Harry Potter and the Shame of Shizue

Oh dear...

My flatmate bought this for me the other day, and I've already read most of it.

I was up til 4.30am this morning, then read more before going to work (thereby having to make up extravagant lies why I was nearly 3 hours late for work).

Oh dear...

Extra! Extra!

I've just read the newspaper. It's made me angry and saddened. The front cover reports on a fire-bombing of a Mosque in Birkenhead, supposedly in retaliation for the London bombings. Now I thought that 'retaliation' meant to pay back an injury in kind. As far as I know, we still do not know who caused the bombings for certain, but we may be sure it wasn't the elderly muslim cleric who was caught in the building and had to be rescued by fire fighters.

These incidents seem to have sprung up over the country, in Bristol, Bradford, Leeds and most recently in London. That shocks me. We expect it of America with their insularity and fairly homogenous society, but that the same sort of irrational race hatred should happen in one of the most cultrally diverse cities in the world is deeply depressing.

What really made me angry as I read the article was the behaviour of the press though. This particular article burned with self-rightous, bleeding heart indignation, yet in the London bombing press conference which I watched in its entirety, this same newspaper's representative (which, by the way, isn't a tabloid) was using inflammatory language of the worst kind. You know, 'Muslim Terrorists' 'Islamic attacks' etc. Like Meg I applaud Paddick's response, but I was really disgusted by the emotive language used by the press. To then comment on the "shocking" attacks on Asian families and religious centres which they at least in part have occassioned makes me feel ill.

They are utterly crass in their hypocrisy - anything to sell a rag.

The pain, the pain...

Ugh. I'm stuck at home, for the second time in two weeks with a back problem. It isn't an excitingly slipped disc whilst out white water rafting or a rakishly obtained torn ligament from canyoning (both activities which I've done without incident). Oh no, I managed to put my back out by getting up off the sofa.

'Oh, how risky!' I hear you exclaim. Yes, strong men would blanch at the prospect of a well-plumped sofa, I know.

Isn't it pathetic? Much as I deplore the state of today's youth's health, I can't say I'm bucking the trend any. Despite the gym membership - and the fact its at the end of my (short) road - I haven't graced it's portal in nearly a year. I get winded going up the stairs to my office so I take the lift and I zoom in on crisps like a Hoxtonite to a bad hair-cut.

I did my back in (no other phrase for it, I think I've pulled the muscles, but for all I know I could've bruised some fat) well over 10 days ago and I still can barely move. I keep wandering over to my flatmates with a tube of Deep Heat looking pathetic til they rub some in for me. And although I truly have done the adventurous sporting activities mentioned earlier, they were about 3-6 years ago previous to and during Uni; before I discovered the joys of really good kitten heels and grown-up French cuisine.

I'm 25 yet feel more like an octogenerian. Something must change. I think I'll join my friend of the pink pages and do a Jane Fonda video.

Just as soon as I can walk again, that is...

Alpha Male with Tits

Hhm, so, well, yes. The above comment. Apparently according to one of my colleagues this is my new soubriquet. I am, it transpires, basically a bloke who's been squashed into an hour-glass.

I scoffed at the time. I had a new bouncy haircut with a cheeky fringe which attractively - if not entirely practically - covered half my face, I had a flirty skirt on, ultra-cute top and very pointy shoes indeed. Alpha Male?! Tcha! I was the epitome of fluffiness.

He elaborated saying I could be a bit (vague hand gestures) in the boardroom, to which I gave a mild, level look. He responded with "oh no, she's giving me that look again" and promptly ran off. I was troubled.

When I got home, I hesitantly broached the subject with my flatmate. After she had stopped crying with laughter I felt better. Obviously it was a laughable idea. I said as much to her. "No, no, I totally agree with him, it was just a really funny way to put it" was her reply. I began to feel low. I expostulated on the amount of frivolous underwear I had, reminded her of several comments she had made about said items, the vast quantity of shoes I own, the fact that she calls my bedroom a boudoir (I think this is because of the velvet curtains but I'm not entirely sure) and my preoccupation with Benefit. Surely, I pouted, these are the paraphenalia of the feminine mind? "Yes, but you are (vague hand gestures) you know".

Pardon me, but enlightenment failed to dawn.

Paranoia set in when a third friend - quite independently - informed me that I was a Man With Breasts. (At first I thought she said I had man-breasts and got quite offended) By this time I was a little jittery. I asked why, why, am I a boy?

"Because you drink beer from a bottle"

Is that it?!? And actually, I'm more of a Singapore Sling Girl at heart. At least there was a lack of vague hand gestures, but frankly I was still at sea.

"Mind you, you're quite odd, because you are very feminine in some ways". Then she looked thoughtful and wouldn't say anymore.

I now live in perpetual fear that I'm going to magically grow a pair of testicles and start thinking with them.

Or something.

Yours, in confusion,

Shizue (Female, definitely)