Desperation

During my infirm, recovering from a torn ligament in the foot, I've been watching an awful lot of DVDs. The aforementioned infirm is hopefully approaching an end, but I still have to rest a lot and I've been wading through, amongst other things, the third series of Desperate Housewives.

I got the first series through Freecycle. Claviers and I watched it together and got hooked - good telly. Then the second series came courtesy of LoveFilm - and we abandoned it half-way through...

Yes. Sometimes. A television series comes along. And it just... disappoints.... you...

You must understand that that was said in the Mary Alice voiceover in my head - that fucking voiceover on Desperate Housewives... I could accept it at first but she started to take the piss in the second series with her formulaic beyond-the-grave-wisdom and smug intonation...

Anyway, I picked up the third series in the library on the grounds that...

* I need entertainment

* It's £1

* Maybe Claviers was the problem - his massive cynicism brought many a potentially enjoyable experience into disillusion...

But now it's become a feminist issue.

The women in Desperate Housewives are superficial, frivolous, clingy, manipulative, bitchy, whiny, and constantly obsessing about the men in their lives. It's really fucking irritating.

Now. Granted...

I obsess about a certain Monsieur... Ridiculously so to the point where I'm losing sleep...

Is this what women actually are?

These slick, Hollywood representations of us. Desperate Housewives... is that what we just biologically ARE? Are we hard-wired towards certain modes of behaviour? Or have we been socially pre-programmed to conform to that model?

Nature vs Nurture

Chicken vs Egg

In a sense I guess it doesn't really matter, not least because we'll never actually know for certain. It's similar to the God debate. How can one ever prove the unknowable?

Of course, the men in Desperate Housewives (who, by the way, I have more and more empathy with. Poor bastards...) regularly turn out to be the Prince Charming; accepting the superficial, frivolous, clingy, manipulative, bitchy, whiny, self-obsessed women for who they are.

Myths

Fairy Tales

We're all raised on them.

And we all hope they'll come true...

Flirting With Danger

"Legend has it that men make the first move. The truth is that women have always made the first move and orchestrated the pace, flow and direction of romantic relationships. (Women are) masters of intuition and emotional manipulation..."



An extract from Superflirt by Tracey Cox that I found online. It also reminds me of the Greek saying:

"The man may be the head of the house, but the woman is the neck - and she can turn the head any way she wants"

Although Tracey Cox and her kind tend to grate on me a bit, being (as they are) post-Bridget Jones/The Rules/He's Just Not That Into You types who (possibly inadvertently) encourage women to let their lives revolve around men, I am rather taken with that quote. Not least because it points to a possible reason for the continuing patriarchal subjugation of women as the Passive Object to the man's Active Subject: the reason perhaps being that, deep down, men know we really run the show and they therefore compensate by trying to make it look as though they do...

The Cox article, providing 14 signs of male flirtation, had also reminded me of this little John Wayne maneuver, which I'd quite forgotten since my teenage Cosmo-reading days:

12. He'll move into the 'cowpoke stance'

The cowpoke is a primary male courtship gesture of the Western world. He locks his thumbs in his belt or belt loops, points his finger down towards his genitals, spread his legs about shoulder distance apart, and tilts his head to one side.

Sounds pretty damn cheesy when you just read it.

But the very next night, there He was: in the cowpoke stance. And it was strangely non-cheesy.

With a sudden lack of Thorns in my side (i.e. eagle-eyed friends, exes, or relatives) I simply couldn't help but flirt my arse off - not as a deliberate tactic so much as a natural response to being with the One I Love. All the moves came out:

* Hair twirling

* Lip/neck touching

* Strategic use of the drinking straw...

...not to mention many others I probably didn't think about.

Now, He's a nervous sort and no doubt all too aware of the Claviers Thorn, but more and more signals came out through the night...

...beginning with His wearing a flash of pink in His trousers in reference to an ongoing pink knicker joke we have...
......waltzing through to His awkward response to an incident involving His brother, who told me he was younger than Him and then asked "But, Dinah, isn't He the more handsome...?"
.........slam-dunking via the aforementioned cowpoke stance...
............and ending..........................................

Well, ending very frustratingly. All evening it had been quite clear that many people thought we were a couple and some of His friends (as well as His brother and sister) were talking to me with an underlying assumption that something was afoot. Perhaps not surprising as I was there alone and was leaving with Him (He lives über nearby and often gives me a lift back from gigs) The unspoken knowledge of this followed us around all night.

Just as we were heading out of the door, an old friend of His stepped in and asked if she could get a lift and stay at His flat for some complicated reason (she's married, phew...)

And, oh my, the mass of sexual tension that had built up throughout the evening hit me like a tidal wave, as the silent statement was issued between us...

...so this won't be the night of our first kiss...

Not just then but in our hug goodbye as he dropped me off, the looks exchanged, the secret knowledge of it all and that silent statement again.




And, oh my, how I ached that night.

And, oh, how I wished I had answered His brother's question.

...He is not just handsome. He is devastating...

Yet More Sexual Politics

He wants me
He wants me
He wants me

I'm sure of it now. Well, as sure as anyone with a massive inferiority complex can be.

Last night, the way He looked at me... I knew it. Had it not been for the presence of certain others, something would have happened...

And, oh my, He is beautiful.
He is extraordinary.
And I do want Him with every fibre of my soul.

So, now we have established something incredibly important. As discussed here, we needed to discover whether Mon Amore actually wants me in order to sort this situation out. Now that the answer seems to be Yes Yes Yes, the more sticky stage of the process has to follow: finding out if there is any way that Claviers can get over his cheap self and let us be together. Which basically means talking to him about it. Eek.

Claviers was, of course, there last night (thankfully without Bâiller) and I mentioned that I might get True Blood on DVD and therefore not watch it with him anymore. His response? "Shmooshy would miss you..."

And what about you, Claviers? Would you miss me?

I didn't ask. But I strongly suspect that Bâiller's presence eases any lack of Dinah that may have once been felt.

So, Claviers, if you are happy with Bâiller and don't particularly mourn my absence, would it not be the decent thing to allow me to be happy?

This is the approach I think I will take - you're happy, let me be happy too...

On the way home from the event, I bought a book from a homeless man: Sexual Politics by Kate Millett, the inside cover blurb of which reads:

The relationship between the sexes is and always has been a political one - a continuing power struggle in which women are sometimes idolized, other times patronized, always exploited.

During my relationship with Claviers I was at various points both idolized and exploited. Who knows what the result of this particular set of sexual politics will be but I am determined that, this time, I will not become complicit in my own subjugation at the hands of Claviers...

The Fine Line Between "Man Hater" And "Pissed Off Woman"

"The male is completely egocentric, trapped inside himself, incapable of empathizing or identifying with others... His responses are entirely visceral, not cerebral... He is a half-dead, unresponsive lump, incapable of giving or receiving pleasure or happiness; consequently, he is at best an utter bore, an inoffensive blob, since only those capable of absorption in others can be charming. He is trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes... To call a man an animal is to flatter him..."

Valerie Solanis again.

I'm ambivalent to say the least about SCUM Manifesto. I haven't read the whole thing and I suspect that I need to in order to be able to form a fully-fledged opinion on it. But I'm not quite sure I can wade through all the extreme man-hating in order to find any possible gems. It seems to me that work like this is part of what has given feminism a bad name and led to the 'dreaded F-Word' being so repulsive to today's young women. Well, that and the depiction of feminism in the media - the media which is, oh yes, run by men...

I can, however, see where she's coming from in some respects.

Take the quote above. I object to the massive generalisation (I know that my father is one of many men who would not fit that generalisation) but right now I rather feel that it applies to Claviers. In fact, swap "the male" and "a man" with the word Claviers and it's an incredibly convincing argument...

He's been a total dick-wad to me recently and has showed himself to be a completely self-absorbed arsehole, choosing to put his own urges above the needs and feelings of others (and not just me - Peebug as well)

This is a particularly offensive turn of events since he seems to be so very nice when you meet him - sweet, generous, loving new-man-type... Aah bless him, bless Claviers, such a lovely gentle man. Bullshit.

The bitch in me wants to be there when Bâiller finds out so I can take a photo and point and laugh. The human being that I am feels sorry for her already.

Why does all this bother me so much though? As expressed in a previous post, I came to the realisation that I was never actually in love with him in the first place. Obviously I must have had romantic feelings for him at one stage, but they died long ago.

I think it's mainly because I spent so long (months and months, possibly even a year) agonising over my feelings for Mon Amore, feeling that I was betraying Claviers by thinking about Him and wishing I was with Him; and even after we had split up, agonising over the morality of it all. While friends told me I should follow my heart, my sense of integrity stepped in. "No, I could never do that to Claviers, never. I could never hurt him so much..."

And now he has tossed our friendship aside the minute Bâiller inflicted her mediocre existence onto us all.

At the moment, we still watch True Blood together. It's partly a sort of unspoken 'divorce' settlement (I get access to the TV and Shmooshy the Cat once a week) and a somewhat contrived means of staying 'friends'. But I have the nagging feeling that, without True Blood, he wouldn't keep in regular contact. And, of course, the tirades I have unleashed against him in this unread place beg the question "Why are you bothering??"

I'm not really sure. Partly because I really love True Blood and can't get 4 On Demand on my old-skool laptop. Partly because it's my nature to be eternally optimistic and have faith in the good of human beings.

I suppose I was always deluded in my hopes that he would ever actually evolve. Even as I let him gradually turn me into a sexually-frustrated 1950s housewife I thought he might change if I was patient.

But I suspect that he is in fact trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes...

Feminisation Of The Nation

Two things have come up in the last few days that make me think about this whole gender/male/female relations issue.

One was an article reporting on research that suggests certain plastic chemicals ingested by mothers may "feminise" the brains of baby boys, leading them to be less likely to play with typically "male" toys or engage in play-fighting.

The other was Mon Amore's concerns over an 18 certificate video game that finds the player shooting unarmed civilians in an airport, and which has been obtained by His young sons.

When I read the first article, my initial objection to the very concept of the brain being "feminised" (as opposed to, say, "less male-oriented"...) was no doubt partly informed by having read a few snippets of Valerie Solanas's infamous SCUM Manifesto:

"The male is a biological accident: the Y (male) gene is an incomplete X (female) gene, that is, it has an incomplete set of chromosomes. In other words, the male is an incomplete female..."

With that in mind, on top of the knowledge that the unborn foetus starts off with a clitoris rather than a penis (up yours to Freud's theory that women feel that they've been castrated...), is it not strange that the scientists conducting the research on plastic chemicals have concluded that a child's brain is "feminised"? That is to say, surely the effect that these chemicals have is to hinder the process of turning the default female into the variation that is known as the male? Well, of course it's not strange when you consider the patriarchy of language...

And the video game. It's a matter of opinion as to how much media such as video games, films, music etc have on any of us. The responsibility of the Columbine massacre was laid mostly at the feet of Marilyn Manson, rather than the troubled social circumstances of the teenagers who felt drawn to committing the act, or indeed the gun laws of the state that meant they were easily able to get the offending weapons in the first place. However, a game that puts a player in the position of a murderer, a game that isn't intended for children as young as Mon Amore's sons but can easily be played by them, surely has to shoulder a certain level of responsibility for the messages it sends to it's players.

But more to the point, what is this bizarre obsession with violence and brute force that continues to infect our planet and the experience of those living on it? The scientists conducting the research, and the journalists writing the ensuing article, no doubt consider "play-fighting" to be a typical male behaviourial characteristic. And the sons of Mon Amore are apparently becoming virtual-warfare junkies, choosing to go straight home from school to play the game rather than spend time with their father.

So this raises a nub at the heart of the feminist dilemma...

...are women in fact superior to men...?

Personally (Libran as I am) I've always clung to the Equality Post, and I suspect that this is where I shall remain. However, with the awareness I have of the devastation and misery caused by what is perhaps the predominantly "male" trait of using force to gain power, it's difficult not to draw the conclusion that women possess superior qualities. Of course, for me to come to that conclusion would completely contradict my feelings towards the evening of the boxing match.

And so I can really only conclude that individuals are the problem, groups are the problem, idiots are the problem. We arrive in the world with all sorts of biological and social/cultural factors, but it is the choices we make for ourselves that ultimately inform our behaviour and therefore contribute to the state of our society.

But I just want to be loved, and to love, always...

Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend...

I hope he knows that I suffer too
And that I want to love him

I watched Secretary the other night. I'd forgotten how much I love that film. Despite initial appearances to the contrary, it is actually another variation on the narrative we're all raised on...

...boy meets girl and they live happily ever after...

In this case the route from A to B is unique, freakish and perversely perfect for who they are. And that's why I love it. It reminds me that everyone's route to Happy Ever After is their own and is made just for them. Of course, sometimes the Happy Ever After doesn't exactly look like a Happy Ever After, no doubt due in part to the capacity of film, television and the media to provide us with a preconceived idea of what Happy Ever After means for us. I suspect that it is women who are spoon-fed this narrative more explicitly than men, being (as we were) raised on romantic fairy tales of one sort or another.

Take, for example, the ring: the dream held my millions of women around the world of the perfect man getting down on one knee, pulling out a huge diamond and proposing marriage in some achingly beautiful location. This is, perhaps, the penultimate epitome of the romantic narrative - the ultimate being the wedding, of course (notably NOT the resulting marriage...)

Recently I've found myself struggling with this age-old vision of romance. Like the majority of young women I know, I've had many a daydream about a proposal with a big fat diamond ring. Details of the daydream have changed over the years (particularly with the ethics of diamonds playing on my mind - the imaginary ring is now vintage, to iron out the moral kinks whilst remaining chic...) but it's something that has always been there as a constant: it's just something that women think about. But now it's started to really irritate me - this ritual of a man offering up what is essentially a highly valuable commodity as payment for another valuable commodity, namely a wife. Hardly romantic...

Hence my struggle. The classic proposal complete with ring is clearly born out of the exchange of women as commodities. And the classic proposal complete with ring is a vision of romance that we were all brought up with, and that we as women in particular are conditioned practically from birth to look forward to. And as much as my feminist beliefs inform me of the iniquities that lie behind a man on bended knee, that doesn't stop me holding on to it as an image of perfect romance.

What I love so much about Secretary, however, is that the love story is far from classic and is basically a tale of two somewhat freakish personalities finding each other. While it may not be a typical Jennifer Anniston-style romance, it presents the most beautiful manifestations of deep love - unconditional dedication, tenderness, fulfillment of each other's needs... And, diamond ring or no diamond ring, I suppose that's all any of us want from a relationship. (Perhaps with a bit of spanking thrown in...)

Get Orf Moy Land...

I don't believe in the Devil, but if I did I would call it Facebook. As many marvellous qualities as it may have, the capacity for political intrigue and subsequent scandal is enormous. And frightening.

A few weeks ago I had a long commenting session with Archange, regarding his dodgy use of linguistics when he described a scene from a movie as being "consensual rape". I pointed out the oxymoronic nature of this phrase and a pedantic debate ensued, which went on for a mammoth 25-odd comments. At about comment 20, a friend of Archange (let's call her Alex after Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction, because the state of her psychological health will later come into question...) butted in all of a sudden and essentially told me that my arguments were all rubbish. Woe betide the fool who thinks they can dismiss an argument of mine and that that will be the end of it... So, of course, I responded with a very rational break-down of my position. Alex then complained about the length of my comment and rather patronisingly called for someone to give her the gist of it, saying something like "Geez, this was supposed to be a laugh...". The whole debacle ended with me pointing out that it was a laugh at one stage (restraining myself from highlighting the fact that she was the one who killed the mirth...)

Then a couple of nights ago, Alex rears her ugly head yet again. Archange had published a status update about wanting a Peter Andre doll for Christmas (he's a strange man with a sudden Andre fixation, no doubt substantiated with a heavy dose of irony) and I found a picture of such a doll, posted it as a comment and made some flippant remark about the doll having the same scary look in the eyes as Archange. Alex then kicks off with a huge rant asking me at what point I saw that look in Archange's eyes, how well I knew him, what his flat looks like, and a whole load of other random comments implying that I know Archange in the biblical sense etc etc. Lordy, even when Claviers accuses me of sleeping with Archange he doesn't go that far...

I had to read her comment several times before I actually believed that she was saying what she was saying. I could only respond with "Eh?!", since anything else would seem to dignify her spack-out. Clever girl removed the comment overnight (possibly before Archange got to it) but is now suddenly very active on Archange's Facebook page.

The ironic thing about it all is, of course, that she is more than welcome to Archange. And the truly sad thing about it is this whole territorial, sperm-grabbing instinct within women that is giving me no end of problems at the moment. It wasn't an issue when I was with Claviers or, if it was for any other women I encountered, I simply didn't notice. Now that I'm single, I'm back in the midst of political inter-plays between men and women, with Facebook only adding fuel to the fire. I remember how irritating it always was, being someone who genuinely enjoys having a good conversation with an intelligent man, only to find myself despised by other women who find me a threat - when I thought I was just having a good conversation with another human being. And I shake my weary head at the fact that, for all our claims that we as human beings are now 'civilised' and 'evolved', most humans are still letting their blood and biology take precedence over their brains.

Meanwhile, speaking of blood vs brains, my approach to Mon Amore has shifted after deep consideration of the facts. Just to clarify, the facts are:

* I am in love with Mon Amore

* Mon Amore appears feel some semblance of something for me (whether this is more than just a fancy, I cannot say - but there is definitely something there)

* I am single

* Mon Amore is single (to the absolute best of my knowledge)

* Mon Amore and Claviers are friends and band-mates, therefore Mon Amore is technically unavailable to me - for those of us with a strong sense of morality, friends/relatives of an ex are out of bounds

Up until a couple of days ago, the situation was all tied up and finished at that point: you just don't go out with a friend of your ex.

However, the acknowledgment of the following facts...

* Claviers is now with Bâiller and I will no doubt continue to suffer the indignity of her knitted, mediocre presence at gigs and other social functions (whilst simultaneously trying to repress my feelings for Mon Amore)

* Claviers has been a massive dick to me recently and, although he has apologised for his behaviour over the foot thing, doesn't appear to have taken on just how much of a dick he was - therefore the apology is pretty hollow

* There is a version of reality in which Mon Amore and myself are blissfully happy together - this is an ultimately good version of reality

...has led me to think that the most important thing is to establish the position of Mon Amore. If he doesn't want me in that way, then I have to move on (easier said than done but possible with time and effort) However, if he DOES then that lovely version of reality becomes ever closer and one can then work on another important facet of that reality, namely Claviers being fine with it all and everyone being happy.

It could, of course, all go horribly wrong. But if I can deal with Glenn Close attacks on Facebook I'm sure I can deal with this...

Boxing Clever

It is definitely love. At various points over the last few months I've tried to reason myself into believing that it's an extreme crush that's got out of control. But last night it became apparent that it is actual love, the symptoms being:

* Not being able to take one's eyes off Him

* Coming home after seeing Him and throwing oneself against the wall with a whimper

* Aching at the memory of little shared moments with Him

* Waking up and instantly thinking of Him, falling asleep whilst thinking of Him, and spending the intervening awake and asleep times thinking of Him...

The first of these symptoms was particularly notable last night, since I was also in the presence of Claviers and Bâiller, and genuinely cared not a jott that they were there together. In fact, when Mon Amore came to talk to me, no-one else was in the room as far as I could tell.

Furthermore, the simply gorgeous Archange was flirting heavily as usual (which he has done ever since Claviers and I split up - not a man of subtlety...) and pretty much every straight girl I know would be weak at the knees in that situation - he is actually that beautiful. My knees were perfectly fine until Mon Amore came over and kissed me on the cheek.

When I say cheek... over the months we've got to the official double-kiss greeting stage. I always love it when you finally make a mutual decision with someone as to how you greet each other - English people don't really know what we're doing on that front, so it's a relief when you eventually make an unspoken agreement and stick to it. Anyway, the kisses have become less about quick pecks on the cheek and more of an experiment as to how close to the lips one can go without actually kissing on the lips. Turns out, pretty damn close...

With my foot still causing me problems, I had taken a taxi to the pub where the band were playing. The taxi driver (a lovely old Greek Cypriot man who told me about how he'd come to London to escape the war in Cyprus and wanted to go back but hates moving) was musing on the difficulties of testosterone. I'm not sure how we got there, but it was via "the traffic's bad because of the football" and "male customers think I'm gay because I don't like football". Anyway, he was remarking on the trouble that testosterone levels in young men cause, and it made me realise that, for all the hormonal woe that we go through as women, I am really f***ing glad I don't have a cock to contend with. Having said that...

I got to the pub and it was rammed. Absolutely rammed. I've been there quite a few times and, even on a Saturday night, never seen it with half the number of people that were there last night. It turned out that there was some theatricalised display of violence known as 'Heavyweight Boxing' on the TV screens and it had drawn a massive crowd. So there I was, having fought my way (with a crutch and a hobble) through to the back of the pub where the stage was, doing my flamingo act and standing on one leg since there was nowhere to sit, watching two men who were frankly old enough and ugly enough to know better, trying to beat the crap out of each other. And I was surrounded by a sea of testosterone filled men (and their mostly weary, patient, sometimes surprisingly enthusiastic girlfriends) egging them on and cheering whenever David Hayes (British, if the über camp sparkly Union Jack hot-pants were anything to go by) landed a punch against his opponent.

And it occurred to me: violent and unpleasant though it may be, the testosterone-fuelled act of physical aggression is at least honest and simple, whereas the arguably more 'female' trait of mind-games and manipulation is actually more dangerous and nasty.

I was bullied a lot at school and I found the bullying tactics employed by the girls (being socially outcast, having rumours spread about you, false niceties followed by betrayal) to be far more hurtful than the boys' approach of calling me fat and pulling faces. Clearly I would have preferred not to have been bullied at all, but you get my point.

In that pub there were two very different battles going on; two very different approaches to conflict. On the one hand you have an organised punch-up, a blatant and honest display of competition manifested in the form of violence. And on the other hand, you have an altogether more subtle and manipulative representation of the competitive spirit within us all - me sitting on the corner of a sofa as elegantly as possible, revelling in the fact that I was garnering more attention from random punters (and the band themselves) than poor little plain-Jane Bâiller, who was in turn marking her own Claviers-based territory (albeit in a typically mediocre fashion) Likewise, Claviers himself brought out underhand tactics in the form of giving me hugs and kisses (not-so-coincidently at times when I was engaged in conversation with Archange or Mon Amore...)

By the time I got home I was reeling from a combination of the final realisation that I am in love with this man, and the complex political nature of the whole business.

And I rather wished that it could all be sorted out with a nice friendly boxing match...

The Quest For Hotness: Nature or Nurture?

I had a dream in the early hours of this morning - generally those are the only ones I remember. I dreamt that my recent ex (Claviers) was on the phone to his new girlfriend (Bâiller) and I was arsing around in the background, making fun of Bâiller. Claviers then told me off and, whilst crying, told me how much I'd upset him. I woke up feeling instant guilt for my dream behaviour and sadness at having made the Dream Claviers cry. A quick sojourn-to-the-kitchen-for-some-juice later, and the guilt had gone and been replaced by anger. There is, of course, a background to this dream...

A week ago I had an accident and tore a ligament in my foot - f***ing painful, as you can imagine. Before we split up in July, Claviers would of course have been there to help me - we lived together for over 4 years, 18 months of those alone as a couple. Now, obviously, the state of things has changed but we did have a very amicable break-up and have remained friends.

In a situation where one is in dire need of help, one generally has a handful of people that one can truly count on. For me those people are:

* My parents (now living in Wales, whereas I live in London - not an option in this case)
* Peebug (a mutual friend of Claviers and myself - I tried to call him but it went to his voicemail: an über irritating message recorded by a child that I really wish he would change...)
* Treacle (my friend from uni and drummer in my band. I was staying at her flat for a few days whilst in between homes - she works nights and on the Saturday when I particularly needed help, she was off to West London for a family Do)

With those options unavailable to me, I was left with...

* Claviers (actually the one person after my parents who I would want there. Being vulnerable and on a crutch is not the most dignified of states to be in, and Claviers is one of those people who could have instantly cheered me up and made me feel better about myself)

Problem. Friday (the day when it happened) is the day he works with Bâiller. I therefore knew I couldn't call him that night as he'd be with her. On Saturday I suspected they would be together but I also knew he had a gig that night and so may have gone back home from hers at lunchtime, or something like that. Who knows, or wishes to know, the movements of their ex in sexual situations?

Eventually, being (as I was) rather blue at having been alone since the accident , in tremendous pain, and stuck on the second floor in someone else's flat, I bit the bullet and called Claviers, hoping that he would be able to drop by to cheer me up and help get my suitcases downstairs and into a taxi so that I could go to my new home. If nothing else, I just wanted to speak to my friend and get some sympathy even if he couldn't actually help.

As soon as he answered the phone I knew that Bâiller was there. He didn't answer in the customary way and generally sounded like he was working as a customer service agent in a call centre, responding to the news of my torn ligament with a cheery "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that" and "So, what do you need from me?" Somewhat doped up on painkillers, I don't remember exactly what I said but it something like "What I need is the help of a good friend, but apparently I've got the wrong number" At least that's what I think I said.

So the anger I felt at this dream was rooted in that incident - how dare Dream Claviers have a go at me for making fun of Dream Bâiller, when he spoke to me like I was a student calling in sick? When I call him while she's there he speaks to me like shit, if she calls him while I'm there everything is normal... Obviously this was all a dream, but it does have a basis in truth: one time when I was at his (our old) flat, Bâiller called and he even spoke to her in the Team America Kim Jong Il voice that he and I use. Unusually for me, I didn't make a fuss about it as I've been trying ever-so-hard to be grown-up about the whole situation

What I realised after waking up from this dream is how much resentment and anger I've built up towards Bâiller throughout all this. More resentment and anger than I feel towards Claviers. Now, some of this may well be justifiable seeing as she came on the scene before our break up and is the reason for me now falling out with Claviers (over the foot thing), therefore losing my best friend. But then I started to fall for My Love at around the time they met, so not much moral high-ground there. And it was Claviers who was the dick on the phone, not her.

What it causes me to think about is why we girls turn on each other in such situations, rather than turning on the men who have instigated the heart-ache. Perhaps it's just down to basic sperm-grabbing biology. Women are supposedly hard-wired to look for the most desirable sperm so that they can carry on the reproductive process.

As Van Morrison sang "All the girls walk by, dressed up for each other..." A few weeks ago, when I had the misfortune of knowing that I would be in the same room as Bâiller, I spent days pondering my outfit and hours preening in preparation, determined to make the point that I was considerably hotter than her. I need not have worried so much (she didn't make much of an effort by the looks of things) but this is something I know all my girl friends would have done too.

Is it just down to basic human reproductive urges? If so, it seems pretty dumb in my case. Claviers (bless him) is hardly an Alpha male, and by no means possessed the most desirable sperm out of those present at that particular occasion. I genuinely don't have romantic feelings for him anymore and I'm also 85% certain that I won't have children. Furthermore, although I would have made the effort to glam up anyway (not least because My Love was there), I was fully aware of the fact that I was doing it mostly to show up Bâiller. And yet I did it anyway. And will no doubt do it again.

For me, such behaviour shows the flaws in the view held by many feminists that social ideologies are the sole cause of what we think of as gender characteristics. You know the argument: girls are brought up to like pink and Barbies, boys to like blue and trucks, and therefore there is no such things as innately 'feminine' or 'masculine' traits other than those that are foisted upon us by cultural ideology. But my petty need to out-hot Bâiller has no obvious roots in social conditioning - it seems to me to be just an instinctive reaction to the presence of another woman in the life of my ex. And even an intelligent person such as myself, aware of the base urges that drive such behaviour, falls for it anyway.

Intellectually I know it makes no sense, but I still f***ing hate Bâiller...

Definition Of Terms

Before studying my BA in Performing Arts, I would never have described myself as a feminist, mainly because the word held negative associations for me. Namely...

Feminism = Man-Hating Razor-Evading Bra-Burning Lesbians

...associations that are know are held by many young women of my generation, who continue to recoil from the dreaded F Word.

I suppose I also assumed that there was no longer any need for feminism - we have the vote, we can get the same jobs as men (with the possible exception of 'penis model' although even that is possible thanks to new advances in surgery...) so why bother being a feminist?

The main instigators for my change of heart were:

* A newspaper article written in 2006 highlighting the alarming fact that some women are still being paid less than their male counterparts

* Reading Luce Irigaray's seminal work This Sex Which Is Not One

* Having the privilege of being directed by Lucy Richardson and attending the lectures of Helen Spackman - both extraordinary women, talented artists, inspiring lecturers, proud feminists, and committed mothers (to list but a few of their qualities)

Of course, there are many sub-categories of feminism, three Waves of the movement (to date) and several points of conflict arise between liberal/radical, essentialist/non-essentialist feminists and so on.

My musings may well alight upon these conflicts at some point, but for my first post I just want to define my own personal feminist position:

* I believe that all creatures on this earth have the right to be treated with respect and humanity, and that no particular category of creature is "superior" to any other

* As human beings, it seems obvious to me that we should do as we would be done by

* Men and women, in my opinion, retain fundamental differences as a result of their biological functions

* Although men and women hold such essential differences, cultural ideologies and the framework of social conventions also influence the behaviour of every individual

* Whilst I would prefer to live in a world where there was no need for such a movement as feminism (just as there is no need for "maleism") I align myself with it as a result of the continuing iniquities performed against women in a patriarchal society

* I would like to see a world in which men and women work together in equal measures to create a peaceful and well-functioning environment

And to briefly explain the love-sick/romantic nature of this blog: I am indeed love-sick being (as I am) helplessly in love with a man I can't have. No doubt he will arise in future posts.

I would also describe myself a "romantic feminist" because, whilst I assert my independence, stand my ground against patronising sound engineers when I play gigs etc, I do also love it when a man opens a door for me or walks on the outside... Perhaps this points to one of the fundamental sticking-points within feminism: as empowered women, we want to be independent from men. But to live entirely without them...?

This paradox lies at the heart of this blog.

So. I guess we'll just see. Won't we?