Tea, Toast, Theatre and...

Theatre geek, knee-sock-wearer, aesthetics fan, bookish, owner of ambiguous accent, daydreamer, Northern in most things.

GPOY

GPOY

1 week ago

When you just want to ask someone what on earth their deal is.

O captain, my captain 

God I miss this. I.e.falling. I.e. Gymnastics.

Cry.

God I miss this. I.e.falling. I.e. Gymnastics.

Cry.

3 weeks ago

Guys, your doctor might tell you to lose a few pounds – but the taxi driver will not; the Daily Mail will not. You won’t open the Sun and compare your own cock to that of a well-endowed model. You won’t get dressed for a party and worry if you look like a slut, or get called a slut, or get raped on the way home “because you look like a slut”. In the rare event that you do get raped, the police won’t seem to mind what you were wearing. Lawyers won’t ask what you were wearing; your mother won’t ask what you were wearing.

When you dance in a ballroom, you won’t have to do it backwards in high heels; when you speak in a boardroom, you won’t have to second-guess yourself in case you’re coming across as “shrill”. You reached that boardroom with the grain, not against it. You didn’t need to look hard for role models. If they cut your genitals when you were an infant, they didn’t expect it to make much difference to your enjoyment of sex. If they cut your genitals while you were giving birth … Ah, but then you will never give birth and nobody will make you feel guilty about whether you breastfeed or not. You don’t judge yourself for eating a cake; you haven’t, since childhood, been encouraged by the media and by every careless comment from your family to have a relationship with food that borders on psychosis.

Robert Webb on Feminsim in the New Statesman (YES man!)