As a mother to two daughters, I’m extremely conscious of the way women and young girls are portrayed in the media and how this influences how they feel about their own bodies. There has been a lot in the press lately about the use of airbrushing and younger and younger girls wanting to wear make-up, but what can we do about it? How can we make our daughters feel good about themselves without closing them off from the real world?
Wednesday is my day for volunteering at Belle’s school. I sit on a coach with 50 small children and we all get taken to the nearest swimming pool. My job is to look after the girls in the changing rooms, supervise the switchover between the year threes and the year fours, and make sure everyone goes home with the right pants on. It is an intense couple of hours.
This weekend I was tagged in a meme by Hari at Thank You For The Days, asking me to write a letter of complaint. How it works is this – I have to write a letter, complaining about something (natch), and then I tag some other people, thus triggering a ripple of whingeing across the blogosphere.
Sounds easy doesn’t it? A nice simple meme for a sleepy Sunday evening. The twist is that it has to be about something true. Now I’m not saying my posts are normally outrageous lies – I’m not really a single fifty-year-old northern man or anything. Nor am I claiming that ‘I’m just not the moaning type’ – cue regular readers snorting with disbelief. Now that really would be an outrageous lie.
This afternoon Belle and I went to see Streetdance, the British dance movie featuring Diversity, Flawless and George Sampson – basically it was a warm up for watching Britain’s Got Talent this evening…
One of the main attractions of course is all the flesh on display – taut, sweaty, topless young men, leaping and bounding, lifting the girls above their heads and making it look easy.
Then there is the opportunity to indulge my fantasy of being an equally taut, gorgeous young street dancer, spending my days passionately throwing myself around London and my nights holding dance offs in painfully trendy clubs.
About a week ago I had a dream. Now I know listening to other people’s dreams is terribly dull, almost as boring as listening to children read, but bear with me and I will do my best to inject enough smut to make it bearable.
In my dream, Nick Clegg was secretly in love with me. Regular readers will know I’ve always had a soft spot for Clegg, even before the TV debates propelled him into a lot of women’s ‘top ten politicians I’d have a go on’ list. I don’t know if I am attracted to his liberal principles or if it’s just the fact that I always seem to be drawn to losers, but whatever the reason, I quite fancy him.
I know we’re all getting a little bored of the election now, but I felt I needed one final post to wind up my recent splurge of thoughtful political comment. Don’t you just love this photo? This is clearly Dave’s ‘let’s try to look like I care what this black man in Plymouth is saying’ face.
So, it has just been announced that Gordon Brown has officially offered his resignation to the Queen, she has accepted, and Brown has gone through the motions of recommending Cameron to form the new government. (Get me with my finger on the pulse). A formal coalition between the Conservatives and the Liberal Democrats now looks almost certain, especially as Cameron seems keen to compromise on pretty much anything to get into power – electoral reform, inheritance tax, income tax reform – apparently no policy is too significant for the Tories to dump/amend as required.