Go SOUTH

...life is peaceful there.

Apparently. Or very very cold.

As The Swiss is always complaining that I never ever write nice things about him (I'm sure I did at some point, but I digress) I'll throw in another shameless plug.

Even though it was in The Telegraph. And I have since had to explain that no, actually they are not nude mountaineers.

I mean, c'mon. After the conversation I had with The Swiss yesterday when he went running in the cold in just a t-shirt and shorts and the damage it did to *ahem* a certain appendage, can you imagine what would happen being out in the snow for prolonged lengths of time?

Naked?

I know I can't relate but I'm sure my male readers may.

Not just another day in the office then, eh?

Look at Your Walls

I'm off to see my friend Chris' exhibition at the Design Museum tonight.

He did the same projection in Sketch last year, I can only imagine how I'd feel if the wallpaper started moving after a few drinks...

Okay... it's the Bloggies

And you know what that means.

A whole load of new and interesting blogs to explore, to keep me giggling hysterically, nodding with glee or simply yelling obscenities at the screen.

*ahem*

So, then. You can vote here.

And enjoy making new friends. Here. Here. And here.

And in no way was this a shameless ploy for me to influence any of you to vote for Anna and her Little Red Boat.

Really.

But should you be looking, she's under "Best British or Irish weblog".

Political faux pas

I try not to talk politics with my parents, although sometimes the temptation to stir a little is far too great and I just can't seem to help myself.

My father, you see, is very supportive of all my beliefs. As long as they coincide with his own, which does make the discussion of anything political a very delicate matter indeed.

In 1996 I once made the mistake of voting for a party my father loathed. I was a student at the time and so the party promising lower tuition fees, tax cuts and an increase in healthcare spending won my vote. My father, a staunch Conservative based purely on his business acumen (as opposed to any personal beliefs apparently) was horrified.

Last October on a visit home the subject came up at a dinner party, the ensuing argument,with my mother red faced, my father stony faced, our guests silent and my sister and I holding our ground, ended in a stalemate.

Surely, we argued, you raised us to have our own beliefs and to fight for what we believe in?

As long as it's not a liberal or socialist government, apparently. We Marquise are very stubborn.

My father still smarts a bit (although I know he is also very proud) of the fact I chose to work for the news site I did. His father was Labour through and through, and a very close friend of James Callaghan. My father still has books signed "From Uncle Jimmy". So how and why he took up the blue banner I am never sure. And I've learned it's better not to ask.

And now, the Conservatives have won the Canadian elections, albeit on a minority. But a Conservative Government after all.

I'm dreading speaking to my father about it, as I'm not sure how much of a benefit Harper will be (although kudos on the GST, boyo) and I'm wondering how long it will take for him to snuggle up to Blair and Bush.

I think Cathy summed it up the best with her final line.

Please don't fuck it up.

A date is for life, not just for blogging...

Says Kenny, fixing me with a very long, very serious look.

I have been hibernating, most of January. Not quite a recluse, yet definitely not taking part in any society highlife. I have, in truth, been in Bubble World.

And Bubble World is indeed a very very nice place to be, it is tranquil, peaceful, calm. Yet at the same time, unsurprisingly anti-social.

But January is indeed a maudlin month, non? We're all broke, or so I am, desperately counting pennies and rushing to Coinstar. Staying in with friends and DVD's, coffee at Bar Italia and the British Museum on weekends. The weather encourages us to stay inside, wrapped in fleeces and duvets, curled up with good books (my guilty pleasure this month, Nancy Mitford)Finding ways to pass the time.

Indeed on my birthday, which came and went without the usual fanfare and excitement turned out to be impromptu hot chocolates at Paul and the Henri Rousseau exhibition (because The Lovely had free tickets) and an evening stroll along the South Bank with the lovelies.

And so, walking along the Broadway with Kenny on Saturday night, I decided it was perhaps time to move out of Bubble World, return to socialising, shake off the January cobwebs and now I'm back to heels (albeit with a slight limp, physio starts tomorrow) maybe even date a bit, get the blog back on track.

Kenny, fixing me with a long serious stare...

*Ahhh, M... A date is for living, not just for blogging...*

I may have to rethink that angle then.

Trust

Main Entry: pe·do·phile
Pronunciation: 'pEd-&-"fIl, 'ped-
Variant: or chiefly British pae·do·phile /'pEd-/
Function: noun
: one affected with pedophilia called also pedophiliac
Pedophilia: sexual perversion in which children are the preferred sexual object

Main Entry: paedophile
n : an adult who is sexually attracted to children [syn: pedophile]

And so the teacher at the centre of the Kelly row suggests that he is not a paedophile, and therefore does not pose a risk to children.

I tend to disagree.

Paedophilia is not a disease, nor an ailment. It cannot be cured. It is a sexual preference and like all sexual preferences it is up to that person whether or not they can control their sexual urges. In 1980, he was 34 and an adult. With adult desires. The pupil he was convicted of assaulting was 15.

Whether or not she consented, or whether or not she was the one pursuing the fact still remains that she was an underage child and that by acting on any impulse he abused a position of authority. I appreciate that it is in no way as black and white as that, and that I am in no way an expert on the human mind psychologically or physically, yet I have lived in the shadow of the fallout of a paedophile’s advances. I know what the emotional scars can do.

At 15 years of age, regardless of how worldly I felt and how mature for my age I was, I was still 15. Not completely developed mentally, physically, psychologically and in no way prepared for the emotional complications of a relationship with a much older man. I can only speak for myself, and not for the above, who went on to marry, have 3 children and maintain their relationship for a further 19 years.

All the power to them.

But the facts are still thus. Whereas he may never pose another threat to children, he was at one time attracted to a one. He may yet again and therein lay the risks. He says he is not a paedophile, and he will not “re-offend”.
He may not, it is not uncommon for an offender to assault one victim over a prolonged period of time and never re-offend.

So does he deserve to continue to teach? No. If not only for the sake of his own security and safety.

Young women are incredibly impressionable, or so I was at that time. The relationships we form with our tutors and teachers are incredibly precarious and are a cornerstone in forming the relationships we build in future, at that age I know I pushed the boundaries to see how far I could go. It is easy to develop that spark, that crush, ready to embark on a great love affair. In truth I struggle to believe that at that age we have the emotional capability to understand our desires, let alone the full appreciation of what it is to conduct a sexual relationship (let alone enjoy it).

And so if we cannot trust in our elders to act responsibly and morally, how then are we to develop stable relationships in future?

A little Dylan Thomas and a little Rousseau

Clown in the Moon

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Dylan Thomas

Proof: Jesus was a Canadian

Probably.

I mean. He had the tree hugging, Birkenstock wearing, granola eating persona.

And then this.

Surely he was Canadian.

Excuses, excuses...

I'm not ignoring this on purpose.

Really. I'm not.

It's just there was a huge event in my life yesterday and I'm still reeling from it.

And I have a copy deadline in, like 3 hours which I've known about for about a month but ummm... everything just kind of took priority and the *It's okay, I'll do it tonight* philosophy has quite run its course. And then some. And it's half written.

And I've a bit of writer's block.

And I had a few days off last week due to planes being delayed, an ankle being sprained (but not broken and healing quite nicely thank you very much) and I'm backtracking to get everything at work caught up, book flights, appease colleagues and focus a little more because I'm also off on Wednesday for another monumental occassion.

So please bear with me. I'll be back with more tales of my daring do.

And more of my ands. And things.

Counting down

It's less than a week away.

And I'm ever so excited.

I love birthdays, I love my birthday even more. Last year I had 4 parties.

Yes.

4

But then again, it was a big event. It was a big year.

There was a long boozy lunch on the top floor of Smith's, followed by my first day back at University (although technically night school) with the not so great feeling of sobering up. Although that was then followed by more drinkies.

And then the dinner party for my nearest and dearest a week later.

And then more cocktails and dancing the following week.

At the end, this lady was exhausted...

So this year, it will be a little quieter. As somehow 31 feels just a whole lot older than say, 30. Although, still secretly looking forward to the whole day being all about *me*

Not that I am attention seeking or anything...

A Prologue

A little late posting the first of 2006, granted but I have been away.

And my flight was delayed hours and hours because of fog and ice and all sorts last night and I needed to remember all the magic and charm of the *Swedish Effect* (I will explain this in great detail later) in order to stay calm and relaxed when missing the last Stansted Express.

And then the delays in getting baggage off the plane. And a crowded baggage hall in Stansted.

And then the scrum to get the coach.

And then the coach trip.

And making my way home and arriving after 3am.

And then the story of the sprained ankle, which will be part of my very important and exciting next post.

Which will also incorporate the amazing time I had in Sweden and the most amazing people who came into my life.

But in the meantime, I'm hobbling off to see the doctor with my very pretty, but very swollen, purple ankle. And when I've had a chance to get my feet back on the ground, howeverly gingerly, and had a chance to slide back into reality (hmmm...!) I'll be back...