Women’s Rights – Is Equality Something That Can Be Taken Away?

There is a conversation spreading across parts of the internet that should concern every woman, regardless of her politics, views and beliefs.

In the manosphere, and increasingly among some women who support it, people are openly asking whether women should still have rights.

Not because women have done something collectively wrong.  But because in their eyes, some women have.

Women have spent centuries fighting for the right to make decisions about our own lives.

We wanted to vote. We wanted the right to be educated and to work, gaining our own financial independence. We wanted rights over our own bodies. We wanted to be able to leave an unhappy or abusive marriage without being treated as though we had committed some terrible social crime.

We fought for those rights, and we won them.

But here is the uncomfortable question.

What happens when the freedom we fought for is threatened to be taken away because some men do not agree with the views of some women?

Ultimately, women do not need men to agree with us.  We don’t need other women to agree with us either.

One of the biggest things the women's rights movement achieved was establishing the principle that women are capable, able and allowed to make decisions for ourselves.

This sounds so obvious now.  But it wasn't always.

For the majority of history, women’s roles were expected to be wives, mothers and homemakers. In some cases, particularly among working-class women, they were also expected to work. Unless you had money, women have always worked, but wife, mother and homemaker remained our primary expected roles.  We have always burned the candle at both ends.

Those roles were restricted by law, by money, by societal expectations and, quite often, by our fathers and later, our husbands.

Women knew that we were worth more than the value that had been placed upon us, and we fought against it.

But equality was never supposed to mean that women would be deemed as incapable of making mistakes and if some women did, that that equality would be questioned and taken away.

Freedom includes the freedom to make bad decisions.  And that is where things get complicated.

Because if we say that women should be trusted to make their own choices, we cannot also argue that every choice made by a woman is automatically a good one, simply because she is a woman.  We also cannot argue that if a section of women do not make good choices, that their choices stand against all women.

That isn't equality.  That's infantilisation on the one part and a puppeteer kind of control on the other.

Those two positions might be completely different, but they have something important in common.

Neither of them treats women as fully autonomous adults.

If I am allowed to vote, work, earn my own money, choose whether and whom to marry, choose whether to have children or not, and decide what happens to my own body, then I am also capable of being told that I have made a bad decision.

I am capable of being criticised for that decision.  I am capable of being called out on it.

I don't suddenly require a counsellor and a participation trophy because someone disagrees with me.

Women are adults.  We can deal with disagreement.

At least, we should be able to.

And this is where the manosphere which lurks primarily on the internet comes into it.

There is a second, silent sentence when it comes to women's rights.

“Women want equality? Fine. Give them equality. Let’s see how that works out for them.”

It is the equivalent of handing someone enough rope to hang themselves and seeing what they do with it.

We sometimes talk about “women” as though we all want exactly the same things.  We don't.

Women disagree with each other. A lot.

We disagree about abortion, sex and gender. We disagree about pornography. We disagree about prostitution, sex work and OnlyFans.

We disagree about marriage. We disagree about motherhood. We disagree about whether women should prioritise careers.

We disagree about what equality should actually look like.

That is perfectly normal.  In fact, it is inevitable.

The problem we have is that a movement founded on giving women individual freedom can sometimes become incredibly uncomfortable with individual women who exercise that freedom in the “wrong” way.  The wrong way deemed by some men, but also some women.

You are free to choose.  But please choose correctly.

That's not really freedom.

Women are as capable of participating in the same behaviours that harm people as men are.  But why does that lead to calls online to remove women's voting rights, question whether women should sit on juries, or argue that women taking antidepressants should not be allowed to work?

Women are not infallible and some attack our own sex just as well as some men.

Women can be sexist.  Women can bully other women.  Women can shame other women for their choices.

Women can judge mothers, childfree women, married women, single women, older women, younger women and pretty much anyone else who doesn't fit whatever particular definition of “womanhood” is fashionable at the time.

Some women have decided that men can become women, and other women strongly disagree with that.

But if true equality is the goal, then you have to accept the entire package.

Women are capable of brilliance, courage, leadership and compassion.

We are also capable of selfishness, hypocrisy, cruelty and spectacularly bad judgement.

Just like men.

Equality isn't about women being better, or worse than men.  It is about accepting that we are human too.

Sometimes women simply make a bad decision.  I don't have to respect every decision a woman makes in order to respect her right to make it.

Perhaps the easiest way to demonstrate what I mean is to use myself as an example.

I do not support illegal immigration.

I do not support men who identify as women.

I do not support women who choose to put themselves on OnlyFans.

I do not support the women protesting outside the Lindsay Clancy trial and I certainly don't believe that experiencing motherhood, mental illness or postnatal difficulties makes someone Lindsay Clancy.

Empathy for someone experiencing those struggles is one thing.  Suggesting that her actions somehow represent motherhood or mental illness as a whole is something entirely different.

And this is where the idea of women as a monolith becomes particularly dangerous.  Because some men do see us as such.

They look at women who support certain things and choose to believe that because one group of women believes a thing, this means that all women do and all women are therefore responsible.

And from there, it becomes very easy for them to argue that perhaps women shouldn't have the rights and freedoms we fought so hard to obtain because, apparently, we can’t handle them.

We have seen this most recently in the Clancy case.  There have been calls to take away women’s right to vote.  The right to serve on a jury.  That if a woman is on anti-depressants, she should not be allowed to work.

But here's the thing.

I don't need every person on the planet to agree with me.  I don't even want them to.

If women are more than capable of making their own decisions and forming their own views then you have to accept that they are capable of making those decisions and forming those views that you think are wrong.

That is what autonomy means.

Some men (and women) seem to think that equality is a mere experiment.  That they have given us enough rope to hang ourselves with.  That our actions will somehow prove their point that women did not deserve rights in the first place.

These people have lost sight of what equality is.  Because if we are handed that rope, it now belongs to us too and cannot be taken away.  We are not children. 

We are allowed to be wrong just as we are allowed to be right.  A group of women does not speak for the whole.   They do not represent the whole.

If that was truly the case, then surely the eye would have to turn to men.  Men commit the majority of murders, rapes, assaults.  When a woman is murdered or raped, the questions that rise are “Was she asking for it” – “What did she do to provoke him?” or my favourite, which is not even a question “Women lie”.

But do not look at men this way.  Nor should we.  Because those that commit a crime do not represent the whole.

Perhaps the ultimate victory of women's rights is proving that women are strong enough to get things wrong, learn from bad decisions, disagree with one another, change our minds and carry on making our own choices anyway.

Because equality was never supposed to mean that women would have to live, view and perform under the terms of what men agree.

It was supposed to mean that we were finally allowed to be wrong on our own terms.

The Lindsay Clancy Case Has Turned People Insane

I don't want to talk about the whys and wherefores. I don't want to talk about whether she did it, whether she was insane at the time, whether her husband did it.

I have my personal opinions of course, but that is not the point of this post today.

This trial has proved, beyond any other before it that cameras do not belong in a court room.  Reporters, yes.  But the wave of insanity, pardon the pun, that has come around with this case is like nothing I have ever seen.

Everyone has an opinion.  But respect, and thought of those three poor children who died, who were murdered; seems to have gone out of the window.

Opinions have been decided, camps have been formed and honestly. at this point, everyone has lost track of what is important.

This case is about three children.  Three children that should not be used as a political football.  Three children that are being used to push agendas.

There are those of course who have looked at the evidence, looked at the testimony and have formed their own opinions.  That is their right.  That is our right.  But people have taken this case and blown it so far out of proportion that everything else has been lost.  

No one, except Lindsay Clancy and possibly Patrick will ever know what actually happened on that awful day.  The jury will make the decision from a legal stand point.  

But the focus of this case has moved away from the actual case itself and has moved into two main camps.  Both to be honest at their extreme points have lost all reason.   They have moved the case into men versus women.  Women versus men.

On the one side you have women protesting at the Court house.  Wearing pink shirts and decrying "We could all be Lindsay".  No, we couldn't.  Post natal depression turning into psychosis is rare.  

Statistics tell us that it affects 0.1% of women.  This rises to 20% if you have bi-polar 1 disorder or schizoaffective disorder after a first baby.  If you have had previous post natal psychosis with a pregnancy, this rises again to 50%.

So a woman can have experienced post natal depression with a previous pregnancy, as is the case with Lindsay, and still only at 0.1% risk of psychosis.

Is post natal depression awful?  Yes.  It can be.   But it can also be treated.  With medication.  With counselling.  With support.  But it is not the same as post natal psychosis and it is disrespectful to say "I could be Lindsay" when you truly have no idea of how far down that rabbit hole can take a person.

The women that are attending the Court, protesting, claiming to know how she felt, really have no clue and again, it is wholly disrespectful.  To her, to the proceedings and to those children.

Then you have the other side.  The people, both men and women, though more of the former; who claim that if Lindsay Clancy "gets off" and by this they mean is found not guilty by way of insanity; that it opens a flood gates for all women to kill their children and get off scot off.

Firstly, if she is found not guilty by reason of insanity, that is not getting off with anything.  She will be placed in a mental facility.  As a side note to this, I believe that anyone, men or women who receive their verdict should be placed in a mental facility for life.  If you have taken a life, you do not, should not, get a second chance.  That does not mean however that those people belong in prison.  They belong in a secure mental facility and should stay there.

There are nine women and three men on the jury.  Apparently that means that the women will be biased, as if women do not have logical thought and reason.

There are calls for women to lose the vote if Lindsay Clancy is found NGRI.  That women should not serve on jury trials.  That women should not hold important positions.  That questions should be asked in job interviews.  Because "hormones" can kill.

This is far more than hormones.  This is psychosis.  Rare.  But real.

If you have killed with intent, you deserve prison.  But claiming that a woman experiencing hormones can be capable of murder is, and again pardon the pun, insane.

This trial has shown that the internet, TikTok, Facebook and Twitter have no place in showing trials.  It has brought out the absolute worst in people.  A trial belongs in the court room, not on social media.

Neither men nor women are coming out of this looking good.  From the "I could be Lindsay" crowd to the "women can't be trusted, take us back to the 18th century crowd".

Three children are dead. They died horrifically. however and whoever did it.  But they have been lost in this trial and the social media furor.  It is time that they were found.

Why Perimenopause Set Me Free

 I have always been a person who internalised their emotions.  Not just internalised, compartmentalised.

What I have come to realise since hitting perimenopause is that I am no longer that person and letting my emotions out is something that I am not used to.  At all.

When you internalise and compartmentalise your emotions, it becomes all about control.   You become fully in control of your emotions in respect as to who you let see the real you.

When I was at my lowest part of my life barely anyone knew and if they did; they had truly no idea how far down the rabbit hole to depression- and yes, suicidal thoughts - I had fallen. 

Because I did not let them see.

There were reasons, and more reasons, as to why I became this way.  But that is the way I was.  For decades. 

On the outside, I was happy. Smiling.  Easy going.  On the inside, I was far from that.

The brain is a clever thing.  But it can also deceive you. 

Because it turns out that if you try to convince the outside world for long enough that you are happy and not sad, you start to believe your own lie.  And when you do that, something else happens. 

You stop feeling. 

Not completely. You still function. You still laugh. You still go out. You still have conversations and live your life.

I remember with absolute clarity one day - thankfully a good ten years ago – when I realised that I was not feeling.  Because that one day, the world decided to let me. 

I was walking down the street with my dog, sunshine on my face, with a night out with friends ahead of me.  I suddenly realised that I felt happy.  That I was excited for the night ahead.  I felt it.

The next second after, it hit me.  I could not remember the last time I felt a positive emotion.  Actually felt one.  It felt like I had been living in a dark cave for over a decade and had crawled out, finally escaping into sunlight.

That day was the first day, of many, of the path back to myself.

I regained my ability to feel again and I am truly happy in my life, yet I still try to hide my emotions.  I was still so tied to the idea that people shouldn’t experience me experiencing negative emotions.  I had to put my good side forward.  Even after healing so much of myself, that was a hard one to break.  It was locked in.

Then, perimenopause hit. 

Suddenly, the control was gone. 

Emotions hit where they pleased and there was no hiding them.  It was impossible.  When I am sad, it shows.  When I am angry, it shows.

Perimenopause gives no fucks frankly.  You feel when you feel.  If your body wants to cry, you are damn well crying.  If your body decides you are angry or frustrated, people know about it.

And you know what?  It is liberating as hell. 

Firstly, because I know that these emotions are hormonal.  They are not because of any pain or sadness.  That is behind me.  I’ve dealt with that.   Which makes feeling them is easier, because my body is doing what my body is choosing to do.  I am not actually sad, or angry.  It is my hormones.  It will pass.

My hormones are in control of me right now.  Not my brain.  Which means, the control that I desperately held on to for decades was gone.  I am free from the walls that I built.  There is nothing but dust left. 

What perimenopause has given me, surprisingly, is freedom.  Because I can no longer, and frankly do not want to, hide my emotions anymore; they are forced out.  Which means people see me and want to check that I am ok, I answer honestly.  I do not hide and say, “Oh I am fine!” and smile.

There is a lot of temporary stress in my life at the moment, which will be sorted and will pass, but is not helping my hormones.  So I am letting, for the first time in my life, my hormones rule me.

I let myself stress out and have a mini meltdown.  Because I feel better afterwards.  I let myself cry if I need to.  Because I feel better afterwards.  If I need to talk or vent I do.  Because I feel better afterwards.

Perimenopause has set me free from the constraints that I imposed on myself in showing emotion and my life is better as a result.

What life has taught me in the past few years is look for the positives and embrace them.  Because they are always there if you look hard enough. 

And surprisingly, this is the benefit of perimenopause.

It took away my control.  And gave me my freedom.

The Joy of Writing

 I have had my little blog for fifteen years now.

I have always loved to write, but this year is the most prolific of my life.  When you look through my blog over the years, I have written more in my earlier years, that is true.  But in terms of writing like I am now, thoughts and ideas flowing through my mind constantly; writing content that means something to me, that has never happened before.

My old content with fashion based with some opinion/thought pieces thrown in, and then I was a commercial writer for a time.  But now it is different.  My content is solely my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions and sometimes, my short stories.

I write as though I am talking to someone/a group of people.  I have always done this.  The number of people reading my content has gone up and down and up again throughout the years.  There was a time when I cared a lot about numbers and strove to get more readers, a better "domain authority".  Now, I don't care.  If one person reads the words that I write and enjoys them, I am happy.

I write now purely for my own enjoyment.  I am constantly inspired.  Blog post topics regularly appears and start to write themselves in my brain.   It feels, wonderful.

I like to look through my old content sometimes because it records a journey of who I have been.  The journey of the long search to heal, to find out who I am truly am to now, being unapologetically myself; is something that I am truly proud of.  And I should be.  I did this myself.

I love writing my short stories.  These are the only things that do not come to me that often, but when they do, I feel like they almost write themselves for me.

Writing for my is an outlet for my creative side and where I am the most "me" that I will ever be.  Words flow through my fingers unfiltered.  This is my happy place.  Well, one of them. 

How lucky I am now.  I have gone through most of my life with no happy places.  Now my life is full of happy places and I am grateful for each and every one of them.   My partner, my home, the people that I love, my blog.  All give me joy.

There can be no better thing than that.

Gen X - The Way We Were

 

The year was 1993.  D Ream brought out a song called "Things Can Only Get Better".  We all sung it.  We all loved it.  We all believed that things would absolutely get better.  Life was good. There was no reason it would not continue getting better.

Reader, how wrong we were.

Gen X is infamous for saying that the 90s (and early 2000s) were better.  Not just better, looking back, perfect.

You know the saying, "You don't know how lucky you had it?"  That is Gen X.

Everything was better.  Hope, dreams, aspirations; these were all things that seemed possible and attainable.  Our music was full of hope and joy and love.  Listening to music made you feel lifted.  Happy.  Like you were unstoppable.

We talked to each other, not just through our phones.  We danced all night and into the next morning without a phone or camera in sight.  We worked hard and we played hard.  We lived.

We were allowed to roam as children and were actually allowed to be children and play.  Not living our life through Ipads, phones and social media.

Whether our school lives were good or bad, we could come home and that was our sanctuary.  Our safe place.  Now children still come home, but they cannot escape social media, or the bullies.  There is no safe space from the online world.

We were free.  Actually free.  Life was on the up.  Do you remember everyone always used to say "It's a free country!" (That might just be a UK thing).  But it actually was.

Anything was possible.  And we believed it.

Now, you cannot escape social media.  

We have had the mess that was Covid, locking people away for years in what we now realise was a experiment by the ruling powers to see how far they could push us.  

The US has school shootings, practically every other week.  

We have had a terrorist bomb a concert and kill young girls, but were told not to look back in anger.

We have had the Epstein files released, with victims doxed, perpetrators at the highest levels of society, but without one prosecution.  

We have had hundreds of thousands of girls raped and tortured for decades, but we let more and more of the same kind of perpetrators into our country, while telling us that we are racists for objecting.

Music is no longer inspirational or uplifting.  Half the music in the charts are remixes of 90s dance music.  The rest talks about guns, violences, whores and sex.  It isn't music to make us happy.

In the 1990s we thought "what next?" because life was good and we wanted to see where life would take us.  In 2026 we now say "oh god, what next?"  Because there is ALWAYS something around the corner and these days, it is never good.

So other generations, don't judge Gen X.  We had what was a perfect decade or so of life.  And we lost it.  We feel sorry for you because you will never experience it and we feel sorry for ourselves because we had it, and never will again.

The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 9: A Familiar Face

Story Prompt - Your character witnessed her father's murder when she was 5 years old, and now, at work, she wonders why her co-worker looks familiar.

Photo by Juan Ordonez on Unsplash

 I remember the day like it was yesterday.  

Every Sunday, my dad and I would take a ten-minute walk to the local shop to get a newspaper for him, and a packet of cherry lips sweets for me.  It was a tradition, every Sunday, no matter the weather.

On the day in question, we went out much later than usual.  Dad had been in the garage for most of the day and had lost track of the time.  It was winter and the nights were setting in early.  He came into the house at 3.20pm apologising and telling me to get my coat and winter boots on.  I remember Mum say that she didn't want us to go.  Getting too dark, she had said.  You don't know who is out there.

Dad was a big man and scoffed at the thought.  He said "Come on love, have you seen the size of me? No one would dare!"  Dad was a tall man, with broad shoulders that he used to carry me on.  I  used to think that my dad was a superhero.  Unstoppable.  

By the time we were ready to leave the house, it was dark outside and the snow had become thick on the ground.  But with my dad, I felt completely safe.  I miss that feeling, because since that day, I have never felt truly safe again.

After leaving home and a few minutes of trudging through the snow later, we entered an alleyway which led to the main street.  There was a man entering at the other side.  It was unusual to see people in the alleyway, which was more of a snicket between two rows of houses.  I looked up at the man approaching, and saw something glistening appear in his hand as he removed it from his pocket.  His face reminded me a bit of a weasel.  

I heard my Dad loudly say "You!" in a surprised tone of what I now realise was recognition and then, a cry.  The other man barely stopped in his momentum, carrying on up the alleyway as my dad fell to the floor.

I did not understand at first.  Why my dad had fallen over.  Why the man did not stop.  Why there was red liquid starting to cover the white snow around my dad.  Why he was not moving.

I do not remember any more about that day.  Or many days of my childhood since then.  My dad died on the ground of the alleyway that day and a part of me died with him.  The police investigated, but the murderer was never found.  We knew found out why.  

Twenty years on, I still think about that day.  How could I not?  People tell me that they are happy that it happened when I was so young.  That I must not really remember my dad and what happened.  But I do remember and the memory of the blood seeping into the snow and his dead eyes, shock still registering on his face staring up at me from the ground will never leave me.

I still live with my mum.  Except now we live two towns over from our previous home.  We could not stay there. 

I was always a happy child, friendly and trusting; but after the incident I changed.  These days I am quiet, reserved.  I tend to keep to myself.  As a rule, I don't trust people.  Because a person killed my dad and I don’t know who it was or why they did it.

I started working at the bank five years ago as a junior.  Now I am a banking clerk, studying alongside and slowly, making my way up.  I am known to be a hard worker.  But not that friendly.  But I am reliable and get the job done and that is all my bosses care about.

The reason I tell you my story today is because of yesterday morning.  I went into work as usual and was told that there was a new accounts manager.  Tom Allen they said he was called.  I thought nothing of it.  Accounts managers tended to come and go.  I suspected that he would be no different.

We met in the break room at 10.15 when I was making my coffee.  “Lucy! Come and meet our new recruit”.  I went over to the manager who was sat with an older looking man who sat opposite.  “Lucy, meet Tom, our new accounting manager”.  I turned to look at him, a practiced small smile on my face and my hand outstretching to shake hands but then, I froze.  Everything stopped.  I think time may have even stopped for a second.

It was him.  I was sure of it.  That weasel face.  It was him.

I managed to recover and hide my shock, although I retracted my hand.  “Hi, I’m Lucy.  Sorry, I think I zoned out for a second there!  Welcome to the bank".  Surely, I was mistaken.  After all, it would be impossible.  Yet, I looked into his eyes, those weasel eyes and saw something there.  Recognition.  He recognised me too.

He stared at me, a little too long, as I had done.  “No problem Lucy, it is a Monday after all.  Not a heavy weekend I hope, hahaha!”  He smiled up at me, but the smile did not reach the eyes.  His eyes were searching mine.

Greetings done, I went back to the coffee machine to get my coffee.   I could feel his gaze burning into me as I left the room.  The manager would ignore my awkwardness.  They knew I didn’t socialise or chat. 

By the evening when I got home, I had managed to convince myself that he was not him.  That he was not my father’s killer.  He was just another weasel faced man who looked familiar.  There was no way I could recognise him after twenty years.  Right?

Then we come to today.  I had managed to avoid Tom all day.  Although I knew that another meeting was inevitable.  Yesterday had all been in my head.  Of course it had.  My colleagues knew that I was strange, but damn, I needed to get a grip!

But then, 5.00pm rolls around.  I started to gather my things and my handbag when I heard someone come up behind me.  Close.  Too close.  “Lucy!”.  It was him.  Fuck.

“The manager tells me that you get the train home.  Not safe for a girl like you.  How about I offer you a lift?”  I look up at him.  He is smiling, but his eyes were pointed.  Staring, as if right into my soul.  Stop it, Lucy.  He is just being friendly.

“No, I am ok Tom, I enjoy the train, but thank you for the offer”.  I get up and put my coat on.

No, he says.  “I insist.  It is dark outside.  Too many alleys between here and the station.  You don’t know who you might run into”.

The world stopped right there.  My heart felt like it was beating out of my chest.  It was him.  And he knew.  He knew that I knew.

Fight or flight.  Fight or flight.  I couldn’t fight.  He would say I had attacked him.  What could I say?  He killed my dad?  On what grounds? He looks like him?  He mentioned alleyways?  No.  I had to be clever.

I looked right back at the him.  With the steel in my heart that had started to form all those years ago.

“Oh don’t worry Tom.  I can take care of myself.  Believe me.  Night though.  Have a good evening”.

I walked, not ran out of the building.  I was calm.  For the first time in what seemed like, what was, forever.

I knew three things. 

The first, that that man, Tom Allen, had murdered my father.  I did not know why.  And I could never prove it. 

The second, I knew that he could kill me.  That he was willing to do so.  But I was not that little girl anymore.  And the piece of me that he stolen that day was my heart.  I felt nothing.  I had not felt emotions in years.

I have always been the quiet girl.  Unassuming.  Pleasant but not friendly.  Under the radar.  But, I had started karate when I was ten.  I was a black belt by fifteen.  From there to present day, I studied Krav Maga.  My current instructor calls me the lethal ninja girl.  

I knew that I wanted to be able to protect myself.  I wanted to be strong.  So much stronger than I looked.  I wanted to be ready.  For the day, if it ever appeared, when I came face to face with a monster.  The monster.

The third thing I knew was that I was going to kill him.  

Going to the Spa Alone is not Heroic

 At least once a year I like to treat myself by booking into our local spa.  

I booked the full day at the spa with coffee and chocolate croissants to start, lounging by the pool and steaming up in the sauna for the morning,  followed by a two course lunch with wine, an afternoon facial and the remainder of the afternoon on a sun lounger, swimming and a frozen mango margarita with my Kindle for the rest of the day.

Sounds perfect doesn't it? It was.

The only irritation in the whole day however was the reaction of some people to my being alone.

I booked the day specifically for myself.  I wanted relaxation, some pampering, some time to myself.  I absolutely loved it.  I have (happily) reached a point in my life where I can go out in public alone with worry or thinking people are looking at me (although apparently some were!)

Spending a day alone doing lovely things was exactly what I needed.  I catered to myself, did what I wanted and I had the perfect day.

Yet twice I was chatting to people and was told that I was brave for being on my own, and that they couldn't do it, but wished that they could.  

But I wasn't being brave, I was enjoying myself.

I think one of the wonderful things about reaching your forties is that you no longer care what people think.  I had a day to pamper myself, I had my kindle to read to entertain myself, I was happy.  I thought nothing of being on my own in the spa, in fact I had arranged for it to be that way.  It was a treat to have some complete time to myself.

The first person who asked me if I was on my own told me I was "brave" and that they couldn't do it.  Fine.  Whatever.  The second however irritated me.  They did not seem to think that it was possible that I could have chosen to be on my own.  "Did your friends not want to come".  "What about your partner".  "Could you not have rearranged it so you had someone with you?"  The idea of my being on my own seemed to slightly shock them.  

I didn't ask them.  I did not ask him either.  No.  I wanted to go on my own!!

When I got home though I started to think.  Could I, would I have gone to the spa alone before?  And the answer is, probably not before I turned 40.  I would have been too self conscious before then.  That is one of the good things about reaching your 40s.  You no longer care what people think.

Yet of the two people who commented on my being alone that day, both looked of a similar age to me.

That is when it occurred to me that the coasting part of my life is done.  The waiting to become who I am.  This is me.  Now.  All of me.

And that me loves a spa day alone, by the pool, sipping a cocktail.  A day of self care and absolute indulgence.  What could be better than that?

From Puberty to Pregnancy to Menopause: The Brutal Truth They Don’t Tell You About Being a Woman

OK.  I am just going to say it.  Being born a woman is bloody awful.  Men, feel free to write your own for your sex.

First, the good years.  You are born, you become a little girl.  You are loved, you are safe.  You get to play with dolls and play.  You make friends when you go to primary school.  All is good and happy in the world.

Then.  Puberty hits.  

For some of us, it hits early.  Breasts start growing (at ten in my case).  What does that mean?  Well firstly, your childhood is over.  Each and every one of us remembers the time when grown men started looking at us and talking to us in ways that we could not understand.  For me, again, ten years old.  Because: breasts.

I still remember a family member saying "Oh you will have all the boys after you now!" I did not want that.  I was a child.  I did not understand it.

Then the hormones start.  You have no clue who you are yet, your body is changing in ways you are not ready for.  You realise that the world is not the safe place you thought it was and that you actually do need protecting.  That safe world you lived in no longer exists.

Plus of course, periods.  Every single month.  For decades.  If you are lucky, you get regular periods.  If not, you get fibroids (me again), endometriosis.  Pain, pain and more pain.  But of course you are a woman so the pain you describe to doctors and consultants is mostly ignored, until finally, years later, sometime actually listens and you get a diagnosis.

Don't want to get pregnant?  Let me introduce to IUDs!!!  Wonderful little things that apparently you do not need pain relief/anesthetic for (plot twist, you really, really do).  Getting one in remains the worse pain that I have ever felt.

Do want to get pregnant?  Get ready for nine months of throwing up, your body changing until you don't recognise it, hair falling out, gestational diabetes, pain and more pain.  Plus of course, going into labour!  Oh the joys!

But of course, even our bodies know that women are screwed so it pumps us full of hormones so we forget just how awful the whole thing was.

Then you have the mother years.  That have not changed since the beginning of bloody time.  We are expected to know all about the child and how to care for it instinctively, from birth plus do majority of childcare, household chores, cooking, laundry, usually also while working because "woman".

Then.  We reach our mid forties.  Sweet sanctuary!!  Our periods stop when we hit menopause.  Let's have a party, we are free!!!! 

But no.  That would be too easy.

Instead, we get the equivalent of the second fucking coming of puberty.  Tears, rage, tears, rage, on repeat.  Plus hot sweats and wondering who you are even are anymore.  Again.

So at this point, what do we have to look forward to next?  Death.  That's it.  Woman's life is over.

Wonderful.  Thanks almighty creator.

As you may be able to tell, I am starting the throws of menopause and I am pissed off.

When Every Hobby Becomes a Side Hustle (And Why That's a Problem)

 There was a time when hobbies were wonderfully pointless.

You baked because you enjoyed baking. You knitted because it kept your hands busy. You painted terrible landscapes that would never leave your spare room. You wrote stories that nobody else would ever read (not projecting at all......).

And that was enough.

Somewhere along the way, though, we decided that simply enjoying something wasn't enough. Every hobby became a business opportunity waiting to happen.

Like baking? Start selling cakes.  Good at photography? Open an Instagram account and charge for shoots.  Enjoy reading? Become a book influencer.  Good at organising? Become a professional decluttering expert.

It feels as though we've reached a point where every pastime is immediately followed by the question, "But how can you make money from it?"

I'm not against people turning their passions into careers. In fact, I admire those who have managed to do it successfully. If you genuinely love what you do and people are willing to pay for it, that's fantastic.

What bothers me is the expectation that you should.  Not everything has to earn its keep.

We've become so obsessed with productivity that we struggle to justify doing anything purely because it makes us happy. If we're spending two hours knitting, someone will inevitably suggest opening an Etsy shop. If we're learning the guitar, someone will ask when we're playing paid gigs. If we enjoy writing, people assume we're trying to become bestselling authors.

Sometimes we're just... writing.

Social media hasn't helped.

Scroll through any platform for long enough and you'll be told that your weekends are wasted if you're not building multiple income streams. Every spare evening apparently needs to be monetised. Every interest should become content. Every talent should become a business.

It's exhausting.

The irony is that turning a hobby into work often changes your relationship with it completely.

When money enters the equation, deadlines follow.  Clients have opinions.  Algorithms demand consistency.

Suddenly the thing that once helped you unwind becomes another item on your to-do list and the joy quietly slips out the back door.

That's not failure. It's simply the reality that work is still work, even when it starts as a passion.  

There's also an odd guilt that creeps in if you're not trying to make your hobbies profitable.  You almost feel as though you're wasting your potential.

"You could sell those."  "You should start a YouTube channel." "You'd make loads doing that."

Maybe.

But maybe I'd rather just enjoy it.

We don't question people who watch television for three hours on a Sunday afternoon, yet we seem uncomfortable with someone spending the same amount of time making pottery that never gets sold.

One is accepted as relaxing.  The other somehow requires a business plan.  There's something quietly rebellious about having a hobby that exists for nobody else.

No audience.  No followers.  No subscribers.  No customers.  Just you.

Not everything needs to be measured by income or productivity. Some things are valuable simply because they make life a little richer.

The same goes for learning something new. We don't have to become experts. We don't need to be the best in the room. We don't need certificates or sponsorship deals or thousands of likes.

We can be gloriously average at something and still enjoy every minute of it.

In fact, there's a certain freedom in being bad at something.  No pressure.  No expectations.  Just progress for the sake of progress.  Maybe that's something we've forgotten.

Life isn't meant to be one endless performance review.

We're allowed to spend time on things that don't improve our CV, grow our bank balance or impress strangers on the internet.

Sometimes the return on investment is simply feeling calmer, happier or more creative than we did yesterday.

That should be enough.  Sometimes it's perfectly okay for something to exist simply because it brings you joy.

In a world that wants to monetise every minute of your free time, protecting a hobby just for yourself might be one of the most valuable things you can do.

Why Self-Care Deserves A Line In Your Budget

 Budgeting in one form or another is always going to be part of my life.  I will never be rich, but if I was, budgeting would still be there.  That is how you stay rich.  If you want to read more about the budgeting tips that I use, you can check out the pages on my blog.

Today I wanted to talk about self-care, and how important it is to include in your budget.

When you think of creating a budget, you think about the bills that go in and out.  How you can manage them, how you can reduce them; what needs to be there and what doesn't.  For me, self-care absolutely needs to be there.

As you may have gathered from my older clothing blogging posts, I love dressing up and wearing makeup.  I like to have my hair looking nice, I usually have some form of makeup on and I wear a dress, every single day.  The way that I present myself to the world is part of my self-care.  It makes me happy.

Things that I typically do for my beauty self-care are having my roots done every eight weeks, along with having my eyebrows tinted and waxed.  I have also added in having a pedicure to that eight week cycle.  

I also try to go for a spa day twice a year, including a facial.  I book in for the full day, take my kindle, go alone and honestly it is so wonderfully indulgent.  Taking the whole day to relax, reading, clearing my pores and my mind in the steam room and having a facial just puts the cherry on the cake.

I also try to buy at least one book a month.  Losing myself in a story and taking that time to myself is important for my self-care.   My partner has a huge book collection of things that I would not normally read, but would like to; so I try to read one from the book shelf and buy something on Kindle more in my sphere every month.

All this adds up of course.  This is part of the reason that I budget so carefully in all areas.  These things I do for myself are important to me and for me.  Doing my budgeting has made it possible to do those things.

You can be clever about the beauty side of self care too.  I always ask for face or eye masks for stocking fillers at Christmas.  My in-laws buy me vouchers for Christmas and birthdays for the spa, meaning there is much less to pay when I book.

I also try to buy products in bulk, utilising 3 for 1, or even better 3 for 2 offers in shops such as Boots, as well as making use of the advantage card.  

One major help is that I use Topcashback for many online purchases throughout the year.  I always buy my insurance (home, car, pet) through them and other purchases where I can, which again offsets the amount of money that I spend on self-care.  This can result in a few hundred pounds by the end of the year.

Taking time for yourself is important and also does not have to cost a thing.  I try to take some time for myself every day.  This could be reading my book, putting on a face mask, or writing here.  I try to list at least one thing every day that makes me happy and that I am grateful for.

Self-care also means that sometimes, you are going to have a bad day.  Learnt from Tuesdays with Morrie, I allow myself a period of time to let myself feel that way, let it all out and then I feel that I can move on.  Bottling up sadness is not healthy.  Even if it is simply just a bad day at work.

Self-care may not be at the top of your budget list, but it absolutely needs to be there.

When Courage Feels Too Big: Breaking Bravery Down Into Simple Steps

“Bravery is the ability to look fear and hurt in the face and say move aside, you are in the way.” – Melissa Tumino 

I used to think that being brave meant taking a giant leap.  Believing in yourself enough to do something completely out of your comfort zone.  Facing a fear head on.

The truth is that bravery can start with a tiny step.  Sometimes looking at the end goal or the whole picture of what you want to achieve can be intimidating.  Too easy to put off.  I will try another day.  That turns into another week, another year.

When I decided that I wanted to change my life, I had spent years procrastinating.  I had a life in my mind that I wanted to have, things that I wanted to accomplish, but they loomed so large that my fear stopped me from moving forward.

What helped me in the end was breaking down my goal into small steps.  Each step I took, however small, was onward motion.  This helped to carry me forward to the next step.  Then the next.  Suddenly, the goal that I wanted to achieve was over half way to being achieved and I had the success of the steps I had taken behind me to encourage me on and help to negate my fear.

I will tell you about one such goal, which sounds so small now, but was huge at the time.

I had been invited to a press day for a fashion brand in London.  Hundreds of miles away from where I lived.  There would be press there, competition winners, the designer himself.   It involved getting to London, staying over, finding the venue, chatting with people I did not know.  Navigating London.  Getting home.

When I was first invited, all of that seemed impossible to me.  I was terrified.  But I wanted to, so very much.

So I broke it down into tiny pieces.  The ad agency booked my train tickets and hotel stay so I didn’t need to worry about that.  But everything else was planned to the last detail.

How to get to the train station.  How long the train ride would be.  I found a map showing where I would get off.  Then got precise directions of how to get to the tube station I needed.  Times.  Pictures.  Then from the tube station, I printed out walking directions to my hotel.  How long it should take.  Relevant landmarks/shops so I knew I was on the right track.

I found out which other bloggers were going to the event and started chatting with two of them so that I would know at least someone.  I chose four different outfits so I had choice when the inevitable "I can't wear that" moment came.  I figured out all the times of when I need to leave the hotel, how I would get back.

I did not think about the big picture of what I was doing for the whole time.  I focused completely on succeeding with each step with a check box in my mind.  

It was only when I got to Euston and went through the barrier to the train home that I actually allowed myself to breath.  But I had done it.  Accomplished every single step, no matter how small.  I was changed as a result.

I have taken many steps since that day.  Some big. Some small.  But all are progress.  I am so very different to the scared and anxious girl that I was.  This is because of the steps I have taken.

So next time you want to do something but think you cannot, break it down into small pieces.  Next time you are scared to do something, take tiny steps towards it.  Before you know it, that thing that scared you so will have been done and you will no longer be scared.

I try to push myself every day and try to remember the progress that I have made, looking back at all the steps that I took to get to this place.

“Believe in yourself. You are braver than you think, more talented than you know, and capable of more than you imagine”  Roy T Bennett

Paid, Pacified and Going Nowhere - The Problem with Universal Basic Income

Universal Basic Income is something that we have been hearing about off and on for the past few years in the UK. In 2020 170 MPs and peers advocated for lobby for a Universal Basic Income to be brought into effect countrywide.

Poverty is nothing new to the UK, or the world.  Millions of Britons face fuel poverty with the ever increasing energy prices.  In 2022, 1047 people died as a result of living in a cold, damp home.  According to data from the House of Commons, 18% of Britons were in absolute poverty after housing costs in 2023/24.  This figure is on the rise.

In June 2023 it was announced that a Universal Basic Income trial was to take place over a two year period by think tank The Autonomy Institute.  Thirty people from the areas Jarrow and North East England and Finchley in North London would given £1600 a month (£1200 after tax) for two years, with no conditions attached; whether they were in work or not.  The results of this trial have not yet been released but the proposal details can be found here.

The trial is to see what effect this money will have on people’s physical and mental health. Whether that extra money can have an impact on the quality of life, see how that money is used and how people's lives changed as a result.

I believe that a Universal Basic Income (hereafter called UBI) is a terrible idea.  If I have learned anything about the way this country is going, moreover how it is being run, I know that UBI will not start, but will end as another element of control.

UBI sounds great in principle, reducing poverty, improve wellbeing and boost income security; but in reality, how would UBI play out?

Although the study as mentioned above is giving participants £1600 per month before tax, in all likelihood, a nationwide UBI would be something more like £400 per month.  This would come at a cost of £200 billion annually, more than the cost of the NHS.

Where would that money come from?  Tax payers.  Some of the same people who would also receive the money.  Higher income tax, VAT, National Insurance.  They would effectively be giving with one hand and taking from the other.

But also, how would UBI be placed in relation to other benefits?  Would Job Seeker's Allowance disappear?  Housing benefits would likely still have to be in play.  It would have to be.  Unless housing was completely reformed, and that is something we should not wish to contemplate.  I have visions of the tower blocks of the 1980s returning.

There is no benefit really to anyone receiving UBI.  The workers would be taxed more.  The people who do not work will receive less benefits and become poorer.  The workers will not be able to sustain funding UBI.

What I do know is that UBI will never be for the good of the people.  At first, it will seem marvelous.  More money!  But then, drip by drip, control of how that money will be spent will come to pass.  Eventually that money will not be money at all, but vouchers.  Then control of how you spend the vouchers.  No petrol for you, you drove 20 miles last month.  No red meat for you or double the cost, think of the environment.

What we know about the government, no matter who is in power, is that they have a game plan that has nothing to do with benefitting the people.  But don't look at the man behind the curtain.  Look, free money!  

Nothing in this life is free.

We live in a world where children no longer want to be astronauts or surgeons, they want to be streamers.  A world where a horrifying number of young girls are turning to Only Fans.  A world where AI will be replacing more and more workers.  A world where people converse online but say nothing to each other's faces.

All this is part of a plan.  What plan, I do not know.  But I know one thing, if the Government could convince a country to sing "Don't Look Back In Anger" after the bombing at the M.E.N, they are capable of anything.

Tips For The Holiday Packing Checklist

I have been fortunate enough to have had a number of holidays in my life and there is one thing that I have learned from all of them.   You need to pack for the holiday you are going to have, the real one.  Not the one in your head.

If you are anything like me, your ideal amount of time packing is 20-30 minutes.  Throw some things into a suitcase and done.  However, the problem with doing that is that you have not planned.  Which inevitably means, overpacking.

The devil is in the details (or the weight limit on your suitcase in this case).  I therefore use a few tips to stop overpacking and keep the weight under the limit.

Wear It, Don't Pack It

Shoes are always the thing that weights my suitcase down and takes me over the limit.  Repeat after me, you do not need as many shoes as you think.  

I tend to wear my "can wear day time or evening" sandals to the airport.  That means black, comfortable and classic.  The kind that goes with shorts, dresses, anything.  That is one pair of shoes you don't need to pack.  

Also, weather dependent, I also wear a pair of shorts, a tank top and also wear the cardigan that I always take in case I need it in the evenings.

Clothes

Go light on shorts and tops.  If you are going on a sunbathing holiday, you usually just end up throwing on a floaty dress/cover up over your swimwear when going for lunch and maybe a pair of shorts.  I wore two tops for the week last time I went on holiday.  I took seven.

Indulge in swimwear and floaty cover ups.  They take up zero room.  Room you will need for evening attire.  I am a dress person.  I wear dresses every day.  I am not a separates girl.  I take ten (yes I am going for seven days).   But you and I both know that you need more.   The heat, the amount of food you have snacked on, how you feel on the day; all mean that that dress you thought would be perfect, is now the last thing you want to wear.  Take more.

Underwear - pretty much standard.  Seven pair of knickers (or panties for you American readers) and three bras which you can wash through as needed.

Products

Take minis and commit to leaving the residue of them in the hotel room at the end.  These you also need to make a list for to avoid overpacking.   These can really take up space (and weight) in your suitcase and are always my downfall.  

The only full size items should be sun tan lotion and an after sun.  

Here is what I recommend for the mini products:

Shower gel, moisturiser, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, hair heat protector spray, facial hydration spray (your skin will thank you), facial wash, make-up setting spray and micellar water.   Don't be tempted to just take make up wipes.  They are even worse for your skin in hot weather.  Also, something to wash your clothes (swimsuit, bras).  

Before you put them in your suitcase, commit to removing things.   You don't need an exfoliator.  You won't use it.  I promise.  Also, no hair oil.  You won't use it and you can guarantee that will be the thing that leaks over everything,

Be Realistic About Make-Up

This is an area where I have managed to massively cut down over the years.  I used to take my full make-up bag with me, but this is weighty and half the products I end up not using. So.....

Waterproof Mascara, eyeliner, a mini eyeshadow pallet, concealer (two shades to match when my skin tans), blusher, face powder.  I can get away with not wearing foundation on holiday so I don't take it.  A eyeshadow brusher, an all rounder blending brush.  Two lip glosses and a red lipstick.  Done.

Buy It, Don't Pack It

A hat for the sun is something obligatory.  This is something I don't use here, so I will be buying one on holiday.  I usually try to pick up a cheap hat while I am on holiday and I always leave it there.  A waste of £5-10?  No.  It will flatten in your suitcase anyway and takes up room.  Just buy one.

The Airport Bag

A tip I have here is buy a nice beach bag, not a cheap one and one with pockets.  Use that as your airport bag.  

Also, do not underuse your airport bag.  Although you don't want to weigh yourself down carrying it around the airport, you can take some necessary items in there that you don't need then to pack.  Remember to put any make-up items, facial spray etc already in a clear plastic bag to save time.

I usually put my moisturiser in and my facial spray.  My perfume goes in there also and my lip glosses.  I also put my sunglasses in, my kindle, my earbuds and charging case, my phone/kindle charger and most importantly, a couple of pairs of underwear and a swimsuit (just in case my luggage heaven forbid gets lost).  I also take all my currency, separated into my purse and an envelope in each zip pocket.  

Take Something Multi Purpose For Your Hair

I take my Dyson.  Other cheaper brands work well too.  I can dry, straighten and curl my hair all in one tool instead of taking multiple appliances.

Prior Preparation

I always get my hair cut before I go on holiday as it grows like crazy when I am on holiday.  I also get my eyebrows waxed and tinted (go a shade darker than normal to account for fading in the sun) plus a pedicure with gel on my toes so I don't need to worry about touch ups.  You could also have a spray tan done if you don't want to look off the plane pasty white, but to be honest, I never bother with that.  Take anti-histamines for a month before you go so you don't get eaten alive and take that Imodium.  I learned the hard way.

The general rule of thumb is to lay out everything you are going to take, then remove at least one item from each pile, excluding underwear.  There are shops where you are going.  Never fear!

And finally....

Leave Room To Bring Things Home

Taking mini products with you and hopefully with the tips above meaning that you are already under the weight limit means that you don't need to limit yourself on holiday trinkets.   Every single time I go on holiday I end up buying a new handbag and something ceramic for my kitchen.  Just don't go for fake labels and ceramics with the place name on them.  Always tacky and always insta regret when you get home.

Other than that, have a wonderful holiday!

Becoming Me - Letting Go of What No Longer Fits

 I recently talked about a book called Butter and discussed societal expectations and how they change and effect you as a person.

There are so many influences on us, from a very young age.  It takes a very strong person not to be influenced completely and many of us fall by the wayside, by deciding to, or simply conforming to fit in to have an easier life.

Now that I am at a stage of my life where I feel open to being myself and who I am without feeling the need to conform, I have the chance to discover who that person really is.  More than that, what I really want from life.  It is important to realise what a rare gift that is.  But I have worked hard to get here.

Throwing off the constraints of society and the people around you, including sometimes the people you love; is a little like taking your clothes off when you come home from a winter's day into the warmth of your home.  You start small with the hat, the gloves, the scarf.  Then comes the coat, which you think is the most complicated part because it is so bulky and has many zips and fastenings.  But then you realise that the jumper that is by now stuck fast to your body is actually the hardest.  But every layer thereafter is much easier.  Until you get to pulling off your socks...

I think that this analogy works well because when you are working to heal yourself and find your peace, you are never quite done.  The things you think will be easy, are not and the things that you thought would take forever, don't.  You can never tell until you start.

I decided to try and make a list of some of the things that have shaped me, looking back with clearer eyes, in the hope that I can make new choices now.  

I was a fat child.  This was why I had few friends in primary school.  Let's be honest here.  Personality is secondary when you are fat.  You know it and I know it.  The only thing that can save you is being funny, and even then; you tend to get typecast as the fat funny one (hello Hollywood) but people know nothing else about you.  I am not particularly funny.

I tried everything to make friends and was “friendly” with some; but what I learned from primary school is that it did not get better. no matter how you tried.  You just had to be not fat.  The rest would follow.  The fact that I was naturally shy did not help.

This carried forward to secondary school.  Although I did eventually find a best friend there.  But I was still an oddity. 

The are two sides to being fat though.  One is being fat in school.  I do not believe that my experiences of being fat at school shaped me other than to point out the obvious.  Children like to find the odd one out.  Someone to pick on.  Children are cruel.  But even at primary school they know that staying in the pack and picking off the weaker ones is the best play.

The other side of being fat is the fact that you are not holding up your end of a bargain that you did not know you had agreed to.  At least in my case.

The bargain was, so I was told for decades, is that you have to be attractive to the opposite sex.  This is paramount.  Otherwise, why do you even exist.  

Attractive means not fat.  Especially when you have an attractive parent.  You must follow suit.  I did not.  This means, you are not good enough.  You have not made the grade.   You are not good enough even to be on the starting block. 

Another thing that shaped me was being the last in line.  My thoughts, my opinions, my feelings did not matter.  They were the last straw. So, I simply started putting people above myself and believed that I, on the bottom rung of the ladder, deserved nothing.  This has been a major controlling factor of my life, or was.  I never put myself first, never bothered making a plan for myself, or my life.  Because I simply did not matter.

One thing about writing that I love is that it is a little like real time therapy.  Except you are making the suppositions to yourself and answering them while you write.  Thoughts occur to me as I type and I discover new things about myself.

The last paragraph is a prime example.  A raw truth that I have never realised before or never fully understood.  I never made plans for my life, because I believed that I did not matter enough to make them.  

These days, I believe in focusing on the here and now.  Not looking back and using reasons from the past to interfere with my future.  But I can learn from it.  It needs no longer to cause me  pain.  Now there is so much that is positive about my life.  Finally. I love my life.  I am working every day on trying to love myself.

For me, my healing started with love.  A clear, true love that could not be denied.  From a person who could see right through me.  To parts that I could not see for myself.  Now, I can.

That love was the beginning.  I was finally on the starting block.

Now, I am excited.  Because now, I know that I matter.  I believe it.  That I deserve space in this world.  That I can create a world for me, of my choosing.  That world includes the person that I love and includes our wants and dreams.  But I have a person who wants me to find my dreams and go for them.  What could possibly be better than that?

I have always been a person who stayed stagnant, whilst occasionally making huge leaps.  I made a leap into plus size blogging, I made a leap to pushing myself to do things on my own (like travelling to London which I have talked about here before); I made a leap into commercial writing; I made a leap by giving up commercial writing in order to write about what I believed; I made a leap back into online dating.  My last leap was the most important, I tried a new way to heal, and in doing so, discovered myself, waiting there to be found.

So, after all of this time, all of the soul searching, all the time I have spent healing; who I am?

What I found is that I am the person that I thought I was.  I am, under it all, a happy person.  I see the good in people.  I am silly, I love to laugh.  I like to take care of the people that I love.  I know that that this is my nature, and is no longer just done in the hope of love.  I have a thousand opinions.  I love to write.  It gives me joy.  

I like to cook.  I want to learn more cooking.  I maybe want to study something.  I want to write more short stories.  Maybe a book. I want to travel more.  I want to go on this adventure in life with my partner at my side and see where it ends.

The future is mine and what I make of it.  The only limits are myself and I am done with limits.

The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 8: A Witch's Curse

Today's theme I found to be an interesting one, here is what I did with it.

Write about a witch’s curse:

The woods next to the village of St Aubrens were dark and oppressive.  Sadness and pain seem to radiate out from the branches of the trees themselves and whether it was summer or winter, the leaves were always black.

The village itself was also a strange place.   There was a section in the village with rows of cottages that no one wanted to pass.  Misery seemed to hang in the air like an ever present cloud and the residents always looked like the weight of the world rested on their shoulders.

Whenever there was a celebration within the village, the festivities never reached those cottages.  Decorations were never hung, the brightly coloured lanterns were never lit, the people never seemed to smile.

Newcomers to the village never stayed long.  People were actively discouraged from buying in the area and the children who lived there moved away as soon as could.  This was not a happy village.  Because decades earlier, the village people had made a mistake, they had crossed a witch.

The villagers had always known about the witch who lived alone, or so they thought, in a tiny cottage in the woods.  Uneasy at the thought of a witch in their midst, the unspoken rule was that they left her alone and in turn, she would stay away from the village. 

After several years particularly bad harvests, the villagers started to mutter about the witch and about how she was bringing them bad luck.  One night, fueled after a night at the local tavern, those mutterings turned to anger, and the anger turned to fury.  The men of the village tore through the woods with torches alight, intent of burning the witch out of her home and getting her well away from their village.

It was only when they had set fire to the witch’s cottage that the villagers heard screams of “My children! My children!” coming from behind them.  The witch raced through the trees towards the cottage which was now fully ablaze.  There was no way anyone, even the witch, could have saved anyone inside.

The men had raced back to village, horrified at what had just occurred. 

The next day, the witch had appeared in the village square, stricken with grief at the loss of her children.  The smell of the fire was all around her and black smoke seemed to follow in her wake.   She proclaimed that every man who had entered the woods that night would suffer, that he would never know happiness again without pain.

The witch was never seen again.  Too afraid now to pursue her, the villagers never entered the woods again, and with good reason.  All the men who had entered the woods that night soon felt the consequences of her curse. 

Any feeling of happiness was followed by strong physical pain.  The sensation was described as having your heart pulled from your chest.  From a chuckle from a joke to a feeling of love or happiness caused hours of excruciating agony. 

The men soon realised that in order to survive the curse, they had to cut all happiness from their lives.  Their loved ones were sent away, they chose their food from the scraps left by others and they now each lived alone, on the same row of cottages in the village.

No one in the village knew exactly how long the cursed men had actually lived.  The years and decades passed and yet they still lived on.  Some said that they would die when the witch did. When her pain had died, so to could theirs.  

No one ever entered the St Aubrens Woods again.