Skip to main content

Rant warning: belittling women

British society. British life. British medicine. All victims of insult, ridicule and damning comment - from time to time. With regard to the latter, and specifically the NHS, currently time to time is all the time. However, there are some things that we take for granted in the UK and in the light of what follows, perhaps we should be standing on the roof-tops and declaring what a fantastic country this is.

Women here - since the sexual revolution of the 1960s - have the right to choose if and when they get pregnant. The contraceptive pill is to thank for a reduction in numbers of women dying as a result of botched, back-street abortions. Yes - I mean dying! Bleeding to death, or dying from an overwhelming pelvic infection, are both horrible ways to go. And preventable. The contraceptive pill is not 100% safe, no medication is, but the newer ones, taken correctly, are over 99% effective in the prevention of pregnancy.

We take for granted our right to choose. And so far the British state supports this.

It should send shivers up all our spines then, that some right wing fundamentalists in America are, not only suggesting that the teaching of contraception be stopped in schools, but are also proposing a law, that would allow employers to penalise women who take the pill for contraceptive, and not purely medical, reasons. They even have a potential presidential candidate who has apparently stated that raped women should be forced to have their 'gifts from God' and be denied abortions. I wish I was making this up!

Maybe, prohibiting contraception is an underhand way of making professional development impossible for women in America and thereby increasing the rate of male employment. Or is that too cynical?

I am scared by this. And I think we all should be. I hope that, in this case, the observation where America leads, we follow is not prophetic.

Apologies to anyone looking for funny anecdotes about Littlest and Four-legged-friend. I'll get back to that tomorrow.

In the meantime, perhaps living in Britain is not so bad after all.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn...

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here -  in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast.  Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and ...

Heaven clearly can't wait. Ranting and screaming inside. Growing old and lecturing ... myself, mostly.

What follows should come with a warning - it is a preachy rant. Stop now if you're not in the mood for a lecture. Or, if you're into procrasti-reading, read on and (hopefully) enjoy my latest piece of procrasti-writing. Apologies too for the reference to elderly leakages. And farts. And now, for being deeply irreverent. Sorry. Heaven  can't  wait. Meatloaf was wrong. Clearly the 'band of Angels' is impatiently putting together a gig. There's a party happening which we haven't been invited to. Yet. What a terrible year 2016 has been, so far. And we are barely dipping our winter-wrapped toes into Spring. Is it that the roll-call of those summoned to a higher place grows ever more poignant as we age? Prince was but a few years older than me. Victoria Wood, a meaningless number of years older still. Meaningless because what does age mean astride the long plateau of middle age before the eventual slide into decrepitude? A few years here, a few there - we...