On Clowns and Street Harassment

When I left the gym last night I gripped me keys between my fingers in a fist and locked myself in the car as soon as I could. The night before, I knew it would be dark when I left work so I made sure to park as close to the building as possible - something I don't usually care about. This morning I skipped my usual run, kidding myself it was because I can feel a cold coming on and it would be better to conserve energy, but knowing that it's because my running route leads me through secluded trees and remote lanes and I don't feel very safe right now. I don't feel very safe right now because I am afraid of the clowns. (How stupid).

I don't think I need to give much background to this because I'm sure your timeline is already littered with news stories about and videos of "killer clowns" but in summary, a craze from the US that involves dressing up as clowns, sometimes with weapons, to scare people in the street has spread to the UK. They've been seen in parks, town centres, near schools, in trees, and it's all a bit spooky. Spooky, or potentially traumatising? I would argue the latter.

I'm a very anxious person anyway, I don't like to be scared in the way some people enjoy horror, and I suffer from some quite extreme phobias that impact my daily life. HOWEVER, there's a difference between that kind or scared and the scared I feel now, because phobias are, by definition, irrational and I think this clown things is a very genuine cause for concern, particularly because of its association with street harassment. Let me explain the connection as I see it.

So, when I got back safely into my care with the doors locked and the windows closed last night, I thought to myself I shouldn't feel like this in my own hometown. I have always felt very safe in the town I grew up - it's small enough, it has a community spirit and it's one of those white middle class boroughs in which nothing ever really happens. If I'm ever out late in a bigger town or city, which doesn't happen very often, I know to hold my bag a little tighter, to keep my head down so as not to attract unwanted attention, and to lock myself in. I know that because I am a young woman and that's what I've been taught - that's what my mum means as she calls "Go carefully!" every time I leave the house. Until now, I've never really felt the need to take these precautions, to protect myself, at home, but that's when I realised: I shouldn't need to feel like that anywhere.

We've all experienced sexism, that goes without saying, and we've all (I sadly expect) been catcalled, but I'll be honest - it doesn't happen to me that often and I know I'm very lucky. When I read articles about women being harassed on a daily basis I feel very lucky that I can, for the most part, go about without these threats - being looked at, followed, touched, chased. I have feared all the things in the last week because of the so-called clowns and I've realised that they are the embodiment of all that women fear when out alone. Therein lies the problem.

(I know this happens to men too but I can only speak from experience).

I spoke to my younger sister about this craze a few days ago. She's 16 and she said it's made her scared to be home alone. Terrified, she said, it makes me feel sick thinking about it. And then she said something that I've been thinking over a bit the last few days: "It's okay because they don't come in your house". That's not okay, is it? To live in a society where young women only feel safe inside their own homes, and not always that in some cases. Whether it be the threat of a man in a creepy mask or an unassuming stranger that could have sinister intentions, the last week has really highlighted to me that we have good reason to feel afraid.

And what about their intentions? My mum said to me when we saw the clown craze on the news, "but it's just a joke, isn't it?" Maybe, but not a very funny one when you think of the repercussions. I'm sure that most of the time it's just kids behind the masks - teenage boys getting kicks out of frightening people, but are those kids going to grow up to get kicks out of catcalling? harassment? assault? Maybe.

The other troubling thing about this is how it's suddenly entered the public consciousness. It came out of nowhere and only a few days later the number of posts on my Facebook are dwindling. Is it, like most crazes, going away again as soon as it came, or has it become part of the norm? We've learnt the rules now - we stay in, we walk quickly, we keep in groups. After all, that's what's expected of us, right?

I don't really know what my conclusion is, or indeed what this whole jumble of thoughts was. I'd like to end on some empowering message about not being afraid and holding my head high but I'd be lying - I'm still scared. I truly hope that the clown thing will die down soon enough, but I'm less confident about street harassment without the mask, sadly. If anything, this week has been a wake up call to the vulnerability of women out alone - one that I wish I didn't need. I'm sheltered from it most of the time, and my heart breaks for my sisters around the world that feel it every damn day.

Anti-Bucket List: September

When I think back to what's been happening this month, all that comes to me is a muddle of days and extra work shifts and when I looked at my calendar for help, it was very much the same story. I spoke very briefly last month about being stuck in the academic calendar and it suddenly feeling like the end of the year already, and so I don't think it's any coincidence that the month in which everyone goes back to something (school, uni, returning from their hols) is the one in which I've launched myself into as many soul-destroying overtime shifts as I can pick up, in an attempt to get some sort of structure and routine back.

An Open Letter to Love Productions

Dear Love Productions,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, which I'm sure it does due to the well documented sum of money that has recently landed in your account. I'm writing today to make public my thoughts on your new contract with Channel 4 and The Great British Bake Off. I have left it a short while before writing this response to the news in the hope that the dust would settle and I would adjust to the idea, but the fact is I haven't. I know that everything has seen sorted and that the thoughts of one disgruntled individual are not going to change anything but I think that the audience are just as important in the creation of a television programme as the people behind it, so this is my right to reply.

Delight Me

In the last six months or so I've been really getting into podcasts, particularly to accompany me on my morning run. A new favourite of mine is Pandora Sykes and Dolly Alderton's Pandolly Podcast. These ladies are no niche discovery - they're both incredibly successful and much loved - but their work is new to me. After a couple of weeks of listening I realised that I needed to find more of their respective ~stuff~ and I was delighted to find Dolly's weekly newsletter, Dollymail, which I subscribed to instantly.

In this week's newletter, Dolly talks about a book called Modern Delight, a response to J B Priestley's 1949 book Delight, in which writers and people of note reflect on the smaller things in life that delight them, be it a particular time of day or a well made cup of tea. I love this idea, because it really is important to find joy in the seemingly mundane. Simple pleasures fill the gaps between the grand gestures and I happen to think they're often better.

Dolly says that both books (which I'm eagerly trying to track down online):

"confirm what [she has] often suspected, that the people who are truly happy are the people who can find pleasure in the habitual."

She then goes on to write her own list of delights and it was a joy to read on my tea break at work. My mind has been buzzing with my own delights ever since so I've decided to write back to Dolly. See this as a reply to a letter that was inspired by a book that was a response to another (confusing? nah.) Books, letters and lists are three definite delights of mine so they're a great place to start. Here goes. 

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Warm buttered toast, seeded, with marmite puddles. A perfectly ripe avocado. Big bowls of pasta that leave you comfortably full. The smell of ground coffee in the foil packet. The smell of coffee shops. Coffee. 

Heinz tomato soup when you're wearing a jumper. My Granny's apple crumble, but only if she's stewed the apples really well. Restaurants that have good vegetarian options, not just the standard tomato pasta (although pasta is GOOD, see above). Cheesecake. A strip of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. Plates of mediterranean vegetables and olives and sun-dried tomatoes. Strong cheddar, grated. Strong cheddar, sliced. Strong cheddar in cubes on sticks. The satisfaction of a perfectly risen cake that doesn't need more oven time. I could go on but let's leave food for now. 

Oh, and the scent of fresh basil.

The first autumn day that requires a coat. (Read also flat winter boots). The first spring day when you can confidently not wear a coat. The smell of cold air. Starbuck's gingerbread lattes, hot. Going shopping when it's dark and the high street's all lit up. Fairy lights, at Christmas or any time of year. The Salvation Army band in December. 

The excitement of waking up to snow. Waking up to an unexpected sunny day. Rain, particularly the sound of it when in bed and the window is slightly open. Morning air. 

Seeing an impressive moon and gasping to someone the next day, "did you see that moon?!" Clear night skies when you can see all the stars. Trying to identify constellations. 

When an outfit looks as good on as it did in your head. When your online order arrives and you don't have to send anything back. Post. Postcards. Handwritten letters. A good biro. Thick paper that feels expensive. Filling a whole notebook and storing it away for future reference. 

Having a successful day at the sales.

Wearing my university hoodie, the one I know I will never ever throw out because I'm far too sentimental.

Fresh air, fresh sheets, fresh fruit. 

The opening "oooooohs" in Helpless from the Hamilton soundtrack. Successfully rapping any verse from the Hamilton soundtrack. Being part of a standing ovation. Imagining what it would be like if we all burst into song, a la musical theatre. 

Gospel choirs and people singing a cappella.  Charlie Fink's voice. The strings on any Noah and the Whale track. Remembering that I got to see Noah and the Whale and how wonderful it was. Alex Turner's Submarine EP. Abbey Road. Joni Mitchell's Blue album. Carole King's Tapestry album. Young Laura Marling. Got My Mind Set on You, on repeat. Dancing to old Taylor Swift songs with my sister. The Notting Hill soundtrack. The Bridget Jones soundtrack.

Richard Curtis films, with and without a young, floppy Hugh Grant (but preferably with). Wrapping up Christmas presents on the floor while watching Love, Actually. Harry and Sally pulling a Christmas tree through the snow. Choosing a Christmas tree with my mother and pretending, every year, that I am Sally. My mother never getting tired of that.

New books, old books, charity shop books, charity shops in general. Books with dogeared pages and spines that have been loved. Jane Austen's wit. Virginia Woolf's prose. Anything by David Nicholls. Being able to wander through Waterstones with no time limit. 

Walking in welly boots. Running in a breeze. Finishing a run and not feeling like I'm going to collapse. Collapsing into child's pose after a challenging yoga flow. Waking up in the morning and realising I have yoga class to look forward to at the end of the day. The few brief seconds after waking from a blissful dream and not yet realising that it was in fact imaginary. A child's imagination. 

Wearing a pair of tights with no holes or ladders in them. Wearing tiny hoop earrings. The smugness of wearing matching underwear that no one else knows about. Matching winged eyeliner and strong eyebrows. 

Discovering a new writer/musician/artist and having an entire back catalogue to bask in. Sunflowers. Bumblebees. Predicting, and subsequently finding, a rainbow. Being able to walk through a door that says "Staff Only". Having an idea late at night and being so excited to start working on it the next day that you can hardly sleep. Buying new craft materials. 

Remembering who that-person-on-the-telly-in-a-minor-role is and where you've seen them previously BEFORE your friend can Google their IMDB page. Getting lost in a spiral of IMDB pages and Wikipedia entries, then later impressing friends with your new-found knowledge. Friends (the people). Friends (the TV show). Clapping along to the theme tune of Friends (the TV show). Getting a pointless answer and being congratulated by Richard Osman. 

Oliver Postgate's voice in the opening sequence of Bagpuss. Following The Clangers on Twitter. Talking to my parents about children's television of their generation. Leafing through my Granny's immense collection of old photographs and hearing the same stories about distant aunts and cousins over again. The feeling of holding a photograph between your thumb and forefinger. Finding a favourite photograph from the box which you thought you'd forgotten about (perhaps of my Grandad in his National Service uniform). Having Facebook bring up six year old photos and the warm nostalgia or forgotten memories, which I suppose is our equivalent to the photograph box. 

Meeting a friendly cat in the street. The weight of a cat sleeping on or near your lap. Cats' paws, cats' whiskers, the softness of the fur at the base of a cat's ear. Cats in cardboard boxes, cats at the end of your bed, cats following you around the house. Being and feeling wanted by a cat. Cats, and everything about them. Cats the Musical.

The crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, the noise a well made clock makes, the sound of the sea. Pebbles. The plop of a pebble landing in water. 

Taking off your shoes after a long day. Pulling up on your driveway after a long day and sighing, "ah, home again". Being at home, and feeling at home somewhere that isn't.

Writing long lists of all the things that are delightful.

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That. Felt. So. Nice. Seriously. I'm sure there are hundreds of other things I could include in this list - maybe I'll add to it one day. I urge you to write your own and to take delight in life's simple pleasures. 

And thanks of course to Dolly for sparking these ideas. I eagerly await my next Dollymail xxxx

Anti-Bucket List: August

I had one of those oh-god-where-is-the-year-going-help-I'm-failing moments the other day. It's the middle of August, I thought, and August is practically September and September is basically Christmas! Cue a spiral of panic. I know that's not exactly true but I'm still very much stuck in the academic calendar from years of schooling.

On Being a Stay-at-Home Student

I've talked a lot in previous posts about the trials and tribulations of being a uni student and the process of finishing a degree, but what I'm not sure if I've mentioned before is that I was a ~special~ kind of student. No, not a mature or international one but a stay-at-home student (did the title give me away?) Yes, I was one of the few kids (although probably not as few as you think) that decided against moving across the country to study and instead chose to remain in my family home and enrol in my closest university town.

Now, there's a lot of articles, info and advice floating around the internet for soon-to-be freshers, especially with the dreaded A level results day looming, but these almost exclusively focus on what to pack and new housemates and moving away. That's really great, and us home birds know we're in the minority, but I certainly found when I was preparing to start my first semester three years ago that there wasn't much in terms of reassurance for someone like me, which is why I think now's the perfect time to share my thoughts and experiences on being a stay-at-home student.

When I Grow Up

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" That's what they always asked when we were little and that is what I've often found myself asking when I'm faced with a child (the horror!) The thing with kids is that they know. Almost without thinking, they have a response: Teacher, Doctor, Fireman, Hairdresser, Policeman, Builder, Vet, Shopkeeper, Footballer, Popstar. It's like there's a list of professions that they've come across in their lives thus far and they just pick one. In many ways it's great that real life is more than a list of ten options - it means there's something for everyone, even those that don't fit in the obvious boxes - but in other ways I envy those kids that have it all sorted out. I'm applying for me first grad job at the moment and I still don't really know What I Want To Be When I Grow Up.