A last post

Inevitably, everything comes to an end, and now it’s the turn of Fashion Limbo to close shop.

I created this space back in 2008. I spent most of my life in an office lit by fluorescent lamps, and conversation was either about how very little anyone cared about documentation – my job – or who was banging whom. Frustrated with the fact that no one around cared about the things that made me “click”: fashion, art and music, Fashion Limbo was born. I marvelled at how easy it was to build a world of my own, still conversing by myself, but conversing nonetheless. And guess what? Little by little, many of you joined me in the talk. I got things out of it that I never thought I would: great gigs – thanks Miniguide, thanks Michael – new like-minded friends, I even got trolls – oh how I loved those that failed to grasp the meaning of sarcasm, and had fun insulting me! I got invited to parties, was sent freebies, and even managed to see the inside of London Fashion Week – thanks Jill!

Alas, I’m done now. Fashion Limbo is going to exist for a while longer, but no new content will be uploaded. My Facebook page will be deleted in the coming weeks.

My writing career lives on, but it won’t to be under the Fashion Limbo constraint. Unexpectedly, the little world I created for myself has ended up being a bit of a cage too. So I’m flying free.

You will still find me on Twitter and Instagram under the same monicker, because I still exist in my own fashion limbo. I am still into clothes -especially leopard print coats – sequinned trainers, cute shops, good coffee and anything with a sausage dog.

However, my fashion habits have changed. I barely shop anymore, I can’t afford it and also, I don’t agree with the existing fast-fashion industry. I don’t get excited when I walk into a shop with humongous amounts of merchandise, I don’t smile when I see a big brand ripping off some artist’s design, selling it at the price of a sandwich. Frankly, I cannot happily contribute to an industry that seems to care very little about the people who make clothes, the environmental damage it does or the sheer amounts of waste it creates.

Personally, I am not sad to shut down this website, on the contrary. I am truly excited for what lies ahead. My future just doesn’t reside in fashionlimbo.com anymore.

I cannot begin to thank each and every one of you who actually read what I wrote. I loved your comments, your shares, your nudges on social media. Thanks for joining me in limbo for these past years. It’s been a wonderful ride.

It’s not goodbye, it’s an extremely camp and warm see-you-later 🙂

xxxxx

I had that job – sexist job ad goes viral

I’m not one for burning bridges, so I will name no names. If anyone from my past reads this and recognise themselves, I hope it makes them think a little and maybe, just maybe, question their behaviour: what they think is normal, is pretty damaging.

A job ad on LinkedIn went viral a couple of days ago. A Canadian company advertised for Content Writers, requesting that candidates spoke Russian, had strong linguistic abilities, a wide knowledge of SEO and a bunch of other skills. The really interesting bit came at the end: “Please note the Position requires filling in the responsibilities of a receptionist, so female candidates are preferred.” 

The ad was spotted by several media outlets after it was shared and retweeted countless times and, unsurprisingly, it was finally removed. The Pool has featured a brilliant article written by Marisa Bate and I beg you all to go read it if you want some extra reading on the topic.

Weirdly, I wasn’t shocked about the ad, nor I was outraged. The fact that looking good as a receptionist trumps education and experience practically meant nothing to me, why? Because I worked at a job like that for an entire year.

An office run by men, in which men held the managerial positions and repeatedly hired girl after girl like me, with languages, degrees and exceptional computer skills. Why young women? Because they also wanted us to cover reception duties.

During my time at that company, I was asked to drop any writing work if reception had to be covered. Texts I had been working on for days were taken from me so I could order cabs for the managers, translations I excelled at were re-assigned, so I could make my male bosses coffee.

Whenever I asked for a rearranging of my hours, to be changed to a shift in which more content writing was available, or to be allowed to work remotely once a week, the answer was no: “we won’t have you here in case we need someone to cover reception” When I enquired why they wanted me to focus on phone duties instead of getting more content writing done, all I got was shrugged shoulders.

It didn’t matter that I had postgraduate studies, that I wrote and spoke several languages, and that my experience in the field of content writing mounted to more than 10 years. A decade of experience was hardly important. The salary reflected it and the hours I spent at reception being told to “smile more” reminded me every day that they didn’t care.

I did try to speak up -politely- and tried to change things -professionally organising meetings with my manager-, but nothing ever evolved. In an office created by men and controlled by men, the voice of a woman was easily replaced by another. After a year, I left.

This is what happens when you don’t let multilingual content writers do their job

That Canadian company should be deeply embarrassed. Not only are they stuck in the past but, like many, are perpetuating a vision of life that will justify every single word of disrespect their daughters, nieces, sisters and wives will hear, limiting them for the rest of their lives.

To my former bosses and those behind the Canadian company: content writing is sex-less, receptionist duties should be sex-less too. Yes you may have a penis but you also have hands, so make your own coffee and stretch your narrow minded heads to hire people because of what they can do, not what they look like.

Self-Care Sunday – Just STOP

This is a Self-Care Sunday post, which was started by wonderful blogger and social-media expert Elizabeth from Rosalilium: a weekly post to talk about self-care. And because I believe self-care is extremely important, I have decided to join my fellow blogger and write about it.

This week I’ve been thinking about stopping: dropping everything and just standing still. It’s like when you used to be a student with no car and had to walk or take public transport to go to the supermarket. You would put all of your groceries in plastic bags and carry a week’s worth of shopping home. You’d begin with a lot of energy and determination, to soon start questioning how smart it was to buy a box of detergent and that huge bottle of milk. With those crappy plastic bags cutting your fingers, your back seizing up, you quickly realise how worthless it was to shower that morning, now that you are completely drenched in sweat. You spot a bench, drop the bags, sit and you’re in heaven. Not only does it feel wonderful, but that short pause gives you the extra energy you need to get home, with a better stance so your back suffers less and an actual smile when you walk into the guy you like.

Self-care is self-preservation. Animals know it best. They won’t put themselves at risk if they feel weak or vulnerable, because they don’t want to pay with their life.

Why is it that some of us ignore the warning signs and carry on? Why is it that when we know, deep down, that we are not functioning, we still keep at it? We become snappy towards those we love, we get sick, we take stupid risks like driving under extreme stress, or make the worst decisions of our lives out of a form of self-inflicted pressure.

On Friday I stopped. I just couldn’t function anymore. Sick, weak and in a lot of pain I held on to the idea of walking my dogs. I kept thinking I had to do it even when I broke down in tears, even when a coughing fit almost made me choke, even when my abdomen hurt so much I could scream of pain. All I had to do was stop. Nothing else.

I spent the day on my sofa. I watched Jane The Virgin, I took a couple of naps. The world didn’t stop spinning, I still have to do the dreaded tax-return, finish knitting some 2,000 pieces, unpack my travel bag, dye my hair, go to Yoga… the list goes on.

If you don’t stop, how are you going to be the best version of yourself? How are you going to function when your body shuts down? You are of no use to anyone or yourself if you are not strong and healthy.

If you don’t practice self-care, who is going to do it for you?

Confessions of a grown-up groupie

I’ve always been a bit of a rock chick. Whether dreaming of bleaching my hair and becoming Debbie Harry, joining Prince’s band à la Sheena Easton, or discovering the badass side to silk blouses and mermaid hair with Alanis Morissette.

The true feminist in me would love to tell you that my love affair with rock music came from idolising inspirational women. But alas, before becoming a rock chick, I was a groupie. Not that I actually trailed tour buses because where I lived, southern Spain, very few buses were worth jumping on. Teeny me would see a man with a guitar on MTV and forget about my toast and nearly burn the house down. My younger self would hang a gigantic flag with a certain rock idol’s face, taking over half of the bedroom, while my little sister was forced to stick her Spice Girls posters behind the door. 

So, here it is: I publicly confess a liking for tight jeans, leather jackets and Ray-Bans. It started at an early age and as I grew up, went through a list of crushes I will now proceed to share with all of you… because I feel like embarrassing myself.

Age 7 – Joey Tempest, lead singer of Europe: In my defence, this one sneaked up on me. Up until that age my life was Madonna, hiding under the bed whenever the Thriller video came on and learning Janet Jackson’s best moves. Watching Europe perform Carrie on TV, my parents blew my cover noticing me staring at the screen, hypnotised by the skin-tight leather and permed locks. While I longed to be Carrie, Joey Tempest never replaced my New Kids On The Block posters, so this crush was short-lived.

Age 12 – Jon Bon Jovi, lead singer of Bon Jovi. Because, what’s better than a long haired rocker? One that cuts his hair and becomes the sex symbol every single teen in the nineties wanted to snog. The first vinyl I bought – as it came with bigger pictures of the dude – Keep The Faith, had me dreaming of becoming Mrs Bongiovi. I bought a Bon Jovi t-shirt and decided I would get a Superman tattoo as soon as I hit 18. A couple of years later I stopped paying attention to the band and thankfully, never got that tattoo.

Age 15 – Jarvis Cocker, Pulp icon, a god on stage and the guy that made me realise clever lyrics and the right attitude were far sexier than ripped jeans and curls. I wanted to be in his band – oh Candida Doyle how I envied you – I dreamt of moving to London and bumping into him in a pub, a romance blossoming around chintz wallpaper and sticky coasters. Years have passed since my britpop fever, but I still love Jarvis Cocker’s moves, his wit and yes, one of my dogs is named after him.

Age 17 – Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith. The definition of a bad boy, the guy that had been around for decades before I spotted him, and the sexiest man to utter the word pink. My crush was short-lived though, as I soon discovered Alanis, Sheryl Crow, TLC and Aaliyah. I thought I had kissed the bad boys goodbye, until …

…at the age of 25, I was dragged to a Stereophonics gig, seeing Kelly Jones live for the very first time. And this is where I stop, because honestly, we are at a point that is hard to beat. Leather jacket? Check. Shades and a rock star attitude? Check. R-rated lyrics? Have you heard I Could Lose Ya? And finally, THAT voice. The kind that hits you and all you can utter is “wow”. The raspy type that can’t-sound-this-good-live but then it does. It’s obvious, I’m still hooked.

The funny thing about having a thing for men who play guitar, is that you look back on the –very questionable– real life guys you dated, and how can one not blame rock n’ roll? We all have a dodgy past, our “what was I thinking” crushes. Mine reflect a side of myself steadily developing over the years: the rebellious side, the one that got tattoos and piercings, the one that wasn’t afraid of falling for the less popular guy, dumping those wanting me to be someone else. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to play that new Stereophonics song  one more time.

C’est La Vie is the first single from Keep The Village Alive, Stereophonics’ new album, out 11.09.15

Pictures: Europe/Epic, K Fuchs/Rex Features, Steven Tyler via Facebook

Dog aggression, bad behaviour & how I fixed it

This is a terribly personal post. I say “terribly”, because I did write about this a few months back, then swiftly deleted it out of shame, fear of being judged, but mostly, because I saw no light at the end of the tunnel. At that time I was considering getting rid of one of my dogs.

This is Jarvis:

I adopted Jarvis in September 2013. He was only 7 months. As a newborn pup, someone cut his tail off, then sold him over the Internet for a mere €200 (around £170). The girl that bought him, abandoned him a few months later. The “only” nice thing she did to him was giving him up to a dog rescue organisation. When we adopted Jarvis he was a happy bundle of fur, full of energy and ridiculously clumsy. However, he also barely let you touch him, would freak out if you picked him up and constantly urinated out of fear.

Before Jarvis came into my life, there was Nero. He has been my constant companion since I adopted him 7 years ago. He has travelled with me all over Europe and has barely left my side since I first got him. Nero has always been extremely playful and social, so I decided to bring in Jarvis as his new friend.

At the start, they got on fantastically. We had six months of constant play, games of chase, tug of war, wrestling. It was non-stop. These two beasts would wake me up at 6am running around like loonies, jumping on and off my bed.

Because Jarvis had those initial issues, we enlisted the help of a well-meaning dog trainer in Spain. He helped a lot, and his approach to dogs was kind and positive. The reason I mention him – I honestly have nothing but good words to say about him – is because during one of the hide-and-seek exercises the trainer had recommended, everything changed. Jarvis fought with Nero over a piece of food they found on the floor. It was a serious fight, and for the first time, Jarvis realised he could overpower Nero.

Moving to the UK also took its toll on my dogs. A new home, new surroundings, new people. It all proved too much for little Jarvis, and he began to attack Nero. Each time more unpredictably, each time more aggressively. There was blood, Nero ended up with cuts in his ears and scratches on his head.

Desperately, I decided to educate myself on the subject and seek help. Sadly, most testimonies I found online about this type of issue pointed to a single solution: rehome the new dog. By this time, Jarvis had been in my life for almost a year. I loved him. Thinking of letting him go tore me apart. However, every time I saw Nero scared and hurt, my mind would consider giving Jarvis up.

After yet another gruesome, and terrifyingly out-of-the-blue attack, we took our dogs to our vet in Lewes. She checked my dogs for signs of sickness but found nothing obviously wrong. She did however, recommend us a dog trainer she had used.

I have wrestled with whether I should name this “expert” or not. I don’t want to bring attention to the guy, and I obviously don’t want to provide him with free publicity, so I won’t name him on this post. I will, however, tell anyone who asks me on the subject to avoid him, and this is why. The man considers himself a dog expert and claims to have years of expertise around the East Sussex area. Not only did he charge us £120 for an hour of his time, but he subjected my dogs to a terrifying experience. This man seemed to consider himself the next Cesar Millan (read about this celebrity trainer here or watch this interview). He was a big guy, who constantly slammed the floor trying to get my dogs to submit to his requests. Luckily, Nero, the oldest and more sensitive to this kind of behaviour,  retreated to his bed for almost the entire time the man was at our home.

I hated myself after this man left, regretting having invited him into my home. However, as the days went by I realised it was he who should be blamed for my discomfort, not me. It was he who had filled his pockets with my money, engaged in scare-tactics with my dogs, and not actually listened to me. He dismissed my accounts on the fights, said he saw no issues. A few days later he sent me an email with what he considered tips to solve Jarvis’ issues. It all revolved around the idea of Jarvis trying to “dominate us”, with tips that added nothing to what I was already doing. He made no reference to the fights.

The issues with Jarvis not only continued, they worsened. Extremely distraught, I shared my troubles with friends and family and someone mentioned Michelle Garvey, the lovely woman behind Essentially Paws. She came to see us several times, and assessed both dogs separately. Michelle’s training methods used treats, rewarding positive behaviour and setting safe limits for each dog. Jarvis quickly proved to be extremely responsive to tasty rewards, and seemed to enjoy being set limits.

The thing I liked the most about Michelle is that she made no false promises, that she understood the gravity of the situation and that she honestly warned things would get worse before they would get better. They did. More attacks occurred, and again I wondered whether Jarvis should stay with us.

After the last attack I cried a lot, questioned every decision in my life, but gave it another shot. I became really strict with the training and began to think more positively. I ran my dogs’ existence around a tight schedule, implemented Michelle’s tips religiously, and after some nicely quiet weeks, it happened: two days ago, Jarvis went to Nero to play, and Nero accepted his invitation. Cue doggy wrestling, tails wagging and a sight I hadn’t seen in more than 10 months. An hour later and they were both lying in the sun together, Nero feeling safe enough next to Jarvis to close his eyes.

I can’t say the situation is completely fixed, but I now see the light at the end of the tunnel. I know that living with dogs means constant training, which is OK, that’s the fun side of having dogs. For the first time in more than six months I feel positive about Jarvis’ future. It would have been so easy to take him to another shelter and pass on the problem to someone else. I chose the harder route, and I will probably choose it again, because that’s who I am… some sort of masochist.

I know Jarvis is not a child, not a human being, but I love him dearly and he is part of my family. My job is to care for him. I know he exists because of the growing trend of owning dachshunds. He was bred, he was sold. Someone else’s abuse became my responsibility. Why did I set out to clean up another person’s mess? Because I look at Jarvis and see a poor animal that was barely given a chance. An innocent creature that was probably beaten up more than once. I didn’t want to be the one who saw this and gave up on him.

Thanks to Michelle, Rob, Micaela from Sr Perro, Denise and everyone that has been there for me. I owe you this little massive victory.

You can follow Nero & Jarvis via Instagram @sausagemafia.

Pictures: Fashion Limbo

The trouble with not acting your age

A few years ago, I used to be an amateur actress. I even took part in a huge production. The day we opened, we did it in front of 500 people. I knew my lines, wore the heavy 18th century dress, petticoat and all, and walked out on stage. Leading the rest of the cast, I attempted to close a parasol I carried. Not only did I fail at closing it, I sent the damn thing flying. It slipped right out of my hands, launching into the air and falling right at the edge of the stage. I heard the gasps and the giggles, and my heart sank. Panicking and breaking a sweat, all I could do was pick up my parasol and say my lines. The show went on.

People may have laughed at me, they may have thought I screwed up my performance, who knows. I didn’t have the world’s media watching me, or millions of people tuning in to an online stream. Twitter didn’t exist back then, and I wasn’t a 56-year-old professional performer. I wasn’t Madonna, falling at the Brits. 

Last night Madonna fell from a raised part of her stage, to the floor a metre down, while almost choking on an Armani cape that refused to unhook. It was not a light tumble. The entire world gasped, a lot of us cringed, and due to today’s technology, we all got to see Madonna’s look of horror. Appearing to be sore, she missed a couple of her lines but went on with her performance, singing live and dancing in frightfully high heels.

The first thing I thought after her fall was the sheer amount of negative remarks it was going to generate. Not negative as in “your performance was not the best” or “what a disappointment”. The ones that troubled me were those that, for the last years, talk about a 56-year-old in need of a retirement plan. The headlines that call Madge an oldie that should cover up or behave appropriately. The comments on social media that express disgust or wonder about her children’s wellbeing whenever she choses to “not act her age”. 

A number suddenly becomes such an important matter, warranting discussion and heavy criticism if it dares go over 50. Apparently once you reach that amount, you’re done.

I wonder about those who cringe at Madonna flashing her bum, or talking about sex… are they grown up? Are they ignorant teenagers who think it’s cool to live fast and die young? Are they women over 50 who abandoned their own dreams and can’t stand to see others doing it differently? Is it men who are throwing the nasty remarks? Being over 50 and being Madonna…how is that a bad thing? Why does it bother some so much?

When I was fifteen, a few years before my parasol fiasco, I lost one of my closest friends. She died of cancer. She never got to experience what turning 18 meant, she never grew up to reach 40 married or unmarried, who cares. She never made it pass 15.

Last year, gorgeous Averi, a wonderful girl I met through my sister, died at age 17. Cancer too. 

Reaching 50 is no easy task. The people that turn that age and continue to celebrate birthdays, have earned their right to be on this planet through survival, hard work and resisting the rubbish life throws at them. 

One of the ladies I admire the most, my aunt and best friend S., she’s around Madonna’s age and like the blonde pop star, still wears lipstick, still is a hell of a sexy kitten channeling Susan Sarandon. Should she dress differently?

C, another lady in my inner circle, separated from her husband when she was around Madonna’s age. She lives alone by the Mediterranean sea. She goes to parties, she does Yoga and now has re-discovered her singing voice, performing stunning solos to numerous audiences. Should she be dressing in black, covering her ankles? Is she not entitled to fall in love again? 

I’m certainly not acting my age. I’m not 25 anymore – I keep telling everyone I’m 28, you can guess whether that is true or not. I certainly don’t behave the accepted “standard” way. I’m not married, I don’t have children, I still rent, and I have no plans of doing what is expected of me. I never have. I’ve been judged, crucified, told I’m unbalanced for not “settling down”. I never will. My gender, the way I wear my hair, my job, and certainly my age, do not define me or my life. 

Age is a blessing, a massive gift. Women over 50 are not going to shrivel up and die. Give up the hate, Daily Mail and other tabloids, trolls and ageist idiots.

Madonna got up, she sang her lines, she nailed her performance. Even non-fans are praising the levels of professionalism of the biggest icon in music. Unlike many of her peers, she’s still here.

Life is to be celebrated, end of. If all you throw at the universe is your negativity and nasty thoughts don’t be ofended when I ignore the hell out of you, and dream to grow “old” like Madonna.

Pictures: BRITS, Fashion Limbo

Swapping Barcelona for the countryside

Almost 5 moths ago, I quit my Barcelona life and moved to the English countryside. I left with many good wishes, paired with several jokey voices warning me to wrap up, kiss the sun goodbye or unwarrantably tell me they could NEVER do it. I was welcomed to East Sussex with plenty of smiles from loved ones, but whenever I encounter someone new, they seemed very puzzled about my decision: “why on Earth would you want to leave Barcelona?” they ask, or simply say  “You left Barcelona for the UK? REALLY?!”

I still don’t know how to answer any of those questions, in a way I’m starting to label them as rhetorical . Although I guess, for the sake of clarity, it’s best if I explain why I left Barcelona in the first place.

While it is a beautiful city with gorgeous architecture, fantastic restaurants, and generally lovely weather, I grew tired of, daily, sharing my personal space with thousands of tourists. I ended up fed up of having to literally push them off me, when, in dozens, they covered the pavements, refusing to budge an inch during their holidays. I became a stressed-out Barcelona citizen, desperately trying to avoid them stepping on your dog, get to work without being pushed to the road and run-over, or arrive home and free yourself from whatever you are carrying. I also developed a distaste for the hordes of pickpockets that exist to torment said tourists or give you an unnecessary fright while you walk home after a night out.

Additionally, I have two dogs. Yes Barcelona is pretty dog-friendly, but it also has extremely busy streets and very few parks, that are either pay-per-visit (Güell), full of tourists (Ciutadella) or populated by policemen that busy themselves fining anyone with a chihuahua off the leash (Parc l’Estació del Nord), instead of aiding the poor lady who just got mugged in broad daylight.

So yes, Barcelona, wonderful at night, gorgeous in the sunshine, even when your sweat is dripping down your back and your landlord has just told you he’s evicting you so he can advertise your flat on Airbnb… it just wasn’t meant to be, and East Sussex called my name.

So here I am.

Yes, I did wrap up as it’s bloody nippy. It took its time, but the cold is finally here, and, unlike Barcelona, it is really, truly, undeniably freezing. There are no hipster, bang-on-trend, pop-up cafes I can walk to, but there are miles and miles of countryside, in which to stroll or run with my dogs, and my thighs have never looked better.

Yes, there is sun…lots of. When you live in the countryside, with few buildings around you and you work from home, you get to see that the sun does shine in England, quite brightly. My sunglasses are, as in Barcelona, always on me.

Additionally, I’m smiling more. It does get dark awfully early, but I get up at 7 am, walk the dogs, do yoga and by the time I’m sat at my desk it’s barely 9am. This gives me many hours and things to do until it’s – oh my God – 5pm and pitch black. Once darkness hits my town, the lack of street lighting means a mind-blowing starry sky shines down on me. It’s surprisingly light up there.

My Zara “working boots” are constantly caked in mud and surprisingly, haven’t broken yet. This means I haven’t completely morphed into countryside folk, donning practical green wellies and proper walking boots – but watch this space.

I love it here, I really do. Yes I miss certain things about Barcelona, such as its people, Daniela, Luli, Mila, the French girls, my editor, my Yoga buddies, and also wonderful places like Lataberna de Juanjo, but that city wasn’t for me. London is a short train ride away, and the city girl inside of me may need to go there occasionally. Brighton is even closer, so hipster cafes are there when I need them.

I still have no answers for those that quiz me on the “absurdity of leaving sunny Spain for the UK”, and I probably will never have a reply that pleases them – for the sake of dinner party amusement I’m working on a funny one. I don’t regret my decision, and I love my current lifestyle. East Sussex works for me, right now. I may never stay here for good, I may go back to Spain, or may even move to Australia. What I know is that I followed my gut instinct and it led me to a happier place. But my gut is mine, so listen to your own and do what you need to do.

Pictures: Fashion Limbo

What no one tells you about friendships

I woke up this morning feeling quite deflated. I made my coffee, fed the dogs, took them for a walk, did some yoga and it wasn’t until I was having my breakfast that I realised why I was in such a foul mood: I had dreamt of a lost friend. 

My sleepy head had recreated a scenario I’ve probably fantasised about more times than I care to admit: seeing her again, seeing her safe and happy. 

K and I were friends for 8 years. We lived together for a short while, we went on holiday together, met our respective families, approved (or not) of each other’s boyfriends. When we lived in different countries, we would travel several times a year to see each other. Then one day, with hardly an explanation, she vanished. She had been acting differently during the months leading up to her disappearance, so when she told me she was “breaking up” with a lot of people she knew, I wondered whether she would do the same about me. She didn’t admit to that, but one day without a goodbye, she stopped writing to me. 

I gave her some space, as others told me she probably needed just that, but then she never contacted me. Maybe I left it too long, maybe she just didn’t want me in her life anymore, but she never responded to my email asking her not to severe ties with me. She never replied to my messages, or the letter I sent to her family home, the only address I have. It’s likely I will never know what happened. It’s been almost 5 years and I still miss her. It still hurts, but I hold no ill feelings: I still love her like a sister.

Life is puzzling like that. You share your time with so many human beings, from those you don’t even remember from your childhood, to those that end up being the Best Man at your wedding.  Some stay for a short while, some even stick with you until the very last day, but a few will do a disappearing act and this can leave you feeling very lost. Not knowing what cause the severing of ties is tough. Sometimes it’s just a case of moving on. Maybe K wanted a new life, one that didn’t include me, and as painful as it can still be at times, I accept that and hope she is extremely happy, wherever she is.

The “tricky” truth about friendships is that having people that love you just for being yourself, is a gift. Life itself, is a gift. It’s really important to slow down and take the time to treasure the precious things that make up our existence, while also accepting that sometimes, the best you can do is to let them go.

Picture: Fashion Limbo

The world needs another Buffy

Buffy The Vampire Slayer was on our television screens from 1997 to 2003. If you’ve never watched it, you are missing out on a show that combined supernatural creatures, with a good sense of humour, heavy doses of irony and clever lines. Most importantly, it had Buffy Summers, the heroine of the show. It’s been 10 years without her, and a decade after she left us, there have been very few Buffys out there. The line: “To each generation a Slayer is born, one girl in all the world, a Chosen One” leaves me asking, where is she now?

I switch on the television and it’s either female characters going through an “emotional breakdown”, or being portrayed like “superbitches” fighting against other women in some sort of man-run popularity competition, equalling the idea of being powerful with wearing impossible high heels and sexy clothing.

Buffy killed the baddies, repeatedly saved the world from its doom, and even better, she had her own flaws. This meant she struggled with her responsibilities as a slayer, got her heart broken more than twice, had no money and ended up working in a fast-food joint, lost loved ones, she  died, came back and fought on. Joss Whedon, the show’s creator, chose to portray a woman that relied on her inner strength and the power of her mind to battle with everything life threw at her. She didn’t care about being covered in blood, mud or having to rip a tight pencil skirt to be able to kick ass.

Joss Whedon is always asked about why his female characters are strong, powerful beings. He responded to this best when he said: “Because you’re still asking me that question”.

It’s no surprise I loved Buffy so much. It’s no coincidence most of the women you ask about the show will tell you they adored almost every episode. Joss Whedon created a character that inspired a generation. And he did it in the realm of adventure fiction, characterised for its deep masculinity and heavy dosages of sexism.

The issue is that no one else seems to want to do like Whedon.

Last year we had the people behind the Tomb Raider franchise,  explaining how Lara Croft seemed to have suffered sexual abuse of some kind. It was all pretty simple for them: men can be born powerful and strong. A woman needs to be broken dow and abused, to be a survivor, to be able to fight.

Female characters in comics are portrayed with huge breasts and unnatural Barbie proportions. The toy-models that are highly sought after and sold amongst collectors, are dressed in clothing so tight you see their nipples, with, you guessed it, breasts bigger than their heads.

In the latest Star Trek movie, a female character had to strip to her underwear and we are still wondering what the point of that scene was and how it affected the narrative.

In the realm of music, teenagers had best-selling pop artist Rihanna premiering her Pour It Up video (for a taste, see video below). It was not shocking, it was not even mildly amusing. It was sad. I’m not going to bore you with the whole Cyrus/Thicke twerking extravaganza.

Oh for Fuck’s sake. via @upperdog: Vogue UK’s idea of women in tech: pic.twitter.com/R1RDivQpQH

— Dara Ó Briain (@daraobriain) December 6, 2013

 

The thing is, Buffy never left us. There are real women behaving like that every day. Malala Yousafzai, Hilary Clinton, Caroline Criado-Perez, Nigella Lawson, that girl that gets wolf-whistled every time she passes the building site, the female MP David Cameron told to “calm down”, the former prime minister in Australia, the lady that was told to stop being emotional, Caitlin Moran, the pop star someone convinced to strip to give her new video some “edge”. Women are powerful, women are strong, naturally.

Buffy is not a fantasy, nor an idealisation of women done by a brilliant mind. She is out there. But we need to celebrate her more, make more movies about her, write about her, without excuses, without reducing her to a male-centered, narrow-minded view. Half of the world still seems to think women are highly emotional, fragile beings that need to be protected. I know this by experience, members of my own family have told me how they don’t worry about me, because I have a male partner that can take care of me.

Truth is… no one takes care of me better than myself. A man doesn’t make me feel whole, it doesn’t give me security. I don’t have breasts the size of pugs and wearing miniskirts or a tight lycra bodice is not what I aspire to when I wake up every day. I’m not sometimes hysterical, I don’t even know what that means.

Women deserve to be represented differently. We don’t need journalists asking Joss Whedon why he creates strong female characters, we need to ask movie directors why they continue to insert a “sexy female interest” in every action film that is made. We need to educate our children to realise that a mutilated female torso covered in blood in a video game is NOT acceptable. We need to teach younger generations that being sexy is nothing compared to the amazing achievements girls the age of Malala can aspire to.

We need to bring Buffy back.

Picture: 20th Century Fox Television. All rights reserved

Want to be sexy? Say you’re a feminist

Feminism is quite a controversial word. It caused social unrest decades ago when, in the name of it, women fought the system . Today, using the term on social media will likely mean you will lose some followers, be insulted or mocked, or even have people send you rape and death threats. Fronting any campaign on the subject will also attract the same sort of vile reaction, just read the news. Type the word “feminism” on Twitter or Google and you quickly get suggested search terms such as “Feminism is Awful”. If you type “feminists”, the term appears followed by “are ugly”.

There is one absolute truth about feminism: the belief in the equality of the sexes. The lovely Emma Watson raised the subject again recently, at a UN conference, in the name of He For She, a campaign aimed at getting men involved in feminism. Why? Because equal rights affect both genders, because fighting for human rights denied to millions of human beings due to their sex, is something men should care about too.

Plus…

A male feminist is sexy. 

If you are a guy, and say something along the lines of “I’m a feminist”, women will adore you. We will, that’s absolutely, 100 percent true. Have you seen the reactions these men are getting over social media? Ovaries are exploding. Caitlin Moran says it best: 

We will throw flowers at you, we will tell our friends how unbelievably attractive you are, we will adore the ground you walk on. Because we love guys like you. Because the world needs more men like you.

Every time your mother, your sister, your best friend is paid less money at work for doing the exact same job as a man… we need men like you.

Every time your mother, your sister, your best friend gets denied the right to decide what to do with her body and her life by a group of men with way too much power… we need guys like you.

Every time your daughter gets a job as a copywriter/mathematician/lawyer but instead is made to serve coffees to her male counterparts and complimented not on her skills but on her skirt … we need men like you.

Every time your daughter is told to cover up because she may bring rape on herself by showing her legs… we need men like you.

Feminism is necessary for me as a woman, for your mother, your sister, your niece, your best friend, your daughter.

Tom Hiddleston, Simon Pegg and every guy tweeting in the name of He For She, declaring themselves feminists, I salute you, you sexy beasts.

Pictures: Fashion Limbo, an excerpt of Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman, Tom Hiddleston Twitter