Fearlessly Feminist and Fighting the Good Fight

Things are about to get a bit socio-political today people, so be prepared. With what’s going on in the news, I felt it would be a bit lax of me not to address some of the matters at hand. Being as I am a h’actual woman, a lot of what I’ve heard and read has resonated with me, and it’s about time I throw my 2p in.

Now, even in today’s society, “Feminism” is a much maligned and misunderstood word. More often than not, it’s taken to be either something that is indicative of unshaven women hysterically burning bras (though, to be honest, I could get behind that because GOD, they are just the most uncomfortable thing EVER), a specific attack on harmless menfolk, or any other number of negative diatribes. It seems to be almost impossible to be grasped as something that just means the desire to see all people treated equally. I’ve heard women say that they personally don’t identify with feminism, because they believe in equality, which makes me wince every time. I’ve heard guys say that why can’t understand why women keep complaining because they’ve got all the same rights now when all they do is continue to act like girls – as though asking for equality means giving up your womanhood. I’ve heard countless arguments again and again that feminism is causing more harm than it is good.

Once upon a time, I might have had some sympathy for a misunderstanding of the term. There are so many “new waves” and “neo” movements and I get that it can be hard to follow labels. I understand that sometimes you can get lost in the political correctness of what people do and do not like to be associated with. I respect that it can often feel like nameless internet busybodies are shouting loudly and often without any purpose other than to seem outraged.

But guess what? I’m starting to lose patience with excuses. You don’t have to understand a term or blindly follow an ideology not to be a dick. You can ignore titles and labels and internet movements all you want, but you do have to understand that assaulting a woman isn’t right. I don’t give a flying fig what you call yourself, but if you even try to tell me that you think I’m less of a person because of my reproductive organs; that I should just take it and quieten down; that I’ve got everything I should want now, you and me are going to have serious problems.

In light of the news that Joss Whedon is in fact not the hero of women’s rights and feminism he was always proclaimed to be, that Harvey Weinstein took his power and responsibility and twisted it into something completely repugnant without fear of justice or retribution for years, that Diane Abbott (who, admittedly, is not someone I am particularly fond of, but nonetheless) has to put up with absolutely intolerable torrents of objectionable and unacceptable abuse, and the light shining starkly on the horrific regularity of violence (both mentally and physically) towards woman (specifically in the media) I’ve decided to take a moment to focus on some strong female figures in my life. I’ve been raised by a staunchly feminist father on a diet of science fiction programs with fantastically powerful female role models and male characters that actually interact with them as people, rather than objects. My understanding of how the world works has been coloured by my (possibly misguided) belief that most people are inherently decent and that everyone deserves a fair chance to prove themselves on their own merits and not be hindered by someone else’s opinions or dogmas. That’s not to say that I’ve not dealt with misogyny – I’ve been harassed and groped; I’ve gone on nights out and had strangers try and grab me, rub their hands across my chest and squeeze my arse. I’ve listened to them say horrific things about what they’d do to me and what I deserved, but I’ve tried to never give up on the belief that those scumbags are in the minority. It gets harder every day though, with each new accusation and revelation, and when people who are supposedly in positions of power use their strength to harm and hurt others. These examples though, are the paragons I hold high – that prove to me that women are deserving of all the rights we fight for.


Most people say that their mother’s are the best and I’m sure that they’re right, but I don’t think I could ever be more amazed by anyone as I am by my mum. She is the pinnacle of everything I want to be and aim to emulate. Intelligent, classy, beautiful and heart breakingingly strong, there has never been a point when I’ve ever been let down by her. My Neens stands proud as the matriarch of a particularly mental and rowdy bunch, but I would never even consider doubting that she wouldn’t do anything and everything in her power to protect and nurture us. TMM’s mum reminds me of a Valkyrie and has done a pretty amazing job of raising a man who is everything a person should be and my sister taught me to not be afraid of unashamedly being exactly what I want to be. Every woman who I am proud enough to call family has struggled or suffered in someway and yet not let it warp them. They have thrived and made their way in the world that has not always been kind to them. They have done what they do and I love them endlessly for it.



I actually think that I don’t really have much say in who my friendship groups are – mostly my friends pick me. I’m too nervous and anti-social to make much of an effort, yet somehow I am lucky enough to know women who I love wholeheartedly for what they are.  I met girls at University who amazed me – who had travelled the world when I was scared of getting on the bus on my own; who had personalities so beautiful they shined right through their gorgeous faces and who pushed me out of my comfort zone to find fun and laughter where I didn’t know to look. These days, I hang around with women who are unashamedly brilliant; who struggle with depression, who strive to please others before themselves, who maintain full time jobs, lives and households and yet still make time to invite me out and laugh with them. I adore them and often wish they could see themselves as I do, because if they knew how powerful they were, they’d rule the world. 


There are so many women through history I look up to with almost obsessional wonder. Writers, scientists, astronauts, film stars – huge powerhouses of influence who changed the world inescapably yet are often overlooked. Ada Lovelace is always recognised as the daughter of Lord “Mad, Bad and Dangerous to know” Bryon, yet at 27 she created an algorithm which is considered to be the first computer system. In 1843! Hedy Lamarr was film actress famed for her beauty who also developed a radio guidance system which is a key factor in the creation of Wi-Fi and Bluetooth technology. JK Rowling created a not only a series of well loved books, but a whole fully formed world as a rebellion against her depression. These women were not afraid of their strengths and fought against male dominated societies to enrich a world that tried to push them down.

We Are All Wonder Women! by SarahSatrunA piece of art work by SarahSatrun off Deviant Art that I absolutely love.(https://sarahsatrun.deviantart.com/art/We-Are-All-Wonder-Women-368307378)

They are so many strong role models out there, yet so often all we hear about are examples again and again of women being victimised. There are women lambasted for not standing up against their attackers or hiding what happened to them, because apparently it’s better to blame someone who is already frightened rather than fight against the monster who committed the act in the first place. There are girls sent home from school for wearing “provocative” clothing, because apparently boys can’t control themselves; sending the message that our girls are asking for abuse and that our boys don’t have the strength of personality to overcome their baser impulses. Stories of abuse break and immediately some guys go on the defensive – shouting about how “it’s not all men!”, because they want to feel less uncomfortable and it’s easier to invalidate women’s claims than accept there is a problem with your own gender that needs to be addressed. Sure, you might not be a rapist, but I’d rather not spend time applauding you for not being a masochistic pig and shine a light on those that think it’s okay to grab and harass instead.

I want to wear short skirts in summer because I like my legs and not because I want someone to try and take a peek at my bits. I want to be in a bad mood because I am angry, and not have some idiot guffaw about how it’s my time of the month. I want to be a woman, who can be proud of how I look and what I like, and still be recognised as an actual person. Now, I’m not saying that I expect women to be perfect goddesses. Every one of those above is flawed because, guess what, they’re people. They will have lied or cheated, cried and raged, but what else can I expect? They are not princesses or damsels; they’re not warriors or crusaders. They are just women – and I am empowered by them every damn day.



The Freedom of Being a D*ck

I’m a little behind this week as I recover from the seasonal sniffle that seems to be making the rounds rather aggressively. Whilst I am usually quite cocky about my immune system (which considering how lazy, unhealthy and prone to complaining I am, is surprisingly strong), I was struck down when I least expected it. The culprit? My small yet totes adorable niece, who proceeded to give me ALL of the snotty kisses last weekend whilst clambering over me in an attempt to keep a sensible baby eye on her mum at all opportunities, but I am loathed to hold her too accountable. She been struggling for longer than I have with this cold and has mostly been dealing with it with the stoic reserve of a solid little baby bundle.

I however, unlike Thea, have not dealt with it well. At all. In fact, I have lamented my fate loudly and with much sorrow, and even had a sick day last Wednesday so I could lie about in my stitch onesie with tissues shoved up my nose. So poorly was I that I was unable to blog, craft or do anything remotely useful and consequently I am terribly behind on all my life plans. WOE. However, I am now (mostly) recovered, though still marvelling at the amount of snot that one person can produce, and getting back on track.

SIDE NOTE – Saying that, TMM had to go to bed last night at 7pm because he was fevered and shaky, so whilst it seems I might be on the mend, poor Muffin might be looking down the barrel of the sickness cannon.

Fighting off the dreaded mucus monster was not the only blow that was delivered last week though. On the Thursday that I’d gone back to work (but definitely should not have done) – people even commented on how much of a minger I looked) I managed to lose the stone from my engagement ring.

Broken Ring

It’s like something from the Pink Panther only with less David Niven and more sadness.

After moaning my way through the say, sweating and snotting all over the place like some vile blob creature, I finally made it to home time and sloped off to the shop to pick up some essentials and wait for my ride. It was all fine until I was standing on the steps, keeping a weather eye out for Hans von Manschaft (VW extraordinaire) when I caught sight of my ring and realised glaringly that the opal that should have been set in place was missing. For a minute it was all I could do to stand outside Aldi with a bag full of chilli ingredient’s and the complete inability to do anything but stand and stare at the little empty gap. Then followed (in quick succession) intense panicked searching of my bag, my pockets, the surrounding floor area and the path I’d taken round Aldi. Once it was clear I wasn’t going to find anything (damn Aldi and their speckled linoleum floor choices) I trudged back to my post in the car park and hunkered down. TMM turned up not long after and before he’d even got a hello out, had to put up with me fluctuating between raucous nose blowing and pathetic whimpers (which he did very well). As he pointed out between gently patting my sweaty head and handing me tissues; it wasn’t something I’d done on purpose, it was unfixable, and at least we were now even (he’d caught his ring between a cabinet and wall at work and smashed it to pieces – though it did basically save him from an unexpected finger amputation).

I think I was actually most stunned about how affected I was and it’s hit me rather hard. I’ve always been attached to “things” (I love more by the Hoarder code than Buddhist teachings) and have been known to cry over the loss of the most stupid things, but sitting and staring the gap where the stone should be has made me realise quite how much I’d invested into this little ring. I’m not a huge romantic (you may have guessed, it’s not like I’ve said it a MILLION times), and I’m not really majorly fussed by marriage. It’s not that I’ve ever been strictly against it, but I didn’t spent countless hours as a little girl planning my dream day (I was far too busy planning my life as a famous author). Even now, it’s not the wedding that really bothers me. Don’t get me wrong, I will marry the absolute crap out of TMM, but the whole ritual of the thing has never appealed. Yet, realising I had damaged the one thing that was a physical representation really shook me up.

TMM has not allowed me to wallow in my sadness though. We’ve gone through the various stages of loss – Despair, Anger, Silkiness ((so much sulkiness) and he’s been very supportive the whole way through. We’ve already been on two day trips to various vintage barns and I’ve told him that if worst comes to the worst, I am willing to accept a full size brass diving helmet and a non-working gramophone as a replacement.

I just really think these would perfectly reflect our love. Also I want to see Bucky in the helmet SO BAD.

He’s also taken me to Primark this weekend for a new cardigan (and shirt…and makeup) and brought himself a SPECTACULAR corduroy jacket that just screams Brokeback Mountain. (He’s under strict instructions not to wear it with his corduroy trousers though, because I don’t think I can love a man who wears a full camel coloured corduroy suit). We also went for a lovely walk around our old stomping grounds at Keele on Sunday too. Now that TMM is a totes profesh photographer (like every good Action Man, he comes with his own removable attachments including: official camera bag with pockets, 2x tripods and cameras of varying sizes), we go out all over the place so he can practice his skills. He, very complimentary, wants to take lots of photos of me so he can trial everything out. I, very unhelpfully, am the worst model ever and cannot stand still for more than 2 minutes. To that end, most of the pictures he takes are accompanied by at least 3 others of me being an absolute tit.

Face 4

Strike a pose

It’s made me realise though that this could just be who I am as a person. At the ripe old age of 26, I now know who I am. I have come to the conclusion that I am never going to be one of those Instagram girls with perfect contouring, shiny hair and a fantastic cleavage. I mean, it’s not through lack of trying, but it’s just too hard. I would rather spend an extra ten minutes in bed that try to shape my eyebrows and I get panic sweats trying to order a McDonalds, nevermind travelling the globe in a tiny bikini and letting stranges goggle over my arse. However, I am able to pull a truly awful face at a moment’s notice and I can throw down some mad shapes like an epileptic llama. You want a girl that can gurn like a good’un? I’m the one for you. Need someone to do a little impromptu dance number in the middle of the forest whilst you set your gear yp? You’re looking at her? Want a Facebook montage full of perfectly edited yet ridiculously hideous faces that will make you laugh yourself silly? You know who to call.

Let’s face it, I’m never going to be able to keep it straight for that long, and why bother when I look so hilarious otherwise? As someone pointed out, there’s a certain safety in looking like a complete berk. The worse you look, the funnier the pictures are and you end up achieving the perfect “bad” picture without even having to try. This way, I can tick off “approval from others”, “all of the likes on social media” and “helping TMM with his hobby” in one fell swoop and I didn’t even have to put any effort in. It’s a pretty good life lesson for self confidence as well. It can be really hard sometimes to look in the mirror and deal with trying to make your face look presentable when all you feel like is a pile of poop. Your hair is a mess, your eyeliner is wonky and your complexion is blotchy like a 3 year olds painting and your self esteem plummets before you’ve even left the house. This way, you can go out there, pull a stupid face and post a photo whilst having a giggle and within minutes you’ve got people telling you it’s hilarious. The barrier or your self-confidence is well and truly broken because, let’s face it, you couldn’t look worse if you tried and if people like you when you look like that, they’re going to be happy with you no matter what.

A couple of classics






Easy Like Sunday Morning…

Happy July the 4th dear readers! Thankfully this Independence Day has gone without the need for Will Smith to punch any aliens in the face (though there is still time) so I’d class it as a success. I’ve been lured in by Aldi’s Americana/Happy Canada Day range and bought more maple syrup and mac&cheese than is strictly healthy, and I’m hoping my little American pals are enjoying fireworks, fluffy pancakes and cheap watery beer with a patriotic fervour this evening.

Not to be outdone, TMM and I have allowed positive motivation to flow through us and have royally kicked some butt this weekend. Admittedly, I think the credit should mostly lie with Ross, but I was happily along for the ride. TMM has set down a new “weekend routine for us” which aims to cater to both TMM’s uncontrollable urge to be doing things all the time and get up at god awful times in the morning as well as my desperate laziness. According to the new system, we are to have Action!Saturdays and Lazy!Sundays, which really do exactly what they say on the tin and hopefully mean we get the best of both worlds.

For our very first Action!Saturday, we went in with all guns blazing. Admittedly, the early get up was a slight struggle for me – TMM had to do his best puppy impression and kidnap the duvet before trying to wrangle me into a suitable outfit – but once I was out of bed we really went for it. After a quick nip to the shop for breakfast pancakes, we did a tour of some of the TMM clan; dropping off some money and a singular shoe at the parents (both related to the new catapult business TMM Senior has started rather excellently), and visiting his sister, her fella, their baby and the doggo. After suitable family bonding, we went on to Chirk Castle (YAY for the National Trust Membership) which was rather splendid and in full bloom.

As you can see, the gardens were looking pretty spectacular – and obviously we had to try all the period costumes (once the children had gone). We have now both decided that chainmail is a must for our summer wardrobe.  

After Chirk, we went to visit Molly (who is carrying on with a strength that only old ladies and mature cheeses possess) before returning home to have a chippie, bleach my hair and finally getting the bedroom gallery wall hung.

feature wall

There’s still a big gap in the middle – waiting for the perfect piece of tropical wallpaper, but at least everything else is up now, and I’m quite proud of those homemade hanging frames.

Lazy!Sunday started a little more my kind of speed – TMM went for boyish adventures around Rudyard Lake with his camera whilst I stayed in bed until midday and finished The Prince and the Zombie, Lumberjanes and two episodes of Due South. Which, whilst is not necessarily “active” is still very much “action”.

{Side bar! (to be shouted in the same way Gru shouts FREEZE RAY in the first Despicable Me) Both of those books are excellent.

  • The Prince and The Zombie – a fable interlacing Tibetian and Buddihist teachings. Not quite the eye-opening, world shattering magical book I thought it would be, but enjoyable none-the-less. I do have to say I was very much rooting for the zombie (which I think may have defeated the point) with his golden top half, silver bottom half and mane of turquoise. Boy could he spin a good yarn.
  • Lumberjanes (Volume 1). This one was literally as great as I hoped. Girl Scouts kicking butt, taking names and being SUPER SUPPORTIVE all the way through. I desperately want to go to a camp for Hardcore Lady Types and am going to be working towards my badges ASAP.


Look at those front covers? How could they be anything but excellent?

The rest of the day was lazily spent dying my hair and slobbing on the couch eating chocolate pillows, so a win all round I’d say. 

Blue to Blonde to Steel Amethyst (which is clearly my new My Little Pony name)

Bucky has also been doing his best to prove how action he is, bless his little furry bum. Last weekend he vanished for 3 days (cue much wailing and wallowing and resurgence of abandonment issues all over the place) but eventually turned up – swanning in and singing Catmaninov at the top of his tiny cat lungs. Anyway, owing to his desperation for fusses (be it by sitting on your back, watching you intently whilst you wee or just singing the songs of his people loudly whenever you move from his sightline) and his skinny little belly, we think he might have been stuck somewhere, rather than actively avoiding us. Either way, I think he felt our loss as deeply as his own and has since tried to buy his way back into the good books by bringing home and depositing two dead birds and a decapitated (and de-eared) rabbit in various positions around the house. Which, whilst the thought is appreciated, is something I could really do without. (I have forgone putting the pictures on here so as not to affect those of a gentle disposition).

We also spent a good half an hour last night trapped in the bedroom with a very scared and very much alive mouse, who’d obviously been brought in and then abandoned earlier in the day. Eventually we managed to capture it using a cereal bowl, the toilet brush holder and a piece of card before TMM unceremoniously flung it out of the front door.

Overall I have to say we haven’t done too badly. The sun still shines, the birds still sing and we’re getting one step closer to the ideal of travelling the world in a renovated van like little hipster hobos. One action based step at a time.

Sense and Smearability

Bonjour mon petit filous.

I really struggled this week with what to blog about (and you should all be immensely proud I didn’t just give up and not write anything – personal growth that is). Considering I feel like I’ve been the busiest bee there has ever been, there hasn’t really been that much I can actually write about. Someone suggested I do another post on Molly, but she’s been incredibly boring recently and hasn’t made the effort to be particularly noteworthy at all (I have shouted at her for it, but she’s been poorly so I can’t be too harsh). I’ve also tried look at the news, but I mainly end up hopeless and depressed whenever I do that. Except when it’s something about Justin Trudeau’s butt, though I’m not sure if I can justify a whole post on that. Though I totally could. Just saying. That man is wonderful in all ways, and it’s nice that his bum reflects that.

Though I can say that on the news-front, I have enjoyed watching videos of Emma Watson giving what-for about her Vanity Fair magazine cover; she is such a babe. Like her, I do find it almost inconceivable that in this day and age, people (specifically the media) still struggle to understand the concept of Feminism. When will we realise that by identifying as a feminist, you are not trying to bully other women, bully men or in fact do anything other than ask that women be allowed to do whatever they want with their own bodies and minds? Emma Watson has boobs and Emma Watson should be at liberty to do whatever the hell she wants with them without having to defend her choices. I mean, it’s not like we’re all grown ups living in a society that is supposedly one of the most advanced in the modern world…

vanity fair

(photo curtsey of Vanity Fair) 

FEMINISM, huh (yeah) what is it good for? Absolutely EVERYTHING! 

Speaking of things specifically linked to the joys of being a lady, this week also heralded the not so joyous event of my first smear test. I was a little unsure about mentioning this, but being as over half the world’s population have a vagina, and should (if able) be attending something similar, there isn’t much point in being squeamish. Now, whilst I am a firm advocator of such examinations and the importance of them in regards to women’s health, I can safely say that it is Very Not Fun. Surprisingly I was not as embarrassed by the whole “foof showing” as I anticipated, which was a positive outcome. The nurse was very no nonsense and after the amount of time I’d spent making sure the entire lower half of my body was as impeccable as it could possibly be (Including freshly painted toe nails) I kind of think I was ready. The rest of the event was not quite as great though. I mean, who knew cervixes could play hide and seek? Not I! But apparently, very much like the rest of me, my internal lady bits are all about remaining safely inside and unseen, and the term “fettling” was used which is not something that instilled me with confidence. However, she has made a note for next time – a kind of treasure map for future cervix hunters, so that’s something. I just have to wait for my result now, so fingers and (perfectly painted) toes crossed everything is hunky dory and my cervix can live to hide another day.

Mainly though, I’m just going to have to tell you more things about my life. There are going to be no morals or profound messages at the end of this, so it’s purely a narcissistic exercise. Sorry.

On each other’s encouragement, the Man Muffin and I have been being VERY HEALTHY (to a degree). Long gone are the days of chocolate pillows for every meal (which I’m still a bit bitter about). Instead there is fruit and yoghurt for breakfast! There are dried banana snacks! There are meals that sometimes have up to THREE portions of vegetables! Shit is getting serious. MM has also been working the cross trainer on a tri weekly basis – he likes to come in and rub his sweaty forehead on my cheek in the morning as proof of how far he’s done, so that’s “nice” too. I have said I might possibly maybe think about having a go again, but I don’t want to push myself too hard, as I am the most insanely lazy person. I have agreed (somewhat truculently) to do the Plank Challenge with him, meaning we have to plank for increasingly lengthy times on a daily basis. So far I have managed a totally of 40 seconds, which I think is more than enough, but Ross is very PE Teacher-eqsue in his encouragement. Bastard.

I’ve also got back into reading like WOAH as well which is super great. I had a bit of a break over Christmas, spending my time doing mindlessly soothing sudokus, but I am now back into it with a vengeance. I’ve recently finished The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet by Becky Chambers (and the sequel) which greatly spoke to my childhood memories of Farscape and Firefly. Adventures in space are always a winner in my eyes, and I enjoyed these two so much I even wrote a little thank you to the author – who cheerfully wrote back! I’ve also just completed The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley and am a bit weirdly obsessed with it. I’ve been forcing it on people desperately so I can have someone to talk about it with. Beautifully visual (with the help of a synesthetic main character) and very intelligently written, there’s also a great little twist that caused a good bit of controversy on the Good Read’s discussion board (and was therefore obviously something I was All About).


Please read this book. Please. I mean, just…please

Both were ridiculously enjoyable and I thoroughly recommend them both if you’re between books at the moment. I’ve just taken a slight detour to some Arsene Lupin short stories, who’s always been a firm favourite (Imagine if Sherlock Holmes was a French gentleman thief and your kind of not really there), but I’ve been promising the Man Muffin I’ll read The Master and Margarita for the longest time, so I’m going to pick up that this week if only to appease him. If I can get that finished before next week, I’m back to my book a week quota and that is always grounds for a celebratory trip to Waterstones.

Otherwise things are continuing pretty much as they always do. I’m hoping this week will bring various exciting events and inspirational situations for next week’s post. If not, mainly I’m going to be hoping Molly pulls her finger out…



Love in the Time of Commercialism

Hello my lovely little cabbages. I must apologise because I’ve been a bit remiss in posting recently – I’ve been distressingly busy and spent all my free time either napping or lying face down on the floor groaning. Ross had to threaten to return my boots (which were a gift to myself for starting and maintain a blog) to spur me into action. And let’s be honest, I can’t really let this date go past with some kind of personal commentary now, can I?

Now, as you may or may not be aware (though if you’re not you must have managed to avoid going into any shop anywhere for the last two weeks – bloody hearts everywhere!) today is Valentine’s Day. On the whole, I’ve always been a bit of a misog at heart and have never really enjoyed this particular international revel. When you’re single, I like to think the more appropriate title is “Single Awareness Day” which I remember celebrating a few years ago by visiting a Starbucks in Manchester with some friends and having a cup of hot chocolate over a romantic tea light, and when you’re in a relationship, it mainly just induces panic buying and an influx of unnecessary expenses.


This is an Xkcd comic (for which I take no credit) that I find hilariously relevant each year. If I actually had to be serious and do presents and giant romantic gestures, I would definitely end up with my hand stapled to my face.

Thankfully the Man Muffin isn’t too fussed about Valentine’s Day (or at least that’s what he tells me…) and we let the occasion slide by without a hoohar. There was the year he brought me a giant card and a cuddly puppy toy holding a heart with the express purpose of making me cringe (and possibly testing the boundaries of my conviction to avoidance) but we try not to talk about that because it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I think he probably wouldn’t mind celebrating if I were that type of girl, but I’ve told him to count his blessings that I don’t expect him to go through the seemingly typical rigmarole of standing in line at Pandora being eyed up by the bouncer in order to buy me an overpriced and tasteless charm for a bracelet I’ll never wear…Gosh you can just feel my distaste through the screen, can’t you?!

Now, I really wanted to be snotty and annoying (which I often do) I could give you a brief history of the day. I could talk about how Valentine was actually a Christian who was arrested and shipped of to Emperor Claudius II in Rome for aggressively bigging up Christianity, and although originally liked by the emperor, he was eventually condemned to death by being beaten with clubs and finally beheaded. I mean, what says “I love you” like celebrating the day a man was brutally killed for expressing his religious beliefs by pandering to money making schemes wrapped in a gaudy red bow?

But I shan’t do that. Because that would be petty and I am a mature and responsible lady now. Honest.

However, what I will do is admit that I am one of those annoying people who belongs to the judgey hipster crowds that thinks if you’re in a relationship when you like each other enough to buy gifts, you might as well do it whenever the hell you feel like it rather than waiting for a specific day. Ross buys me flowers just because he seems them in the shop and thinks they look pretty, which I think is bloody lovely. There’s no commitment to a date or panicked responsibilities, there’s just a lovely little bouquet on the front seat of the car and a sheepish smile on his face when he picks me up from work on a random Wednesday night.

So after those last two paragraphs it might not sound like it, but I am actually happy for other people to do Valentine’s Day however they want. If you want a certain day full of rose petals and heart shaped chocolates and helium balloons with tiny naked Cupid butts on them, you just go right ahead. I’m going to just sit in the side lines and wait for all the shiny banners and stupidly oversized cards to make way for the truly vomit-inducing amount of Easter Eggs that I know are hiding in the stockrooms.

Perhaps somewhat hypocritically though, I am completely and irrevocably in love with the notion of Galentine’s Day. Originating from Parks and Rec (still one of the best programs ever, don’t even doubt it) it’s a day when you get to joyously celebrate your gal pals (please be aware I equally encourage boys to celebrate their lady friends in a non-romantic way, and also girls and boys to celebrate their male chums in a Palentine’s celebration, or maybe a Guyentine?). Mainly I think I’ve been drawn in by the “code” – Hoes before Bros. Ovaries before Broveries. Uteruses before Duderuses and the excuse to get my mum some truly tasteless gifts (just you wait Mother, I’ve got a great one for you this weekend).


These pictures are brought to you by the show Parks and Rec and the goddess that is Leslie Knope. #KnopeforPresident

Though I suppose in the end it doesn’t matter either way whether or not I like Valentine’s more or less than Galentine’s, or indeed if anybody else does. It’s just about being generally lovely and delightful to each other and spending a little time whenever you can to make sure your nearest and dearest know you love them, especially in a world that’s getting scarier by the minute.