A Mad World

Sadly I have to return home tomorrow as I am working on Sunday. I thought lots of people would turn up at the marina tonight, lured by the forecast of temperatures in the mid twenties and sunshine. Maybe they’ll come tomorrow. We are once again alone. One couple and their elderly Jack Russell did arrive tonight, they ran the engine, stowed their gear and disappeared into the (beautiful) sunset. Then the hunters started shooting. Close by. Not nice. Fortunately they have now stopped.

Older Nephew said something to me yesterday about the boat being part of who I am. I think he’s right, and in the aftermath of Mother’s and Aunt’s deaths I am enjoying the boat in a different way to formerly. So keeping the car, keeping the boat is my preferred option for the time being.

I caught up with the review section of last Saturday’s Guardian. There was a piece by Amy Grace about how she (and Margaret Attwood and Donna Tartt) wrote for Playboy. Maybe I need to reread it, but on first reading it made me very cross. Saying Playboy was tame in comparison with what was available elsewhere does not, to me, make Hefner’s empire acceptable. I remember in the 80s feeling despair when very young girls in the school where I taught appeared carrying pencil cases with the bunny symbol, the most charismatic boy in the Sixth Form (a Sikh, don’t think HH’s appeal was merely to middle-aged white men) wore wristbands with the same logo and looked up to Hefner as a rôle model. From Instagram I have been educated with the very unwelcome knowledge that many young women see their worth in their sexual attractiveness and availability. There are more cleavages and bare buttocks, sometimes pouting lips, out there and apparently posted by their women they belong to, than I would have believed possible in 2017.

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Distractingly Sexy

I nipped round to the local micro brewery for a half. I had a private tour there over a year ago before the beer was brewed, but until last night hadn’t tried any. It was nice. I knew some friends were intending to go this evening when the brewery was staying open longer than usual. So with MasterB outside in the garden, and my dinner lining my stomach, off I trotted.

I met two friends. I knew no one else, recognised no one else other than the owner. Now this is odd. The brewery is in the next street. I know lots of people there. If I go to my local pub even if I don’t know everyone, I recognise the vast majority. There were at least three hipsters. We never see hipsters in this neighbourhood. So passé; so Hoxton. Really, I may have to move.

However, the beer I tried tonight which had elderflower was delicious. I suspect it is a *ladies’ beer*, the sort of thing Al Murray in his rôle as the pub landlord would suggest for his female customers. Sexism has been in the news this week after Tim Hunt made a speech to fellow scientists and in front of scientific journalists at Seoul. In case you missed it, here is what he is alleged to have said:

“Let me tell you about my trouble with girls. Three things happen when they are in the lab. You fall in love with them, they fall in love with you and when you criticise them, they cry.”

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