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I forgot to mention the incredibly annoying woman I ‘met’ on the bus after having my ears syringed. She was fiddling with her cufflinks, making sighing noises and muttering the odd phrase about how annoying her cufflinks were; I made the mistake of half turning round and she instantly grabbed me in a conversational headlock. (Not having to talk on public transport or at bus queues or at checkouts is one of the reasons I prefer London over the North; of course I’m capable of quipping should the occasion arise which makes me look like a star of shining outgoing-ness in the midst of London coldness. It’s all just a ruse to hide my natural curmudgeon.)
Dressed head to toe in pale pink (my wardrobe is now almost entirely black. It’s mostly accidental, but that bit of information should be enough to register my opinion of grown women who wear pink shirts, baby pink pedal pushers, white sandals and frosted blue eye shadow); her cufflinks were unbelievably shoddy – made of plastic, one end barely a nubbin, certainly not enough to keep two pieces of fabric together. Thinking about it, perhaps they were made that way? Bought from the Attention Seekers’ Clothing Emporium, accessories deliberately created to start conversations? Who knows.
Anyway, it turns out that pink-clad lady was an "actor-singer", on her way to record a demo with a pianist she’d never worked with before and was quite nervous about using – studio time costs so much money and she didn’t want to have to spend time with him waiting for him to ‘get’ her style; she taught primary school on her off days and lived in a council house which the council paid for and was so much bigger than the place she’d rented in Muswell Hill and paid for herself, which was so expensive and she was only really paying to live on that road (bear in mind; all this information was ‘shared’ between Shepherds Hill and Archway), and how she wished she was married because the financial side is so much easier then, you know?
Let’s pause this little tableau there, shall we?
I’m not surprised that this vision in rose would want to be married, a hen-pecked husband is just what she needs to stop her spilling her life out to strangers on the bus. But why, for the love of all that is good and pleasant in life, why do women still exist on this planet who think that marriage is a route to financial security? Is it not enough that she’s taking Haringey council for her accommodation? She needs some poor sap to bleed dry as well? It’s stuff like this gives women a bad name. I’ve got a number of feminist tracts on the go at the moment for my tube reading, and I’m growing angrier and angrier at the vast gap in equality as what I read is not ‘educating’ me, but putting into black and white what I already feel and know – and I’m not just talking pay and career and education, I’m talking attitudes and beliefs – and then I meet dumb bitches like that, rejecting and destroying with one fell stroke all the good work that’s gone before.
TAKE SOME RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR OWN FUCKING LIFE!
Hmm. Maybe that offer of citalopram wasn’t so wildly off the mark…