Death of the Lady: why 'ladylike' is a sexist term

'If we bury the turkey in sprouts, no will notice the burnt bits.'

Bent over a saucepan of Brussels sprouts on BBC Breakfast this morning, Gordon Ramsay raised the problem that plagues many of us this year: “They will make you fart,” he warned. His interviewer, presenter Susanna Reid, immediately brought him up on this, quickly claiming in outraged tones that women don’t fart, sweat, burp or swear. I hate to break it to you Susanna, but if this true, you should really seek medical advice. For the rest of the unenlightened out there, women do, indeed, fart, sweat, burp, swear, urinate and defecate. Sometimes, I expect, all at once. Unfortunately, Susanna is not alone in her attempt to deny us these basic bodily functions; I have heard several friends protest in horror that they would never dream of performing any of these acts.

This is pathetic, ridiculous and maddening. By placing women on a fart-free pedestal, we are chaining ourselves to an archaic presentation of women as perfect porcelain dolls, whose only purpose in life is to be pretty decorations that are seen and not heard. Or smelled. The unenlightened should prepare themselves for a bold claim: to perpetuate this view is to present ourselves as inhuman. Yes, that’s right. Before you roll your eyes and return to polishing your club, let’s remind ourselves that this claim denies women the basic functions of human anatomy. For anyone who thinks that no one could be quite so stupid as to really believe this, I would refer them to a particularly ignorant ex-housemate, who had such trouble coming to terms with this notion that he chose to ignore clear evidence and to simply deny it. Mind you, he also believed that all women began menstruation on the first day of every month.

Clearly, gentlemen, it’s not just what we say that some of you struggle to comprehend; many of you have a lot to learn when it comes to female anatomy. Think about it, boys: if women are physically incapable of defecation (translation: pooing, shitting, taking a dump), why are we so frequently the subjects of adverts for diarrhoea medication?

Of course, all this reverts back to the notion of what is and is not considered ladylike. Traits in that first category include lipstick, needlework and child-bearing, while tattoos, swearing and an avid dislike of children would probably fall into the latter. To label the term ‘ladylike’ as restrictive is not to say that any of the activities which are given this description are innately wrong. It is more important to focus on what this term intends to prevent us from doing.

To draw on the example of the Olympics, sports such as boxing, judo and football are still held as pursuits more suited to men. To follow national television coverage would be to believe that no woman has ever so much as looked at a football, let alone competed in an international tournament. Boxing coach Hal Adonis (surely an ironic surname if ever there was one) commented that female boxers who haven’t been hit by their parents ‘don’t belong in boxing’, since women apparently need some form of motivation other than sporting prowess to get our pretty little heads angry enough to want to fight. On watching Gemma Gibbons win her Judo silver medal in London 2012, Andrew M Brown wrote that he 'couldn't help wondering about their soft limbs battered black and blue with bruises,' not something he apparently concerns himself with when it comes to competitions between men.

These examples demonstrate that many still distinguish between activities which are acceptable for men and women based on the archaic notion that women are inherently flimsy, fragile creatures. Like it or not, the word ‘ladylike’ is a sexist term because it allows people to restrict what women do purely because of the fact we have vaginas instead of penises. Of course, this type of gender-based classifications affects men too; how many have ever felt pressured to take up one sport over another ‘feminine’ one or to use terms which intentionally subjugate women in order to appear manly?

No one wants to be surrounded by a farting family post-Christmas dinner. But ladies, if you do let out a belter, don’t blame the man sat next to you: you’re only human, embrace it.

Secret Santa: festive fun or the nightmare before Christmas?

Secret Santa is a bit like eggnog; for some it joins mince pies and hearing Wizard everywhere as another mark that Christmas has begun, while for others it’s more like a threat than a promise of festive cheer. Unfortunately, unless you plan on becoming your intended recipient’s personal Grinch, it is no secret that once begun it cannot be denied regardless of your personal feelings and complete lack of preparation.

Why does Secret Santa promote groans of grim dismay? Frankly, Christmas is hectic. There are presents to buy, cards to write and travel plans to be made, in between which we are under even more pressure than usual to go out and have a good time. Christmas attractions and shopping centres soon take on the feeling of a stampede or a sheepdog trial, with everyone wedged together struggling to maintain the requisite good will to all mankind. With this in mind, it can be stressful enough trying to find presents for people you have known for twenty two years, let alone trying to pick between a rubber duck or a scented candle for someone you barely know. And, if you’re really unlucky, you might end up having to present a gift to the one person in your halls whose head you most like to shove up a turkey’s backside. Clearly not the tidings of comfort and joy that Christmas is intended to promote among us.

However, for all these potential problems, secret Santa is, in some ways, about the true spirit of Christmas. You might well spend hours searching for just the right earrings for your friend, only to receive a toilet brush and a voucher for a free hug from someone who panicked five minutes before they left. This ensures that your attention really is on the spirit of giving. Furthermore, since the low budget means that jet-powered hovering rollerblades are unfortunately out of the question, the focus really is the thought that goes into the gift. While you may end up with someone you can’t stand (in which case go for the lump of coal), you may also get the chance to show your friend how much you appreciate them. Watching their eyes light up a little over that pair of leopard print socks does make you feel a bit like Santa on Christmas Day.

Maybe Secret Santa is actually more like a cupboard: you get out what you put in. Of course, I’m not referring to the bouncy ball and foam finger that someone thought you might like, but the feeling of surprising someone else with a thoughtful gift.

Five essential components of a Christmas film

Whether it's a classic or a cheesy treat, everyone has a Christmas film of choice. The shops may have been playing carols since August, but now that those first few advent calendar windows have been ripped open it's truly time to indulge. Deck the halls, grab a mince pie, and see how many of these essentials your festive favourite features.

"And you're sure that a sleigh is covered by an automatic licence?"

Family fun. Like it or not, Christmas is a time for family. Whether arguing bitterly, screwing each other’s partners or discovering the true spirit of Christmas, families are often the ribbon that holds Christmas movies together.

Let it snow, man. Christmas is no time for rain, dear. However unreflective it may be of real life, we expect snow in Christmas movies. We want those shots of snow-covered hills bedecked with snowmen and sledding children, because snow is marvellous and beautiful when there is a TV screen between it and us. We can smugly turn up the fire and peek out from a duvet at the characters in the cold, safe in the knowledge that it won’t be us clearing the driveway tonight.

The knitwear before Christmas. Of course our intrepid characters need something to protect them from all that snow, and as the temperatures drop the gloves, scarves and lumpy woolly jumpers come out. Bonus points if any piece of attire has a reindeer on it. Triple points for bobbles.

Crazy stupid love. The brother of the woman whose house you’re borrowing? Naturally. The guy with stationery instead of hands who your mum has semi-adopted? Why not. Your Portuguese housekeeper with whom you have no way to communicate barring hand gestures and broken English? Meant to be. All that mistletoe seems to go to people’s heads, resulting in some highly implausible relationships. When the wrapping paper is in the bin, the Christmas pudding has been turned to crumbs and the hangover sets in, the tree has a better chance of lasting through the New Year than some of these movie couples.

Get your Santa Claus out. Surely the oldest character in movie history, Santa is sure to add a festive feel to any film. Well, any film in which he’s not played by Billy Bob Thornton.

Film Review: The Sapphires

Released: Wednesday 7th November 

Director: Wayne Blair

Starring: Chris O'Dowd, Deborah Mailman, Jessica Mauboy

Verdict: Great acting and singing and some genuinely funny moments, but a loose plot means it never really shines.

***

It’s 1968 and three Aboriginal sisters are performing a country song in the talent contest in a local bar before a hostile white audience and a bemused Irishman. Although they miss out on the prize, the girls pick up a manager/pianist in the form of the aforementioned Irishman, self-proclaimed soul man Dave (Chris O’Dowd). Armed with an advert calling for entertainers to perform for American soldiers in Vietnam, the four head off to get the reluctant blessing of the girls’ parents. 

When youngest sister Julie (Jessica Mauboy) is refused permission, older sisters Gail (Deborah Mailman) and Cynthia (Miranda Tapsell) set out to recruit their cousin Kay (Shari Sebbens), who used to sing with them when they were children. Joined by the ever resilient Julie and with old tensions returning to trouble Kay and Gail, Dave persuades the band to ditch the country and find their inner soul stars as they jet off to romance and danger in war-torn Vietnam.

The film starts off strongly, drawing on the chemistry between the sisters to create a promising premise. The main characters all have their own problems; Dave is a borderline alcoholic, ambitious Cynthia is hurting over a broken engagement, young mother Julie vaguely mentions something about making a better life for her son, stoic Gail is busy watching out for everyone and Kay is confused over how to handle her muddled racial status in racist Australia. 

On this last point, the film should be credited with not shying away from Australia’s troubled racial past, although it generally ignores the history of American segregation. However, as it goes on, these personal issues are generally ignored in favour of various blossoming romances, of which only one seems to reach a clear conclusion by the end of the film. Loose ends are acceptable when they are clearly intended, but in a film billed as ‘the feel-good film of the year’ (I’ve fallen for that line before, Danny Boyle) it seems odd that two of the three major relationships are seemingly forgotten, as are Julie’s plans for fame.

Although no one could accuse this film of aiming to be the next Apocalypse Now, it does generally offer an alarmingly rosy view of the Vietnam War. While most scenes set in the war show soldiers cheerfully gambling, smoking and singing along to some wonderful soul classics, the most graphic image of war is an amputee watching the band perform with a wistfully forlorn expression, as though he has just remembered he forgot to buy the milk. Of course the women are the focus, but the film somewhat loses its impact in the wake of this rose-tinted representation of war. Also, the suggestion that a bit of soul might calm the black troops after the assassination of Martin Luther King is patronising bordering on offensive.

However, while this film is clearly not perfect, it has moments of brilliance. The sharp comedy is pulled off perfectly, particularly by O’Dowd and Mailman, whose chemistry shines throughout, and the performances themselves are breathtaking, often thanks to Mauboy’s superb vocals. Despite being rather forgotten by the end, Tapsell manages to play to both the comedy and pathos of the film. Although determined to maintain the upbeat heart of the story, the filmmakers take care to show the disturbing impact of racism in Australia.

Despite the actors’ best efforts and some sharp, well-delivered jokes, The Sapphires never transforms into anything more than an uplifting comedy with some outstanding performances of soul classics.

We’ve all been there... the Mystery of the Safe Place

First and foremost, I would like to clarify that I am not, in fact, referring to the mental realm that my yoga teacher tells us to visit as we lie on the floor at the end of a session, trying to work out which body part hurts the most. I am instead talking about the Safe Place where you put things of High Importance to keep them from getting lost, only to immediately lose them.

I have heard several theories as to the mysterious vanishing act executed by the Safe Place. The first is that after carefully putting the item there, you are so overcome with your own efficiency and organisation that while you are congratulating yourself on having permanently secured the safety of said item, your brain decides that since it no longer needs to worry about this, it promptly forgets it and moves on to other important agendas, like wondering what’s for dinner and why seals always look so forlorn. Seriously, they are adorable and everyone loves them, so why the puppy dog eyes? Thus, when you come to need your item of High Importance, you cannot for the life of you recall where you put it, only that you did, indeed, put it Somewhere Safe. Cue lots of self-berating and halfhearted cursing of seals.

Another suggestion as to why exactly the Safe Place is so inefficient draws on the fact that usually, in order to protect the item from becoming collateral damage in the process of your daily existence, you choose a place far removed from your general field of awareness. This place can range from somewhere vaguely sensible, like the tallest shelf in the house or at the back of a wardrobe, to the illogically quirky, such as in a once-loved and now forgotten shoe.

While this may well prevent it from getting jumbled up with other daily accumulations, or becoming yet another item that’s got lodged in your foot, it also means that you are less likely to casually come across it and vaguely store it in the useful part of your brain which likes to pop up every now and again and help out. You know the bit I mean; it’s the part that notes that your phone is on the arm of the sofa as you glide obliviously past, and reminds you of this fact when you are about to start turning the house upside down half an hour later in search of it. By its nature, the Safe Place must be somewhere isolated from damage, and as such it passes under your brain’s radar.

It seems, then, that much like tacos, chocolate-flavoured tea and scarves with pockets, the whole concept of the Safe Place is brilliant in theory but flawed in practice. Unless you plan on investing in a safe, accept the rule of the Safe Place, shove everything on the bedside table or into a shoe and hope that your brain will pick up the slack.

Five things to do during a power cut

Dreading the next time a blackout leaves your evening plans in ruins? Here are five power cut-proof activities to keep you entertained.

Light candles. Usually left untouched in the back of the Messy Draw, the humble candle is undoubtedly the hero of the blackout. Suddenly that lavender scented beauty you received two Christmases ago seems like the most thoughtful gift ever. Now if only you could find the matches...

Play board games. The TV won’t work? The internet is down? What fresh hell is this? For those of you who have yet to discover the joy and bloodlust that result from a highly competitive round of Articulate, prepare to forget all about the delights of Don’t Tell the Bride and find your fighting spirit next blackout.  

Jump out on people. Surely the first course of action when darkness suddenly descends: added points if you can include a torch-under-the-chin stunt in your performance. Win bragging rights forever if the neighbours come running, but fair warning: expect a cold and calculated revenge.

Save the ice cream. Power-less Ben & Jerry’s fans: your frozen goods need you. The fish fingers and pizza might be out of the question, but grab a spoon and don’t let the ice cream go to waste. So what if the power came back half an hour ago? These things can be temperamental, so better finish it just to be sure. If you want to be extra resourceful, use the frozen peas to soothe the lumps induced by bumping into things while you were stumbling round in the dark looking for the candles.

Tell ghost stories. The TV won't wake up and all the Monopoly money has vanished: time to revert to practically prehistoric forms of entertainment. If you can’t think of any ghost stories of your own, simply summarise a classic film or book. Can't remember it all? Improvise: who says that The Shining wouldn't have been improved by ten foot clowns with bat wings? Just be sure to remember that while seeing your housemates trembling in terror may seem fun at the time, you’ve got to go to bed in total darkness too.

What can we learn from the 'Day of the Dead'?

At least this explained why he always seemed
to have art on the brain.

Falling on 2^nd November, Mexico’s ‘Día de los Muertos’ ('Day of the Dead') has a history that can be traced back for thousands of years. With an emphasis on remembrance, family and celebration, there are crucial lessons to be learned from a day that brings death to life.

Despite the many positives, let’s address the inevitable problems that arise with such a suggestion. Firstly, there are the religious overtones to consider. In Mexico, food, such as sugar skulls and special ‘pan de muerto’ bread, and blankets are left out for the soul of the deceased, and some families build shrines to them and to the Virgin Mary. For atheists and other non-Christians, these traditions would be irrelevant or even inappropriate. A second concern is that what would begin as a festival dedicated to the dead could quickly become another opportunity for companies to shove merchandise down our throats: cue an endless array of cards, banners, bunting, toys, sweets and cakes all appearing in shops three months in advance in a tacky attempt to obscure the true meaning with pound signs.

These are, of course, important issues, and as such I am not suggesting that we take every element of Mexico’s traditional Day of the Dead activities, rituals and beliefs and transplant them to the grey November streets of Britain. It is, rather, the essence of this festival that I believe we could learn a lot from. Day of the Dead seeks to unite families in order to celebrate an individual who has died, a complete contrast to the stiff upper lip that we Brits are often expected to maintain, at least to some degree, when faced with the death of a loved one.

Although traditions concerning children tend to be more sober, a significant part of the celebrations are devoted to taking a humorous look at the person’s life. While I have, fortunately, never died, I think I would prefer to be remembered for my wild sense of humour and wacky flights of fancy than as a disconnected, staid and noble figure. Besides, I am all for encouraging dressing up and the consumption of sweets in my honour.

Of course, everyone must deal with death on their own terms, but a festival which encourages mourning as a celebratory group activity rather than a sorrowful solitary pursuit means that families and friends can support each other through grief. While facing that telling space in your life can never be easy, bottling up painful emotions will not help in the long run, and repressing sweet memories that are now bitter with loss means losing part of your life with that person. Having just one person to discuss your loss with, particularly with a humorous overtone, can reassure you that you are not alone. Each individual’s memories of the departed will keep them alive and refreshed, mourned but not idealised, gone but not forgotten. 

While the thought of skulls, souls and altars might make you cringe, it is the message at the heart of this festival that is of primary importance. When people die, it is OK and even healthy to mourn for our own loss, but also do them the honour of celebrating their life, complete with wonders, warts and all.

We've all been there: The Forgotten "I'm safe" Text

Stumbling from the warmth of a friend’s house and into the darkened street, you have every intention of texting them to declare your safe deliverance the moment your foot is in the door. However, somewhere along the road this thought is pushed from your mind, as you clutch your keys and treat every bush as a potential hiding spot for deviants and werewolves. Upon arriving home you are so flushed with your triumphant escape from harm that you instantly forget the concerns of everyone else and make yourself a victory tea (or something stronger if it was particularly hazardous.)

In the time immediately following this omission, either your friend will try to make contact with you, thus confirming their genuine concern, or you will both have moved on to other things and be blissfully unaware of any communication failure until you meet again three days later. Either way, since masked vigilantes prepared to swoop to the rescue are notoriously unreliable, it is nice to know that someone is thinking about where you are. For the sake of safety please keep up this rather endearing ritual, and you never know, one day you might actually remember to reply.

Five films to see in November

Nothing beats the cinema for escapism: it's full of tension, romance and drama, and it's even indoors. As temperatures and the number of daylight hours drop, take solace in five fantastic films.

Rust and Bone

Friday 2^nd November

Director: Jacques Audiard

Starring: Marion Cotillard, Matthias Schoenaerts, Fabien Baïardi

What better credentials can a film have to offer than Marion Cotillard, a dramatic love story and killer whales? Maybe the accolade of ‘Best Film’ from the BFI Film Festival and a nomination for this year’s Palme d’Or. Cotillard plays Stephanie, a killer whale trainer who grows close to reckless single dad Ali (Belgian heartthrob Matthias Schoenaerts) after a terrible accident. Most reviews are overwhelmingly positive, with some labelling Cotillard as an early Oscar contender, so bone up on your French or grab your reading glasses for this gritty and compelling drama.

Argo

Wednesday 7^th November

Director: Ben Affleck

Starring: Bryan Cranston, Ben Affleck, John Goodman

Directed by and starring a heavily bearded Ben Affleck, Argo is based on the true story of an attempt to pass off six American diplomats stuck in Tehran during the 1979 Iran hostage crisis as a Canadian film crew working on a sci-fi. Argo has been reviewed as a tense thriller with moments of dark humour, all of which sounds right up the street of a cast that includes Bryan Cranston, John Goodman and Alan Arkin.

The Sapphires

Wednesday 7^th November

Director: Wayne Blair

Starring: Chris O’Dowd, Deborah Mailman, Jessica Mauboy

If all of this seems a bit intense, try this comedic gem. Also inspired by a true story, The Sapphires follows a quartet of Aboriginal Australian singers, and their well-meaning Irish manager (Chris O’Dowd), who go from country girls to soul stars as they find themselves entertaining troops embroiled in the Vietnam War. It may not be the next Apocalypse Now (which is probably a good thing), but this has been praised as a film with a heart behind the humour.

Skyfall

Friday 26^th October

Director: Sam Mendes

Starring: Daniel Craig, Javier Bardem, Judi Dench

Yes, technically this came out in October, but there are probably quite a few of us already queuing up to relive it again. While the beginning frequently slips into predictable Bond territory (think superficial 'Bond girls' and implausible action sequences), the arrival of Javier Bardem’s brilliantly creepy villain marks this as a move away from the cheesy spy thrillers of the past and as an intelligent and gripping film in its own right.

The Master

Friday 2^nd November

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson

Starring: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Joaquin Phoenix, Amy Adams

Any film starring Philip Seymour Hoffman as a cult leader and Joaquin Phoenix as his dedicated disciple has to be worth a watch, particularly one written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson. With the performances from the two leads and Anderson’s direction already receiving rave reviews, one of the year’s most highly anticipated films is building up quite a following.

Five things I have learned this week

Kids did not embrace the vegetarian alternative to Ronald McDonald.

Always read the label. When a care label on an item of clothing reads ‘hand wash only’, you should respect this advice. After feeling a kind of rebellious pride as I chucked that favoured top in the washing machine, I’m left with a garment suitable only for a very stylish toddler.

Maps are not my friends. Maps can be wonderful things, but, like black eye shadow and lightsabres, in the wrong hands they can lead to disaster. In my hands, for example, a map can lead to a short cut becoming a rather long detour round some beautifully autumnal trees, and, upon consultation with someone who knows where they are, a headache-inducing sprint in the opposite direction.

Carrots used to be purple. Apparently, the Dutch decided that they wanted their carrots to match their national colours, and introduced the orange variety to the Western world.

A hole in a handbag is a hole in the head. Wishful thinking and procrastination will not fix the hole in the lining of your handbag. Furthermore, important objects such as your keys and phone will continue to fall through it and prompt moments of blind panic, while relatively replaceable objects like hairclips and sticks of gum will remain where you left them.

The definition of 'kiki', according to the Scissor Sisters. For the uninitiated, a 'kiki' is a party thrown for the express purpose of letting off steam after a rough day. It may involve locking doors, lowering blinds, firing up a smoke machine, putting on heels and spilling tea. It is also important to note that once you have listened to this song once you may need to throw a kiki to release the stress built up by having it playing in your mind all day.

Fireworks, films and squirrels on jumpers: why autumn is underrated

Ever the pragmatist, Superman never tested his powers without a soft
landing spot.

Despite its crisp sunshine and colourful palette, autumn is the most overlooked and unloved of the seasons. Devoid of the excitement of winter, the freshness of spring and the anticipation of summer, it is often seen as the bringer of bad news, the party pooper who wants you to turn the music down, put on some clothes and get an early night. Contrary to its dowdy reputation, the underdog of the seasons actually has a lot to offer its ungrateful public.

Firstly, the fashion. We can finally pack away the shorts and spaghetti tops and breathe a sigh of relief as the woolly cardigans and enormous socks are brought blinking into the light of day. Pasty legs are once again ensconced in jeans, while toenails go triumphantly unpainted as sandals give way to well-insulated boots. Arriving after the sweaty fluster of summer and before the fuss of Christmas parties, autumn is the most forgiving of the seasons when it comes to beauty maintenance. Fake tan addicts can get out their snowy white sheets and razors remain tentatively on the side, while a relaxing ten minutes with a face and hair mask is the order of the quarter. If a stripped-back beauty regime is not enough to convince you, who can fail to love a season which practically demands the possession of an alarmingly large and obscenely cosy jumper, preferably emblazoned with some form of woodland creature? Ban the bikini and snuggle up in an appropriately garish knit.

If you’re looking for somewhere to work the wool, why not try the cinema? Although a darkened room may not seem like the best place to show off an outfit, there are so many gut-bustingly exciting movies on the horizon you won’t want to be anywhere else. So far this autumn we’ve lusted after Anna Karenina’s drool-worthy dresses (and leading man), whooped and wept over the superb Perks of Being a Wallflower, and tried very hard to pretend that Joseph Gordon-Levitt resembles Bruce Willis in sci-fi thriller Looper.

Fortunately for all popcorn manufacturers, this promising start looks set to continue well into November before the Christmas movies strike. Released on the 17^th October and featuring one of the most endearing animated dogs of all time (apologies to Gromit), Frankenweenie is Tim Burton’s affectionate tribute to classic monster movies. While it fails to deliver one major feature of a Burton movie (namely Johnny Depp), it retains the style and dark humour fans have come to expect. Another visually stunning recent release is On the Road, Walter Salles’ adaptation of Kerouac’s celebrated novel. Add to these the return of Daniel Craig’s brooding Bond in Skyfall and Paul Thomas Anderson’s highly anticipated The Master, and it becomes clear that there simply aren’t enough Orange Wednesdays in the months ahead.

It being autumn, it is entirely possible that you are reading this in the library of some form of educational institute, surrounded by a small fort of books and a moat of notes, and fuelled by coffee craftily smuggled past watchful librarians. Serving as a break between summer and winter, autumn can seem a lot like New Year. It is a time to take up yoga and vegetables, and drop chocolate cake and ice cream sundaes. After the long lazy days of summer, the intellectual stimulation afforded by school and Uni suddenly seems life-affirming and mind-blowing. You experience a sudden need for levels of organisation only achievable through the acquisition of numerous items of stationery. Hole-punches, staplers, cat-shaped highlighters and cake-shaped rubbers begin to accumulate on a desk already covered in complex-sounding books and Post-it notes as you hunt down the perfect note-storing system.

Autumn represents a chance to start again and make good on the promise of efficiency made in the queue at the Paperchase sale on the 1^st January. It should be seen as a golden time of academic delight and dedication soon to be destroyed by impending deadlines and dissertation woes. Take note and embrace this time of hitherto unseen productivity. Just expect to find said note several months later on the floor beside the earring you thought was gone forever and a disturbingly large ball of dust.

For any sceptics still out there, autumn offers two of the most enjoyable festivals of the year. Halloween is possibly the only excuse adults have to douse themselves in liberal quantities of fake blood, frighten small children and make elaborate sculptures out of pumpkins. Bonfire night also offers ample opportunities to have fun under the guise of responsibility and tradition. Any season which offers us the chance to create a fake man and set him alight, before sending rockets and other noisy, pretty things into the sky and ingesting dangerous amounts of toasted marshmallow can only be, in an overused word, awesome.

Despite these deeply rational arguments for the joyfulness inherent in autumn, there are the inevitable cynics out there. While they stubbornly clutch their Cornettos and shiver in their hot pants, may the rest of us pull on our boots, throw on our scarves and follow the yellow brick road laid at our feet in the form of the golden leaves of autumn.

Good training: the etiquette of train travel

The conga line was not warmly received by other commuters.

Ah trains, those magical machines that whisk you through the picturesque English countryside or a dingy Tube tunnel to a destination that would have been entirely unreachable without their superb assistance. Or just a five minute walk down the road. With their enclosed and limited space, trains force us to co-operate with each other. While the official station rules include helpful suggestions such as don’t run across the tracks or leave any baggage unattended if you would like it back in one piece, this reluctant union has also produced many unwritten rules.

A great many of these rules relate to seating, which is perhaps unsurprising given their crucial role in a train journey. The ugly truth is that everyone wants a seat, which turns the carriage into a battlefield. Of course, one of the unspoken rules is that certain people must be given priority. However, when the particularly frail OAP and obviously-pregnant lady have been cheerfully waved on to seats, it is an open playing field.

As the train pulls into the platform at a tauntingly slow speed, the crowd surges forward. There is a quick, tense moment when everyone guesses where the doors will stop, and a sweet, smug sense of victory when they stop with the space down the middle directly in front of you. Of course, because this is Britain and we are fine-tuned to obey announcements given out in an authoritative voice over a loudspeaker, we grudgingly let the people off the train first, tutting at anyone who barges on ahead. However, when the last suitcase has been dragged across the gulf between train and platform, the starter gun has effectively been fired, cuing a mad scramble for position.

The first seats to go are the window seats, because why stare a piece of wall when you can stare at various sheep or a train tunnel. People travelling alone will head for the pairs, perhaps surreptitiously placing a bag beside them to mark their territory. Others will head for the fours, preferring to spread out over as wide a space as possible. And people on the Tube will sit anywhere, even if it’s that ledge at the back which is more of a challenge than a seat.

A person’s behaviour in a train reveals much about them. Do they sit on the seat furthest from the aisle, bag by their feet leaving the other seat free? Or are they the self-absorbed jock who casually slumps into the aisle seat, dumping his bag next to the window and plugging into his MacBook, seemingly completely unaware of the crowd of people gripping onto the handrail for dear life, silently glaring at his back? Everyone has seen this latter person, and either you are them, or you hate them and relish making them move over.

This battlefield is complicated by the presence of reserved seats. Clutching the precious reservations (valid only with ticket) that offer proof of their advanced organisational skills, the efficient passengers glance nervously around at the miscreants, those airheads who didn’t think to book in advance. As the train pulls in and the swarm begins, they either hang back, assured of their seat, or rush forward, determined not to let the organisationally-challenged reap the benefits of their forethought. That seat, in its prime window position, is mine, and I will argue with anyone who tries to claim it.

The claim to ownership is somewhat complicated if the reservation slips identifying the reserved seats are missing. This will ultimately bring it down to a game of resilience, with the victor settling back for a comfortable journey while the loser clutches the hand rail or sinks into a lesser seat and steams silently. All these battles must be waged in either absolute silence or exaggeratedly polite terms. To respond in any other way would be to reveal the unacknowledged malice that lurks beneath a supposedly casual train journey.

You have claimed your seat: what now? Most people on trains manage to entertain themselves, whether by gazing gormlessly out of the window or reading something which will, unfortunately, probably be Fifty Shades of Grey or some equally dismal equivalent. However, there are also those who are perfectly willing to disrupt everyone else in their quest for entertainment. These generally fall into three categories. Firstly, there is the unwitting disturber; this might be the person on the phone whose mundane conversation is being involuntarily followed by the entire carriage, or the person who has turned up the volume on their MP3 player so loud that someone three rows back and is wondering what happened to Muse on that fifth album. Then there is the chatty person who wants to tell you their life story before you escape to the delights of Melton Mowbray. “Where are you going? It’s been awful weather hasn’t it? Reminds me of the time I went to Scotland in 1979...” Short of feigning illness or deafness, this one is absolutely inescapable.

Finally, we reach the third kind, the group of disturbers. Generally formed of teenage girls or football fans, these will carry on conversations at a volume hitherto unknown to man and about things inane enough to bore a particularly stupid toad. Whether it be drunken ramblings or a two hour discussion of which side of the train the doors will open on at Peterborough (sadly a true story), these passengers will leave the rest of the carriage envisaging throwing them out of the window. Although they will probably just seethe silently instead.

For most people, trains are an unavoidable fact of life, and as such, it is better to be prepared for the mad scramble that that overpriced ticket will provide you. So get your fake smile and elbows at the ready: the train is now ready to depart.

A Postcard Post

"I know there's a desk under here somewhere..."

Along with blurry photos, souvenir t-shirts and the sudden need for sunglasses, postcards are a sure sign that you are On Holiday. Whether depicting white sandy beaches at sunset or something involving a dirty pun, they are a way of telling family and friends exactly what you are up to while they are stuck at home.

There is something rather delightful about receiving a postcard from half way around the world (or even just Kent.) Postcards make you feel that despite a hectic schedule of camel racing, scuba diving and cheese rolling, your friend thinks enough of you to take the time to purchase a postcard, track down a suitably expensive stamp and hunt out a post box. Once they have popped through the letterbox and been suitably exclaimed over, postcards go on to take pride of place on a fridge or corkboard, or maybe on the Random Stuff Pile on the side. Once here, they become part of the furniture, remembered only when you are looking for that bank statement, pizza voucher or event poster.

There is always the slight chance that of the myriad of cards that you send, a few won’t make it. This can be particularly awkward if they are aware that others have received one. My dad claims that he sent my brother, sister and I one each from South Africa, yet while Claire’s and mine arrived shortly after him, Matt’s has apparently been lost in the mysterious swirling fog that is the worldwide postal service.

Given the unreliable nature of the post compared with instant forms of communication now available to us, it often seems like postcards are more effort than they’re worth. I generally buy postcards with the vague notion of perhaps sending them at some point, only to find them a year later, still in their little paper bag with a Eurocent coin and flimsy receipt floating around in the bottom. However, before undertaking the Mad European Dash, I made a solemn promise to myself that I would send postcards this year. In the light of this decision, we dutifully went through the rigmarole of buying, stamping and sending the postcards from a variety of beautiful, historical and generally postcard-worthy locations.

Was it worth it? In time-honoured tradition, we are currently waiting for the postcards to arrive after us. While three have made reached their respective fridge doors, five are still missing in action. This includes Matt’s, who seems to have fallen out of favour with the god of postcards. It certainly felt good to take a minute and think of home while standing in the middle of the fearsomely beautiful Vienna or a cold and windy Brussels street. While the simple messages I managed to fit on could easily have been conveyed quickly and overall more cheaply via text, the little moment of delighted surprise was worth the extra effort.

Lessons learned on a mad dash round Europe

No matter what angle he tried, she kept sticking her head in the way.

Along with various facts about Amsterdam canals and a profound understanding of the habits of the Austrian monarchy, my six days, six nights, six countries and approximately nineteen train journeys have taught me some invaluable lessons about how to travel.

Learn to pack light. Of course you intend to wear all four pairs of shoes, use every millilitre of conditioner and read all seven books when you are cavalierly throwing them into your suitcase. However, when you are standing forlornly at the bottom of the fifth flight of stairs you've come across in one Metro station, chances are that you would happily exchange Life of Pi or the red trainers that match the cardigan for the extra boost. Besides, when you’re collapsing into a train seat after a hard day of trekking through palaces and scoffing pastries, an iPod and magazine are more than sufficient entertainment.

Motorists in Europe will try to kill you. Be aware that motorists in Europe see pedestrians as sport rather than obstacles to be avoided. The friendly green man on the pelican crossing is not so much a signal that you may cross the road without danger of death as a challenge to try and do so. The traffic lights may officially be red, but be prepared for trams, motorcyclists and BMWs to hurl themselves at you without remorse. Indeed, every road crossing becomes somewhat reminiscent of that old game, in which you are frog trying to make it across the road without being squished. After employing many strategies, I discovered that the safest approach is to form a large group on either side of the road and cross together. While this may seem like a rather touching act of mutually beneficial camaraderie, it’s not: the aim is to make sure that you are in the middle with everyone else acting as a buffer between you and certain death at the hands of a malicious French driver.

No matter how high your grade, GCSE German will not help you. While certain phrases may have been useful when crafting that coursework or desperately trying to understand what the distant voices on the tapes were saying, in the real world no one cares that ‘Ich gehe gern ins Kino’ or that ‘je m’entend bien avec ma famille’. Confronted with a sign that doubtless conveys some vitally important information, the knowledge that ‘Ich habe eine Schwester’ suddenly seems deeply unhelpful. Furthermore, when you do work up the courage to respond in the native tongue (or a variation thereupon), the other party will inevitably respond in perfect English, which may even extend to sarcasm. Either book yourself into that foreign language course now, or avoid further humiliation by admitting defeat, tearing up the phrase book and going to America.

It is possible to execute a night-to-day look in a train toilet. Night trains may be a useful way of covering long distances, but they are not exactly conducive to stylish dressing, personal hygiene or daily skin routines. While the train company proudly advertises the onboard washroom, this turned out to be neither a room nor somewhere it is possible to wash more than a finger, owing to the fact it is actually an upright coffin with a sink thrown in. However, with a careful combination of wriggling, balance and grim determination, it is possible to enter as a pyjama-clad, make up-free, tired and dishevelled mess, and emerge a jean-clad, made-up, tired and dishevelled mess. Make sure you take baby wipes to replace your shower, a steady hand for the mascara and leave your best, carpet-scraping pyjamas at home. And if all else fails, throw on the dark glasses, grit your teeth and think about the croissant calling your name from the next exotic location.

Map reading is a crucial life skill. Consider the following exchange:

“We need to go down this street, through the park, along the canal and turn left.”

“No, it’s straight ahead, second left, first right, over the bridge and then third left.”

“That’s what you said yesterday, and we ended up in Calais.”
“Actually that was Hamburg.”

If you have ever found yourself in an unfamiliar location with a friend/relative/significant other, chances are you have had a variant of this conversation. It turns out that along with percentages and the names of the Tudor monarchs, map-reading is actually useful in real life as well as in school. At some point in your travels you will be lost. It may be that you are standing at the statue of an entirely different King Maximilian, are in the wrong city, or are desperately trying to find your Amsterdam hotel in the rain as it gets increasingly cold and dark. At this point, the ability to read a map correctly, preferably the first time, will seem very important. Fortunately, many big cities have large maps at various points in the city. While standing in front of these arguing may reveal you both as embarrassing tourists, if it means saving you a sprint to the station or a wrong turn down an alleyway, it’s worth losing the je ne sais quoi and finding that ‘You are here’.

These are not necessarily the most important lessons I learned on my travels. As you may have noted, there is no mention of how to securely attach your passport to an unused part of your leg, how to operate those foreboding lockers in train stations, or even details about the military planning required to send a postcard back to England. However, should you ever find yourself planning your own mad dash around Europe, I hope that these brief lessons will help you avoid discomfort, danger and deep humiliation.

Feel free to share any travel tips, tales or terribly unnerving warnings of your own below.

Leggings: A Stylemma

Three hours later and the paint still wasn't dry.

As I sat at the breakfast bar, nail brush in hand, foot on stool, I had something of an epiphany; leggings, with their cosy fabric and stretchy fit, are really quite useful creations.

It may seem that I have caught on to the genius of leggings quite late, but this is not the first time that we have met. There are definitely some photos floating around in the pre-Cloud world that show me with gappy teeth, a poker-straight bob and floral leggings. However, it was the early nineties, and I was about five. At that age, anything that wasn’t a My Little Pony, Barbie or Spice Girl just slid under my radar.

What is it about leggings that has suddenly struck me as so fantastic? There are so many answers. I think the crux of their appeal is that they are comfortable like pyjamas, pretty like tights and warm like thermals. They also make me feel vaguely sporty, as though simply by wearing them I am mastering yoga and running marathons while getting my five-a-day and drinking gallons of green tea.

However, for all their obvious perks, there are some definite perils lurking behind the inviting exterior. One of the reasons I was so reluctant to give this ever-popular wonder-wear a chance is that I have walked behind far too many girls who either don’t realise that their leggings are completely see-through, or don’t care. As multi-purpose as they are in the confinement of the home, leggings will never replace trousers when it comes to greeting your public. No, never. And no, jeggings, the bastard love child of leggings and jeans, don’t count either.

I have also cringed in sympathy for women whose leggings have taken a perfectly shapely leg and drawn big, neon arrows pointing out all its flaws. I look at my own perfectly shapely legs and immediately see the donut, brownie and cupcake that the spiteful little devils will highlight. Then I put the leggings back on the shelf and buy a cardigan.

Where do these issues leave leggings? Preferably safely hidden under a skirt or suitably long top. If, however, they must be worn as trousers, they should join the likes of Christmas jumpers, oversized band t-shirts you just can’t throw away, and (shudder) onesies, and be enjoyed only within the confines of your own house. Embrace leggings of all colours, shades and prints, and rejoice in the freedom of movement and soft caress of cotton, but for public welfare and your own peace of mind, keep what lies beneath to yourself.

Someone save us from our national anthem

No one had told Katherine about the group gym session.

During the weeks of the games, as is customary, those who were able found themselves standing for a variety of national anthems. From the unapologetically sentimental ‘Stars and Stripes’ of the USA, to Israel’s sombre ‘Hatikvah’ and the cheerfully resilient Polish 'Dabrowski's Mazurka', we have experienced a wonderful variety of anthems. Of course, for most of the spectators, the greatest enthusiasm was retained for the British national anthem.

Like everyone else, I was proud to honour all of the athletes, and particularly our own. I was lucky enough to watch Mickey Bushell speed to victory in the T53 100m race on 3rd September. Watching him on the podium receiving his gold medal, surrounded by thousands of fans abandoning British reserve and going absolutely beserk, was one of the most touching moments of the games. Like everyone else, I cheered, stamped, clapped and rose for our national anthem. However, while everyone else sung along with gusto, I remained resolutely silent.

It is not that I have anything against the Queen. In fact, I think she does a rather good job, particularly for someone who was born when cigarettes were good for you, cars were a luxury, and 'Wall Street Crash' sounded like a bizarre new dance craze. She even has a sense of humour, as shown by her recent Bond-inspired helicopter stunt and her taste in hats. I am sure that she is, as the anthem proclaims, also gracious, noble, happy and glorious. But I refuse to accept that one woman, no matter how elegantly poised and crown-bedecked, should be raised above the people in a nation simply because she was born into a family of unimaginable privilege.

A national anthem should represent the nation. The queen is not the nation. Although she is part of it, the people are a much greater part, and since this is a democracy, size matters. While the monarchy is seen as a symbol of Britain by the rest of the world, to praise them, and only them, in a song which stands for us all is inherently wrong. By requesting that she be 'Long to reign over us', we reduce ourselves to mindless, powerless subjects. The religious aspect of the anthem is also problematic, given that Britain prides itself on being multicultural and welcoming to people of all or no beliefs. We all deserve an anthem that includes us.

Our national anthem is over four hundred years old, meaning it was introduced when most British people believed that the monarch had a divine right to the throne, while they had been born into a life of poverty because God ordained it. This type of thinking has no place in what is supposed to be a modern, democratic and free-thinking society.

Of course, there are many who would purse their lips and shake their heads at such a flagrant disregard for Tradition and The Way Things Are. ‘Political correctness gone made,’ they would say, the hand clutching their bone china Diamond Jubilee mug visibly trembling in outrage. ‘It's been around for four hundred years. We can't just change it.’ To which I respond that while tradition has a time and place, such as around a May Pole, it is also important for us to recognise the changing times and move with them, particularly when the tradition in question affects the entire nation.

Four hundred years ago, people believed that women were intellectually inferior to men, the Earth was the centre of the universe, and that a little blood-letting was an all-purpose cure. We now know that these assumptions are wrong, and we have altered our thinking and actions accordingly. Our current anthem is a relic of the past and has an important place in history; let’s leave it there when we take our newfound patriotism and move into a future of inclusion and equality.

The Burning Truth

His novel way around 'No shirt, no service' was
 not a success.

As the Javelin sped towards St. Pancras on the eleventh day of the Paralympics, Tom turned to me and casually uttered the most feared words in the language of pasty people: “I think you’ve got sunburnt.” I followed his gaze, and to my horror he was right; a pale, bra-strap sized strip ran through a very red-looking patch of shoulder.

Like all fair-skinned people, I have waged a battle with the sun for as long as I can remember. On childhood holidays, my enviably dark-skinned cousins would swim with cheerful abandon in sunny Spanish rays, while my mum was pinning me down and applying Factor 30, a large t shirt and a pair of swimming trunks over my swim suit. And even then I would probably emerge from the pool red-cheeked, red-shouldered and seeing red.

For many pasty people, sunburn is as much a part of British summer as Wimbledon, rain and barbeques. The moment the sun appears, we join everyone else in a desperate beeline for it, knowing that this may be our only chance to transform from TB victims in a period drama to the bronzed beauties seen lounging elegantly in Mediterranean cafés.

However, in the rush for that last piece of sun drenched grass, many choose to forget that we are putting our poor, melanin-deprived skin in danger. While basking in warm rays after months of grey skies and icy winds initially feels like the greatest idea since Ben approached Jerry with a crazy suggestion, we may regret it later. Pale-skinned people don’t produce enough melanin pigment (which absorbs UV) to provide protection from the sun, which means that we go straight from pale to crimson. On the day in question, I had faithfully reapplied my SPF 20 three times, yet still those fateful rays got through. It can take between 12 to 24 hours for the effects of sunburn to show, at which point no amount of After Sun and regret will repair the damage inflicted on our cells.

That’s not to say that those golden glows are necessarily a safe reaction to the sun. A tan has long been hailed as a sign of good health, even before the first ‘sun clinic’ popped up in 1903, promising visitors numerous health benefits. The tan’s popularity was further secured when style goddess Coco Chanel stepped off a beach in the Riviera in 1923 with an accidental tan. However, that deep, long-lasting tan is actually your body’s version of damage control, induced by UVB rays penetrating and damaging skin cells and causing the pituitary to release a hormone that increases melanin production. Even cells belonging to those lucky people with a naturally high level of melanin pigment can be damaged by the sun, although this is far less likely than in paler people.

Thankfully, our knowledge of sun safety has come a long way. During a recent conversation with my mum and grandma on one of our more scorching days this summer, I discovered that sunburn used to be seen as simply a painful nuisance that must be battled through in order to attain golden perfection. A walk along a beach or park would reveal people of all ages whose skin was so badly burned that the layers of damage would be visible to the naked eye. Although seen as acceptable back then, this would now, as mum suggested, be viewed as child abuse.

Even at a less extreme level, sun care is gradually working its way into public consciousness. Dermatologists recommend wearing sunscreen with a minimum of SPF 15 all year round, since those devilish UVA and UVB rays can penetrate clouds, and this is now included in an increasing number of beauty products, including body lotions, moisturisers and BB creams. While this is obviously good news for our skin cells, it can also be beneficial on a superficial level, with sunscreen proven to be the most effective way of delaying the appearance of aging.

This is not to suggest that we must throw away our bikinis, brick up our windows and never venture outside again. UVB rays allow our bodies to synthesise vitamin D, which is important for bones, the intestine, and, as any sun-starved Brit will tell you, stress levels. So by all means, elbow your way into that last patch of September sun, but make sure you protect your skin.

Why brownies are bliss

All that cooking had left her with a lot on her plate. 

Whenever the world is too full of work, rain, vegetables or all of the above, the only solution is a big, good-to-be-bad batch of brownies. Oozing with rich gooey goodness, it is impossible to contemplate brownies and not feel a rumble of longing in the stomach.

Some of the joy derived from these chunks of chocolate heaven comes from my memories of baking as a child, when everything should be covered in chocolate and the handheld mixer was a demon just waiting to mangle any tiny hand that got in its way. Even though I now know the latter to be a myth, there is no denying that brownies are one of the most fun cakes to make. The thick, rich chocolate mixture, dotted with treats, feels reassuringly like a proper cake mix, or even a magical sludge of the variety usually seen in a witch’s cauldron.

This mysterious quality makes me feel adventurous; like a giddy child testing the boundaries, I love adding things to brownie mix to see how it works out. Anything from marshmallows, raisins, Mars bars, Mini Eggs, cookies - the list of dangerously delicious extras goes on. As the mixture bakes, that warm, inviting brownie smell fills the air and draws you to the oven window to watch as the spell is complete and the potion transforms into glorious gooey cake.

And then comes the eating. These are not dainty little sponges, with a light-as-air texture that lets you pretend they don’t really count, but delicious blocks of knowing chocolate sin. While other cakes are expected to be perfectly iced in a careful swirl and topped with delicately sculpted flowers and silky smooth fondant, brownies are a sensational exception. The rebels of the cake world, they are allowed to ooze and crumble, staining your plate with a telltale chocolate smudge.

So joyous are brownies that they have spread to brighten up other desserts. From cookie dough topped with brownie, to brownie cheesecake, brownie sundaes and brownie ice cream, these traditional childhood treats have conquered the world as the ultimate comfort food. So next time the work piles up and the rain comes down, reach for the chocolate, marshmallows and mixer and make some magic.