the end result might end up being almost as deadly. No wonder these folks are despairing so. People talk about Trump being a protest vote, a kick back at the establishment, and I can understand that, if only on the basis of the length of this electoral campaign. It's like the Hundred Years War.... with more advertising & less crossbows. In the UK, Quintin Hogg talked the system being an elective dictatorship, implying that the only day that true democracy really exists is election day, and ONLY election day. Well yours is coming soon America, so make the most of it. It's been a long time coming.

Well speaking of the end in sight, that's enough of Sophington's Big Fat Electoral Diary for today. I'm off to beds, beauty sleep and a likeness to Adele don't come without some decent beauty sleep y'know. Just please don't ask me to sing.

More coming soon......

Y'say WHO is King? Go tell that to Elvis

PS: Once again, I want to state for any American friends out there, I'm categorically not dissing you guys. I'm not even saying that our British way of doing things is any better, nor are our candidates much more appealing (though admittedly any bar set by a genital grabbing, tax dodging racist is pretty low). I mean, we still have legislative branch made up predominantly by a bunch of old, white, entitled, posh dudes appointed either by a chance of birth or by cronyism. So there's no superiority coming from this direction. I'm genuinely coming from a place of intrigue and curiosity, fuelled by a West Wing addiction that knows very few bounds. So please don't think I'm insulting you or your country, and take my witterings in the way they are intended. And please, please, please don't come after me with an AR15. Thanks v much.

The Secret Life of a Freelancer

Now I've been working from home, both on a freelance and work from home basis for a while now. And while there were some lessons I knew were headed my way (notably those to do with hiding the TV remote & keeping away from 'fridge gazing' during work hours) there are other observations I've made and lessons I've learned along the way that have surprised me. Fellow work from homers will no doubt recognise some, if not all of these, and if they don't perhaps it's just me being weird. Either ways I've written them down, and I hereby share them with you, you lucky, lucky thing.  

I'm in there somewhere.... I promise.

1. The Neighbours
As the person that is often in during the day, you become the receptacle for all kinds of packages being delivered to your neighbours who are out working their 9-5. From chocolates (I could tell by sniffing the box), to gorgeous bouquets of flowers that to all intents and purposes ought to be yours really, to entire bleedin' sets of furniture ordered off Amazon (seriously, you can order a whole table and chairs suite off AMAZON? And then not even be in to take delivery of it? Pleaaaaase bitch!), meaning your working from home neighbour can become your very best friend, or worst enemy depending on how you play it. Fortunately I never snaffled those chocolates, nor did I bedeck my apartment with nefariously obtained blooms, and consequently my neighbours owe me one if not several.... A handy situation for when you're cartwheeling into your apartment block, loudly & perhaps more than a little tipsy at 11.30pm on a school night, following a trip to the pub banishing cabin fever (see point 4) with your fellow freelancers. 


2. The school holidays

Yup. That's me

Now, previously as a traditional 9-5er, I saw the school holidays as some kind of manna from heaven. Hurrah hurray, calloo callay! No more grotty school kids clogging up the bus aisles with their MAHOOSIVE bags and penchant for standing right by the stairs, thereby ensuring no one can ascend or descend without a battle through the afore mentioned MAHOOSIVE bags. School holidays are AWESOME I thought!! Now, working from home? Not so much with the celebration of the holidays, for now I rejoice for peace and quiet of term time. And I'm pleased to say now that teaching is back in progress I will no longer feel the urge to sniper style supersoak the squealing, squawking urchins, freewheeling round my estate at great volume under my living room window all day long. A grumpy old woman? Yes. But I'm shit hot with a super soaker so don't mess with me peace & quiet, I've got spreadsheets to tidy!

3. The 'Look'
Fellow work from homers will know 'the look'. It's that look we get when we say we work from home, and the 9-5ers glance at you with a strange mixture of resentment and disgust. “Lucky you” they say, “wouldn't it be nice to be able to sit around in my pyjamas all day, watching TV & eating biscuits”. All the while, giving you THAT look. Well 9-5er, I'm very sorry that your office doesn't have enough biscuits to stifle your burning resentment, but it's not all about biscuits and PJs I'll have you know! For let me take you on to the concept of Cabin Fever.

4. Cabin Fever

Make his a Grande, Quad, Nonfat,
One-Pump, No-Whip, Mocha...
with sprinkles obvs

You lot, you think our life is all mocha choca macchiatos with soy milk foam and sprinkles. It is, I think you assume, only the thrum of beanie hat wearing, mac keyboard bashing freelancers that keeps our local, organically sourced coffee shop alive. But the reality is far different. Although I obviously get out and about seeing my customers and suchlike, but most of the time it's just me, sat in these 4 walls, looking out the same windows, with very no one to chat to face to face (no beanie wearers in sight – if only cos I can't stand the smell of coffee). And frankly, that gets me more than a little wild eyed at the best of times. You 9-5ers have your water cooler chit chat, your “ooh did you see Bake Off last night?”, your “what did you get up to at the weekend?”. I have none of that. I have my plants and my own reflection to natter to to, and when things get VERY desperate, the staff behind the till at Sainsburys. Yes it's me holding up that queue, sorry, but even us work from homers need a bit of human contact every now and then, don't resent my natter please, cos it's either that or I'll go wild in the aisles with a butternut squash and no one wants that. Not least Sainsburys. So basically it's not all sunshine, roses, PJs and biscuits in this here world of working from home, though speaking of which....

 5. The biscuits
Rejoice with me my fellow freelancers! Let us celebrate our little lonely existence, squirreling away at our work in flats, houses and rented spaces the country over. For we are no longer ruled by the tyranny that is the office biscuit tin! No more stale custard creams for me, no siree! No more soggy shortbread rounds left til the very last, as for that pink wafer number, well that can Get To F*ck. I've got my own biscuit tastes (dark chocolate digestive natch) and I aint afraid to indulge it. No one's nicking my biccies leaving me the literal crumbs. Well, except my mum, but she asks nicely so that's fair enough.

6. The PJs
Ok ok, technically we could work in our PJs. I mean, anyone could really, but granted you 9-5ers might get an odd look on the tube (then again, maybe not, I once saw someone dressed as a banana on the rush hour tube and no one batted an eyelid. London eh?). But it is a much alleged complaint, us work from homers are sat lazing around in our pants while you office workers are struggling through your day, wearing y'know clothes. Well, in my experience, I've found that PJs do not a solid of day of work make. There's something ever so 'sleep over' about it. Something of the hungover Sunday morning watching T4, equipped with nothing but our tea and loungewear. And while I must admit I am partial to a onesie in the winter and knickers in the summer (curtains closed natch, I don't want to undo all my neighbour's goodwill in one fell swoop), ever since last month when while working in me altogether, and I had that got that sudden realisation that the IT helpdesk man remote controlling my computer also had access to my webcam should he desire it, nudity in my workplace has gone out the window forever..... Or at least when IT phones. 

I feel your pain Mr Helpdesk man

Audrie, Daisy and Paige

So, today is a day like most others. Starting off with a bit of faffing, an abashed opening the door to the postman while STILL in my dressing gown (he's used to this by now) and a flick through the papers online over a pre work cuppa, and it was here (in the Guardian natch) where I read a small article which has kinda thrown my thoughts outta whack for the day. You see, it was an article about a new Netflix documentary coming up, and the subject being the violent sexual attacks on 2 american school girls. It's not so much Netflix and chill as Netflix and be rather disturbed, and really one should be disturbed. After all we hear a lot abut these kind of incidents, from your Brock Turners to the rather strange (in the UK at least) worlds of Greek frathouse parties, and none of it appears to be very good, for either the young men or young women growing up nowadays.

The stories of these girls (Audrie, Daisy and Paige) are disturbingly similar despite the very big geographic and cultural differences in these girls lives. They were young (Audrie aged 15, Daisy aged 14 & Paige just 13 years old ), went to a party with their school friends, all imbibed alcohol, and got raped (by their 'friends' I remind you). The young women in question, girls still, were subsequently bullied non stop on social media, victim blamed, their families vilified, abused and attacked. But there is difference... as a result of the online and offline bullying Audrie was on the end of, she killed herself, whereas despite several attempts at the same, Daisy is still alive and tells her horrific tale with Paige. Geez, I think back to my school years where I also got bullied pretty much throughout, I'd never want that experience again, but kids nowadays? With all the social media bullying that goes on, the torment that doesn't even stop when you cross over your doorstep into your home that should be your sanctuary? God, these poor kids. There simply is no escape, I feel so hard for them.

But why did this strike a chord today of all days? I'm not sure. Perhaps it is due to several recent exposures of misogyny on Twitter (verbal, not dick pics I hasten to add) that I've had in recent weeks. Also it's part down to several conversations I've had on dates recently, meeting questions such a as 'is the fight for female equality really so necessary any more?', 'does rape culture really exist?' and 'c'mon, it's not like sexual harassment is such a problem nowadays is it?'. To which the answers are obviously 'yes', 'yes', and for the third time, errrrr 'yes'.

It struck a further chord, being of the age I am now, seeing as I have lots of friends who are raising young children. And I have some great male friends who are being fantastic fathers, bringing boys and girls into this world and teaching them the ways of it. And while I'm sure that these great men (& women!) will be raising great sons (and I'm sure teaching them about the ways of consent, relationships, and what being a man is truly about), it is for their daughters I fear. For despite the many decades passing since the bra burning of the 60s and 70s, I'm still being asked these questions of whether equality is really such an issue, and it IS. Because of this, I am sure that many new dads of daughters the world over will be looking at things in a new light. They may be realising that the world absolutely still is a scary place for women, an unequal place for women, for while Audrie, Paige and Daisy were being attacked by entitled young men, those same young men were nigh on guaranteed protection for their crimes, all as a reward for their triumphs of teenage athleticism (we all remember Brock Turner). Disgusting isn't it?

It's interesting to note that apparently one indicator that’s likely to have a major impact on a man’s response when you ask him about gender inequality: whether or not he has a daughter. Dads with daughters are far more likely to likely to champion the cause of women than those with sons I think, and this is played out in the evidence. Researchers at the University of British Columbia discovered that fathers who do their share of the housework raise daughters who aspire to broader career goals, including in traditionally male-dominated, often higher paid fields. Another example can be found in a Danish study which revealed that male CEOs who have daughters are more likely to close the gender pay gap at their companies.

Now, I'm not saying that Audrie, Paige and Daisy didn't have feminist dads who didn't advise them well enough about just how unequal this world is, and how they can mitigate it. Far from it. For it is with young MEN that these conversations need to be had, not with young women. Every woman knows the fear of walking home late at night, and know that should she get attacked, there will be people tutting that she deserved it (I know I felt like people would do the same when I got sexually assaulted on one summer's day in a low cut top). After all, it's dark out, or she was wearing a short skirt, or she shouldn't have had that last glass of wine or, or or.....! Where are these people having that same conversation with the young men of the world? It's not to do with skirt length, alcohol or how well lit the road is, it's about rape. Taking something that is not yours. Taking it without consent. Your entitlement being more valued than someone else's lifetime of trauma. It's not about talking to your daughters, it's about talking to your sons. And until those conversations happen the world over, until (some!) men stop taking what they feel entitled to, there will always be a Paige, a Daisy or an Audrie, and this saddens me.

So while I don't look forward to watching this Netflix documentary (due to be released on 23^rd September fact fans), I will be. It's no popcorn and fizzy pop feel good movie that's for sure, it's a depressing condemnation of the society that many young people are growing up in right now. But one can only hope that while it may not feel good, hopefully it will do some good, for the sake of young women everywhere.

P.S Normal blogging services of Sophie's life o pitfalls will resume shortly, and I hope you don't mind this minor distraction on the way.