Shake your Bootee??

Before I start to rant, I will say right from the off that I am a normal, healthy 30-something woman, and not in any way frigid or shy and retiring. However, I turned into my Granddad the other day, yelling at the telly and wondering how the world has gone to the dogs. It was bound to happen I suppose, and no doubt it will get worse. I do have a good moan about a lot of things: bad spelling, chavs, the state of the roads, litter…you name it, I’ll gladly climb on up there and give it some welly.

One of my latest “verbal vomits” (for they are frequent and many) came whilst watching the new “Karate Kid” movie, starring Will Smith’s little boy. I’m all for remakes of old classics, and this was overall a great little movie. Mini-Smith was great and how can you not love Jackie Chan? Yet
how can it POSSIBLY be OK to have a kissing scene involving two 11 year olds? I’m not so naïve to think that kids don’t experiment or aren’t curious (I know I was myself when I was a kid), but to almost actively encourage it is, well, irresponsible, surely? What happened to Barbie and Action Man, please?

As a trainee teacher I would carry baby wipes in my handbag to hand out to the 11 year olds who came into class looking like hookers (did their mothers let them out like this or did they slather themselves on the way to school?), and I remember watching a school show, with little girls showing off their “dance routines” to an audience of open-mouthed adults ( not in a good way I hasten to add). To see a child, for let us remember that this is exactly what they are, practically pole-dancing, gyrating and shaking their booties, gazing provocatively at an imaginary camera whilst on all fours, was deeply discomfiting! Beyoncé has a lot to answer for!

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for dressing up in Mum’s clothes, trying on make-up and play-acting, but this was very sexual stuff. I could see how horrible mistakes could be made with under-age girls who have made themselves up to pass as very convincing 17 – 19 year olds. Let me be extremely clear that there is no excuse for paedophilia (a subject I will probably rant on at some point) and frankly perpetrators should be castrated. Take this latest news story of the one month
old baby in Gravesend who is in a critical condition in hospital, having been subjected to the most horrific injuries. I cannot recount what happened to the poor little boy, as it makes me physically ill, and I can absolutely understand the “angry mob” that gathered outside the house wanting to string up the animals who committed this disgusting crime.

How about we practice a little common sense, huh?

The Sugartit Fairy

Why is it OK not to mind being called Sugartits? Being of extremely modest bust (I know 11 year olds with the same – if not slightly larger – cup sizes than me), I’ve always wanted what I haven’t got. It’s a woman thing. If we have wild masses of delicious curls, we want seductively smooth (or so the conditioner bottle proclaims) flowing locks. If we have sultry olive skin with a hint of a tan, we want a pure alabaster brow. It’s what we do.

Women are supposed to take umbrage with builders who shout “Nice arse” at us from their scaffolding, perhaps even Standing Up For Ourselves and firing back with some witty yet cutting riposte. However I choose to look at it in another way, even though I feel my face burn every time I think I’ve been heckled. In my self-critical head, I don’t believe they could possibly mean me, as I haven’t got a particularly nice arse, and certainly don’t have Sugar Tits.

How about if the boot was on the other foot? I can’t imagine many men who wouldn’t puff their chests out if they were the subject of a female’s “appreciation”. If we were to bellow “Nice packet, darling” across the street at some young buck, he’d be down the pub, boasting to his mates quicker than you can say Y-front. So let’s turn this on its head. If you’re told you have Sugartits, it’s probably because you do! Revel in that joyous fact, before they head south after the ravages of childbirth or the simple yet inevitable fact of gravity.

As for the nice arse? Max it, baby! Stuff it in some skinny jeans and some killer heels and work that mother for all it’s worth. Because it won’t be long before you’re looking back wistfully on these halcyon days, telling your female grandchildren that you couldn’t walk down the street without turning heads.

And that's all I have to say for today.

Smear Campaign

Most women over the age of 18 nowadays at some point or other undergo the slight indignity of having a stranger rootle around your nethers. We know the drill: knickers off, cold gel and a steel instrument and the sickening “scraping” involved in the taking of the sample. In the UK we generally only have our smears every three to five years, but occasionally we are called back in for a follow-up or in more serious cases, for what my fiancé and I now simply call the “oscopy” (as it seems to be frequently confused with colonoscopy, which is QUITE different, although no less invasive)! I myself am in the process of follow-up colposcopies and smears and have been struck – almost literally by one practitioner who practically butchered me and made me bleed – by the manner in which the whole process works.

Having had an “abnormal” smear, I was sent for a colposcopy at the Royal Berkshire Hospital and told on this occasion that everything was normal. In fact, to quote the doctor, “everything is as clean as a whistle”. Try keeping a straight face the next time someone, like your Gran, says that! I was to come back in six months’ time for a follow-up, which I duly did. This time, the Butcher of Berkshire took the photos while the spotlight was shone up my flue, and once more, I was told that all was normal, but that a routine smear would be taken at the same time. Two weeks later and I sat in the hall at home with a letter in my hands, tears streaming down my face as I read that I have severe abnormalities following the smear, and that these are indicative of
pre-cancerous changes. The stark and frightening wording of the letter only served to double the shock, in particular as we had been told all was normal. Suffice it to say, there is much confusion, upset and hurt and I am now under the care of a private consultant.

Now, this is not to denigrate the NHS. It is in many ways a wonderful system and we are extremely fortunate to have screening for free. However, many women avoid the “routine smear” because they are not comfortable with the procedure. In Germany for example, as soon as a girl has her first period, she is under the care of a gynaecologist for the rest of her life, seeing them every six months for a chimney inspection. Take away the mystery and social discomfort, try a little “bedside manner” and perhaps the whole experience in the UK will improve attendance rates. Jade Goody’s tragic death did wonders for encouraging young women to get their smears. Maybe it takes a tragedy to kick people into life.