Hi, I'm looking for a Penis, and you look like a Dick.

I am about to open up about my sex life.
So if the mental image of me gettin' jiggy wid' it is likely to cause permanent retinal scaring, it's best you change the channel now.
Right, now that my kids are no longer reading this, lets talk.
I love sex. I truly do. Always have, and hopefully always will.
There have been times in my life when the 'on' button has been temporarily 'offed' as the ESLers say, but these were miserable times.
After the breakup of my marriage I took a voluntary vow of celibacy, which was lucky because it coincided with a drop in libido that could at best be described as an Arctic winter and at worst a nuclear decimation of all things physical.
My spiritual self was in desperate need of repair, my physical body was also a wreck having spent an amount of time in purgatory being punished for having the audacity to house my wounded soul.
My heart was barely beating, and there was nothing short of a small car battery and a set of nipple clamps that was going to make my clitoris thump in time to music.....which it did, but we will get to that part later......
Being celibate by choice is incredibly life enhancing, but only for short periods of time and not really if you are a man of the cloth.
What?
You don't read the papers?
Give me a break.
In fact, if I may just talk about something other than myself for a moment, can we all just admit now that asking people to give up all sexual desires and dedicating ones self to an organisation based on guilt and secrecy is NOT what any God- (if in fact there is a God which I personally believe there is not but back to the burning bush issue )- would have had in mind when he designed genitalia.
It's for reproduction, that sex organ in your hand gentlemen, and if God didn't want you to have sex, he'd have left it out of the blueprint.
He's like that.
He's a GOD.
Anyhoo, back to my sex life.
Back then, I was celibate because I was broken and I needed the energy to repair, which I did.
And then, I found a fuck buddy.
Well, actually, I didn't FIND him, I knew him- hence the term buddy, we'd just never had sex before.
Now, this town is small, so there will be no names, but I just want to acknowledge publicly that THAT sex was the best sex I had ever had in my life up to that point, and I know my way around the fleshy bits.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was just pure, unadulterated, no other agenda, hard core fucking.
Perhaps it was the fact that with no fear of judgement attached I could ask for, and receive any old kinky shit I wanted.
Hell, he was getting free sex, what did he care if I needed to be blindfolded and trussed up like a turkey just to get the engine ticking over?
His needs were somewhat secondary, no offense.
I was trying to raise the Titanic, his job was to provide the ropes, not lead the orchestra.
Anyway, it worked. I climbed down from my mountain hideaway and back up into that saddle and onto that horse.
And for that I shall love him always.
That was a while ago, and my buddy and I - having sorted out my shit- are back to being friends without the benefits.
Since that time, things in the bedroom department have veered from the pedestrian to the outlandish depending on a number of factors some of which have been spoken about here before.
Singledom for a White Woman in Hong Kong is a tremendously complicated emotional maze designed by blind architects and built by packs of rabid out of work circus performers lacking opposing thumbs.
If you wade your way to the centre of the minefield you will be met by marauding hoards of tone deaf musicians murdering love ballads whilst standing on mounds of broken hearts and piles of shattered dreams.
Then, if you can make your way over the tinder dry flammable bridges littering your path and out the other side with a sense of humour still attached to your lips, you may just meet someone almost worthy of sharing a taxi and an AIDS Test Appointment with.
If not, it's back into the maze you go for another round of shits and giggles.
However a bonk- as the British say- is not quite as complicated.
Getting laid, if one wishes to get laid, can happen rather more easily and without the need for a ball of string, a compass and an emergency matchbox filled with Mercury.
Now I know as I write this, that there are many ladies- some of whom I know will read my drivel- who will disagree.
Often I hear my sisters in arms complain of the lack of a hard man coming into their neighborhood or coming anywhere near ANY hood for that matter, but I think that this 'Donger Drought' needs some further investigation.
Because girls, it is out there.
You just have to know a) where to look and b) what it is you are ACTUALLY looking for.
Men do not multi task.
We know this.
Evolution has dictated that the male of the species, being generally bigger and slightly simpler, be used to carry out important tasks like hunt and kill.
You will note that these two things are not actually two things, but one thing with two different names.
Therefore, men can do one thing at a time. And they do that one thing with skill and high levels of concentration.
This was once useful because if they fucked up, they would die.
Woman do multi task.
Evolution has dictated that the female of the species handle every other bloody thing on the 'to do' list whilst men are busy concentrating on a task such as taking out the garbage or drinking beer.
And yet woman think- and for this they have only themselves to blame- that if they can get a man to have sex with her, he may be thinking of a way to form a partnership and maybe buy a house together.
Sweetheart. When a man is having sex with you, he is thinking about the sex he is having with you RIGHT THEN AND THERE.
When he has orgasmed, he falls asleep. He is no longer thinking AT ALL.
When he wakes up, he is thinking about either food, his full bladder or his next task.
He is NOT thinking about the 'love you just made', that's your job, along with finding out where the condom went so the maid doesn't find it and wiping the strawberry flavoured fun jelly off the mirror.
I know this is true because- remarkably for a woman so clearly marked by oestrogen overload- when it comes to sex, I am wired like a guy.
Which might also go some way to explaining how it is that no matter what my waist size, my beauty regime or the height of my heels, when it comes to 'Booty' I get what I want, when I want it.
It's mental.
And by this I don't mean "Oh my God Wendy, you are totally mental" I mean the sex you want to have is available to you if you adopt the right frame of mind.
But there is a MASSIVE clue as to what is real in the last statement.
THE SEX YOU WANT TO HAVE.
Many women I know tell themselves, and others, that at their age, the only sex they want is with a 26 year old Swedish back packer named Gustav who is working his way 'round the globe with little more than an beaten up old guitar and a 9 and a half inch prick.
Bullshit.
These are the same ladies- and girls, I love you, I do- who will weep into their skinny lattes when Gustav discovers that for less than the price of a happy meal he can hump a 19 year old named Wincy and stay in her families beach house for free.
Such is the way of things.
He was NEVER thinking about tomorrow, he was thinking about THEN and THERE and when you are not THEN and THERE his mind, and his lovely prick, will wander.
It's not because he's an arsehole, it's because YOU told the universe that all you wanted was mindless sex, when what you REALLY wanted was someone to hold, and there is NOTHING wrong with that, it just wasn't the truth.
Last night I heard the words Cougar Town being used within earshot of my good self.
I am not a cougar.
I do not hunt in so narrow a field.
Some days I do not hunt at all.
I am a busy girl.
I have a MAJOR 'To Do' list with me at all times.
I do have 'needs', but I do also have an alarming number of toys that buzz and whirl and I am excellent at wand work.
If time is short, and the urge arises, I will set my vibrator to 'Stun' and still make my lunch meeting, hair and make-up in place.
If time is less pressing, and there is no 'significant swordsman' filling my inbox , I will survey the landscape and send up the smoke signals.
If I decide I may want more than the fulfilling of my immediate needs, then I shall sit still and wait.
The Ox is slow, but the Earth is patient, little grasshopper.
It's about knowing what you TRULY, TRULY want, and then having the courage to ask for it, and the balls to grab it when you see it.
Sound like hunting?
I guess it is.
That's how guys do it, and if you want to get some-just like the guys always seem to, even the fat, bald, old ugly ones - then you will have to embrace that attitude or forevermore be at one with the power of the AA battery.
Tell yourself the type of sex you want, whisper it to the Sun, and then walk out the door and get it.
Simple as that.
Do not lie to yourself, or to the Wind, because your lie will sit there like a fart in a still room.
Do not shy away from being satisfied.
Why should you?
Have you done something that means you are no longer worthy of succumbing to pleasures of the flesh?
Are you dead?
I think not.
And if you should find yourself yearning only for true and deep love, DO NOT SETTLE for anything less.
You deserve that too, and no one will judge you- least of all me.
Once at a party, I sat next to a woman who was clad head to toe in Red Latex.
I never learned her name.
I was not supposed to.
She was in total submission which was, I was assured, her unbridled desire.
Her 'keeper' informed me that this behaviour was the very thing that had kept their 24 year strong marriage together, such are the exotic tastes out there in the marketplace.
I sat quietly beside her and ignored her as best I could.
Ever the talker, the list of questions I did NOT ask her nearly drove me to distraction.
Having endured the silence for as long as I could manage, and with the arrival of a man pierced through the cock ( a Prince Albert) with a chain linked to his dog collar being led around the room by his huge and hairy boyfriend to distract me, I stood to leave.
Without wishing to break The Rules, I turned away from Little Red Rubber Hood- the name I had given her- and started to leave.
She suddenly gave a shudder and a moan, looked up at me and whispered " Thank you".
We had just had sex and all the while, I had had no idea I was even playing.
Jesus wept.
If only it was that simple for everyone, think of how much money we'd save on booze.
Happy hunting Girls.

With Balls Like These, I Don't Need a Parachute.

"Sometimes the reason we go off the rails is because we are at the end of the line".

Ever heard someone say something so profound that the next 5 minutes are a total blur as your mind struggles to process a truth so significant all else becomes white noise?
That happened to me the other day over a chicken salad and a bowl of suspect pumpkin soup.
I was lunching with a friend whom I have known for a number of years.
This man is noteworthy for a number of reasons, namely his creativity, his intelligence, his accent and his startling blue eyes. Mostly his eyes. And perhaps his accent.......and the colour of his eyes.....anyhoo......I digress........

It got me thinking as one does, about the importance of sexy eyes, as well as the importance of courage.

I am a fan of people of all sexes having Great Big Balls.
I have the words "Fortune Favours the Brave" tattooed on my forearm so that when I'm dead, I will still be bear witness to the concept of being fearless.

Guts, intestinal fortitude, ticker,pluck, grit, call it what you will, being able to close your eyes and step off the ledge with a great big "Fuck You I'm doing this anyway" on your lips is the stuff legends are made of.
Sometimes, outright audacity is a silent kind of quality unrecognised to the untrained eye.

Here I am thinking about people with serious challenges just going about their daily lives.

Blind people cross roads every day. Ever closed your eyes and tried to go about YOUR day?

I wouldn't make it much past the getting dressed stage.

Autistic people sitting in shopping malls having lunch when every cell in their body is screaming ' get the fuck out of here, NOW'.

Quietly, calmly, these people climb insurmountable heaps of 'too bloody hard', without a single person witnessing their heroism.

And sometimes the approach to venturesomeness is so loud it attracts words like 'recklessness' and 'derring-do'.

When it works, when the leap into the abyss means you landing safely into a bed of success and happiness, everyone around you says " Wow, that was amazing , what cliff will you be jumping off next?"

But when it doesn't.....oh, ho ho ho.......as the fat man in the red suit says.

No matter.

Valor and tenacity are placed side by side in the Thesaurus.

If at first you don't succeed, build a better mouse trap and all that.

Well, that's the theory anyway.

Truthfully walking all the way up the hill just to jump off the bastard to land in the pile of shit that forms at the bottom time and time again can be wearing.

But then of course, there's the thrill of the jump.

The definition of courage is not 'winning', or 'being right'. The definition of courage is 'the quality of spirit to face danger without fear'.

That 'spirit' is a hungry little bugger, and it feeds on one thing, and one thing alone.....the rush that comes when you realize you may have seriously fucked up, so you had better stay and kill The Dragon or run away.

Good old fashioned adrenalin.

Such an overwhelmingly sensational drug that chemists and Bolivian farmers have been trying to replicate it for thousands of years.

And yet there is NOTHING on the market, and let me tell you I have researched the market THOROUGHLY, that comes anywhere near it.

So having big kahunas, and being prepared to whip them out and use them when required is the most potent form of sexiness available to man, and it's free and always on tap.

Then why the fuck are we living in a world afraid of its own shadow?

Fear of saying the wrong thing, of failing, of succeeding?

Fear of exposing ourselves as being human, and with faults.

Fear of speaking out our desires, expressing our needs, owning up to our anger, our disappointment, our hurts, our love, our passions.

Bland may be bland, but at least it's safe, and on that you may quote me, but only with lashings ginger beer and sarcasm smeared over the top.

Most of us at some point struggle with just being who we are.

And yet to express that struggle is seen as dangerous by those for whom hiding the truth seems somehow less twisted.

So what does this have to do with Old Blue Eyes?

Not much, except in that one statement he managed to free me from years of guilt about a dark

time in my life.

What a fucking liberation, let me tell you.

I kept completely still for a good 10 minutes after he said it- a record for my fidgety self- and breathed in the air of self forgiveness while my internal organs exploded, a carpet of peony's instantly bloomed inside my brain and my heart resumed a rhythm it had not played since I was a very small child.

You see, I once had to be very brave and hurt people in order to save myself.

I have laid blame squarely on my own shoulders for a long time.

But the truth is, I had just had enough, I was at the end of the line, and I faltered, and I came off the rails.

That's hard for me to say.

I have always believed myself to be strong enough to carry as much burden as was needed.

But lionheartedness -what an amazing word- is not always about standing on the precipice all by yourself preparing to leap into the great unknown.

Sometimes it's about looking around and asking for help.

Intellectually I know this.

And in fact I have done it, but never without the secret shame of believing myself to be weak at that moment.

So now you know.

I am strong only because I am afraid of being weak.

You see the irony in there?

Please tell me you see the irony in there because I'm shit at drawing diagrams on this computer.

After lunch I went home and had a little cry, but they were not sad tears, just wet ones.

Into every life, a little rain must fall, as they say.

This morning a horrible Faux European woman with cartoon sized watermelon breasts, a moustache and the unenviable skill of appearing even more stupid than she actually is, accused me of 'having a lot of gall'....which in her head appears to be considered some kind of insult.

I have never been more delighted in my life.

Perhaps for her gall implies bitterness and rancor,certainly that is one of it's meanings, but I prefer the Yiddish interpretation of the word.

For them, gall is audacity and audacity, as we know, is courage.

"You" she seemed to be saying " have a lot of courage".

Well, tie me to the Old Oak Tree and stick Peacock feathers in my VJJ.

Guilty as charged.

So back up the dung heap of human spinelessness I go, wings, wax and a ball of string in hand to once again leap into the cavernous spaces left open by the fainthearted, a renewed sense of self my torch to light the way.

I may land in the fire........or maybe even in a soothing pool just the right shade of blue.

Me doth protest, she thinks too much !!!

I am in a funny place.

Not in terms of location -although had you wandered into my street this week you would have observed a temporary bamboo theatre created to hold 8 or 9 monks in various stages of elaborate costume and stick on moustaches with Paper Mache dolls on chairs and bells, clangy things and joss sticks warding off hungry ghosts- no no, I mean mentally.

Don't say anything rude.

I am self aware.

And perhaps that is the problem.

There are times when I wish I knew myself less.

That way, when I behave in a certain manner, or think a certain way, it would all seem as if it had come out of the blue and before I could understand it, the behaviour and the thinking would be gone.

That 'Blissful ignorance' thing everyone always goes on about.

Trouble is, I have never held that to be true.

I know ignorant people and they are not blissful, they are ignorant.

Anyhow, back to me.......

I am currently at the pointy end of a play production.....not my first.....not my last....just another one.

Producing and Directing a play (and this time I am doing both, with assistance) is like creating a child that will be born an adult and will be made up of dozens of other adults who remain somehow frozen in their own childhoods.
I do not mean this to sound in anyway derogatory or defamatory.

It is simply a fact that in order to tap into our own creativity as adults we MUST remain open to the wonder of our childlike states.

The world is rough.

Real life is scary and confronting.

If we were to look at it with the dry disconnection of a scientist we would see that, on paper, there is little to be amused, inspired and delighted by.

But we DO find joy, and love and harmony, and beauty, and richness and laughter.

We DO reach out to embrace tomorrow.

We DO believe in the world.

We forgive, and we forget, and we try again.

And that hope, that belief, that desire to create magic where none exists is our inner child.

Our better self.

I am always confused by people who say that they don't like children.

What's not to like?

They are us.

Only smaller.

And less able to lie.

But back to me.........

This 'Process'- this 'Creation of a Play' works in three parts.

There is the Early Stuff-Auditions/Casting/ Booking things/Team building/Blocking-

There is the Middle Bit- Rehearsal/Production stuff/Emotional well being of the cast/characterization/ drinking too much/ exhaustion.

And then there is The Death- The Performance Itself.

You did not misread that, for this is the truth.

For the directer, and for the Producers, the play is finished before it ever hits the stage.

Don't get me wrong, in all my years I have never missed a performance and I will stand there patting backs and kissing foreheads until the last punter has left the theatre.

I give notes after performances, when things are quiet.

But I am in mourning.

My child has left me, and will soon be gone.

I think for people in my position, the fact that the Child is so happy to be free and walk on it's own- and by this I mean the enormous momentum of a cast and crew working in unison- is a kind of tortured double sworded joyous relief.

Yes, it is simply fantastic and totally rewarding to see it.

But I have never yet spoken to a directer who didn't utter the words " Well, that one's done" after Every. Single. Performance.

So,back to me and my funny place.

I recently went through a bout of melancholy.

Nothing major.

Frustration and a general desire for less bad news on the television and more forward motion on a personal level.

It lasted 4 days.

I kept working, kept talking to people, kept exercising and it passed.

I am ever vigilant for the shadow of The Black Dog.

Having been in it's company once before for a debilitatingly long period of time, and having learned from the past, I did what any self respecting insecure Obsessive Compulsive Egotist would do.

I wrote witty emails.

Not one, dozens.

To all sorts of people.

Most of them friends.

(Hopefully, they are still friends).

I wrote useful things like 'Tips for this and that'.

I wrote loving things like ' This is what this and that means to me'.

I wrote cross things like 'This is what I think of that'.

But all of them bursting with razor sharp observations and comic brilliance.

And sat back awaiting their over awed responses.

Silence can be so quiet sometimes.

Of course,people have lives of their own.

They have families, and jobs, and stuff to do after they have been with their families and at their jobs.

I do too.

I have all those things.

And I know- and here is where the self awareness thing really scores an own goal- I know that MY need to communicate my tumultuous 'look how fast I can tap dance to the tune of my own heart beating' has very little to do with all the things that makes THEM dance to THEIRS.

I know, and I knew then, that MY need to cut the air and fight the demons with the only weapons I have- my words- is more about me looking for the reassurance that it was going to be OK, than it was to show everyone how clever I am.

I know I'm clever, what I sometimes need is to know that I'm Still Here.

The book of that name by ABC journalist and mother Anne Deveson dealt with the heartbreakingly sad destruction and ultimate death of her son due to the horror that is Schizophrenia.

I am not schizophrenic, if I was, I would tell you.

But when I read that book many years ago, I was struck by that phrase.

Oprah calls it 'affirmation' and I have talked about it before.

It's when you look in the mirror and think..."is that what I really look like?"

It's when the child inside you calls out just to check that there is someone there when the lights go off.

And to check that you are still there too.

When someone says " I can hear you, I can see you", all the doubts, all the shadows, the shallow breathing, melts away.

Reply emails started appearing.

No one was worried about my mood.

Happy, buoyant and witty- that word again- I was clearly on top of things.

"Oh Wendy, you are so funny'- yeah tell me about it, I'm fucking dying here.

I wanted to send out follow up emails headlined.

AM BEING HILARIOUS-PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE

But even I knew that that sounded desperate and clingy.

Eventually my inbox filled up.

Frankly, I didn't need to read them.

I just needed to know I wasn't alone.

I am loved, I know that.

I have three children with whom I have a passionate mutual love affair, and always will.

I am blessed with the strength of friendships they make sitcoms out of.

But I am letting go of yet another creation that must take flight in order thrive, and it hurts.

I know another will come along and replace it, and I will fall as deeply in love with its process as I have the others, and I will grieve when it comes to life as I have done with all the rest.

And it's not ego.

It's not 'My Vision'.....for fucks sake, what is that in a collaboration...?

It's not even really about me.

You see, when I do my job properly, I am invisible.

And maybe it's about that.

Maybe it is.

Blink.....and you'll miss me.

You have a lot of potential, but if you have sex with me you will win

When did we start replacing proper words with their soft cock shadowy options?
When did 'Second Place' become 'Runner Up'?
When did 'being crap at something' become 'having room for improvement' ?
When did 'I am fucking stoked I've won, I've earned it and it's no surprise because the others were shite' become 'it's been an amazing opportunity and I am grateful for all the support of everyone in this competition' ?

Yes, yes.....political correctness.

I'm not new here.

I know.

We soften the blows because we want everyone to feel good about themselves.

Ugly girls have great personalities, insane people are creative, and small dick men know how to use them.

(Christ how I hope that that's true, Dear Baby Jebus PLEASE let that be true, I somehow feel that's not true)

Since the day that Janet Jackson ripped off her blouse to show us her star swaddled Boobie, Gen X's such as myself have lumbered under the weight of 'wardrobe malfunctions, imitation jewellery, pleather and faux fur'.

In my mothers day they would have called all that stuff 'attention seeking, cheap tat, vinyl and fake shit'.

It's the same number of words- go ahead and count them- it's just a LOT less letters.

The prefix that irritates me most, and yes, I know that sounds pedantic, is 'MAL'.

In Latin it means bad, badly, harsh, wrong, ill, evil, abnormal,or defective.

I have mentioned one here already 'Malfunction' which basically means 'busted' or 'broken'....but it appears we no longer wish to hurt the feelings of inanimate object as well, so instead of saying " This computer is BROKEN" we say " This computer is MALFUNCTIONING". Because 'broken' sound so harsh and final, whereas 'malfunctioning' has the word 'FUNCTION' in it, and therefore sounds like there might be some hope.

For that reason we use the word MALADJUSTED instead of PSYCHO, MALCONTENT instead of ARSEHOLE, MALINGERING instead of LYING, MALODOROUS instead of SMELLY and MALICIOUS instead of BITCH.

Note the 'licious' part of that word. Sounds yummy doesn't it?

"What's your new boss like?"

"Oh she's really mal........licious".

"Well, that's nice".

When we add the word 'lingering' to the prefix for 'bad' it sounds like we are hanging back a little, and not terribly well, just wasting time in a sort of romantic manner.

What it doesn't sound like is that we are being an irresponsible cheating twat.

I blame the state we are in on cheap and plentiful education of the white middle classes.

We think big words make us sound smarter.

Everyone knows it is human nature to complicate the simple for the sake of drama or a bit of sport.

When we all went looking for nuts and berries, no one was fat.

Now we can have entire cows delivered cooked to the door, we need gyms.

And weight loss pills, and personal trainers, and running shoes, and support groups, and nutritionists, and sports bras and hand held weights and nautilus machines, and organised fitness classes with excellent names like BODY COMBAT and PUMP UP THE MUSCLES SO YOU LOOK FREAKIN' AWESOME, ALRIGHT GOOD JOB !!!. ( that's not a real one).

We used to take the stairs to get up to the tops of buildings, now we take the lift and go to the Gym to spend an hour sweating with 2 dozen others as we go up and down on an extruded plastic stair.

Of course to do this, we need to take our water bottle, towel, shoes, gym clothes ( including sports bra), membership card and lip gloss- just in case we see someone nice.

It's complicated.

And it is a lot to remember.

And sometimes I forget things 'cause I'm getting old.

But I digress.

Lets bring language BACK to the point where it has meaning again.
Let's scratch of the slough that we have allowed to form over the scabs that are The Wounded Words.

I'm not suggesting cruelty.

I don't think telling the father of a new born that his precious bundle is neither better nor worse looking than any other newborn who has been squeezed from between the hips and out of the vaginal canal of it's mother and that it just looks like a baby.

Coo all you want.

But for Pete's sake, lets at least get back to a place where a kid failing Maths at school is told " You are failing Maths, it appears you are shit with numbers, so you had better find something that you are good at or you are FUCKED" .

'Cause that is a hell of a lot easier to say, and carries more meaning than" There certainly is some room for growth and development in areas such as numeracy and there appears to be some malalignment between expectation and output, although I can see you are defiantly making some inroads and with some more guidance and encouragement you may achieve a level of success, in the meantime you might consider your options and strengths in other areas or you may discover a reduction of options at a later date".

A Spade, A Spade.

It will hurt less than you think, and in the long run it will go a long way to healing the pain of a generation of men and women in their late 30's and early 40's who discovered too late that their androgynous pop stars were all actually closet homosexuals, their Ergonomic Chairs were a ploy to sell broken furnature to yuppies, and that Janet's Wardrobe Malfunction was a publicity stunt with a built in tear away patch and a stuck on nipple shield.

Everyone's a critic- all critics are cunts

Ah, the armchair critic.
Jack of all tirades, master of none.
Like a mosquito with a lisp, the armchair critic stands out as that creature for whom evolution seems superfluous.

In fact the world is full of species, concepts and trends that have reached the end of their natural potential and have simply not recognised the signs.

Pandas are worthy of mention.

They don't like to have sex, they can only eat one thing, they serve no purpose other than to look cute, and for that the earth has a goodly abundance.

Happy pants are another.

Those trousers that are puffy and loose with elastic at the waist and ankles, and that come in a variety of cheap materials painted in fake batik colours and patterns.

They suit no one.

They make thin people look fat and fat people look worse.

Pointless.

As for concepts, well, where do I start?

Many a war has been started over such non sensible arguments, that I am almost reluctant to open that can of worms for fear of being over whelmed by worms.

How about " My God is bigger/better/more loving/less forgiving/more real than yours because he spoke to me by entering my head/writing on stones/ talking in dreams/appearing on TV/taking the shape of an animal/jumping out from behind a burning bush and or car."

You see how wormy this gets.

But religion is not in my sights today, armchair critics are.

I meet them along the road at almost predictable interludes.

"Wendy, I have one suggestion for you..........."

"Wendy, the thing about what you are doing is......"

"Wendy, you are really terribly stupid and here is a list of all the things about you that suck and this is why.Get comfortable, this may take a while........."

Cheers big ears ( actually in that case 'Big Nose' would be more appropriate), and thanks for all your encouragement.

The thing is, I believe in being open to suggestion.

And there have been plenty of times in my life when I have asked for, and received excellent criticism and advice.

ASKED FOR and RECEIVED.

A subtle, but vital, difference.

Sometimes, we need someone to guide us even when we are not aware we have strayed from the path, and someone must intervene.

But in my experience, a true mentor does not start a guiding conversation with the phrase "Wendy, I know more than everyone about everything, especially you......

The major problem I have with the armchair critic is the level of mediocrity such people bring to the table.

The phrase 'Those who can not do, teach' is totally unfounded.

Many who can do, also teach.

And thank God they do.

However the phrase 'Those who can not do, nor can not teach, but think they can anyway' is highly underused.

Jane Austin fans like myself will recognise the attitude of Lady Catherine De Bourgh who said that although she had never played the piano herself, had she learned, she would have been a true proficient.

Armchair critics, people who only ever watch creation to tear it down, who never actually create anything themselves for fear of failure or success, should either get up out of the upholstery or shut the fuck up.

Because it's scary being the one out the front.

It's hard standing there with your soul exposed and your mind on the line waiting to see if anyone understands your crazy.

I'm not only talking about people with 'visions'- although I know a number of those.

I'm talking about people who have an idea about creating something, however small, that they would like to share with others.

I'm talking about people who get up and have a go.

The really strong ones learn to drown out the sound of droning mediocrity and pompous prognostications of the weak and feeble nay sayers whose measurement of excitement is a 10 minute rub and a squirt on the sheets at midnight.

But it's not easy, and it's not always the natural default of the artistic mind.

History is peppered with the bodies of bright lights whose self doubt, combined with the fierce scorn of others, saw them stumble into darkness.

And we all say....."What a shame....what a waste...if only they had known how good they were"
When what we should be saying is...."listen Mr/Ms armchair critic, you fucktard, if you don't like what I am doing here, then take your expendable genome and your graceless found less opinion and fuck off back to nothingness land, 'cause unless you have something to add you are stealing my oxygen".

Or something along those lines.

What ever works for you.

As for me, I am back at the coalface with my soul exposed and my mind on the line yet again.

Wish me luck.

Walk a mile in my Manolo's Biatch.

"Mental health check for the woman grocery shopping in her Louboutins Aisle 5 please".
Ladies, a word in your ear.
If you are going to persist in your endeavours to reach the glass ceiling by standing on your tip toes in sky scraping architecturally designed BDSM inspired footwear, you are going to topple on your arse as soon as the straps are loosened.
Trust me, I know a lot about loosened leather straps.
What I do not know a lot about is 'cutting edge fashion'.
But I know when to call bullshit when I see it, and the time has come for SOMEONE to call bullshit on what is happening in the world of female footwear.
Look, I love design, I love art.
And I understand the role of high heels, too.
The elevation of the back of a woman's foot shifts her axis of balance forward, thrusting out her bum- and we know boy's like bums- and elongating the leg- boy's like long legs too.
High heels are designed to make woman appear more 'ready for sex'.
I love sex.
I love feeling sexy, and I love wearing heels.
But I also love being able to stand on my feet for more than 10 minutes without the travelling numbness that starts in my big toe, and the unnerving sensation that I am standing a small puddle of molten lava embedded with knives.
Heels, yes.
Walking around all day in 5 inch stiletto's?
Only if you are paying me the big bucks-cash-and all upfront.
Victoria Beckham may think nothing of a couple of hours at the park playing footy with her lads in spindly bits of wood and lace constructs, but most woman want to look like they are 'ready for sex' in places other than the street or the playground.
Besides, word has it she has been on her toes so long, her tendons have shrunk.
How's she going to get her ankles behind her ears NOW huh?
No wonder David's eyes wander.
And it's not just the height of the heels that astounds me, it's the outright ugliness of 'the latest trend must haves' that blown my mind out and away.
Shoes that look like boots from the ankles up, and flip flops from the heel down.
WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?
Whose BRILLIANT idea was it to combine leg shortening suede winter wear with hideous toe wedgying beach clobber and call in fashion?
Pick a season people.
Wearing shoes that look 'fit for every climatic occasion' just shows a total lack of commitment on behalf of the wearer and an absolute bucket load of cynicism on behalf of the designers.
I can hear the shrill voices of the Fashion Guru's floating down from the fashion houses now, as they stir a gram of coke into their double shot espresso's and discuss their evil plans.
"Lets see, shaggy boots in winter and strappy sandals in summer- lets just combine the lot this year,I am L'tired. Now pass me a bucket, I just swallowed a whole grape and I'm TOTALLY bloated."
Read these words and remember them.
One should NOT TAKE fashion advice from people who hate people.
And most Fashion Designers- and yes, I realise it's a potentially explosive statement- but most Fashion Designers HATE people.
They love art.
They love fashion.
They love 'The Shock Of The New'.
They love money, and fame, and they love money.
BUT THEY DO NOT LOVE YOU and they DO NOT love your feet.
Feet are, for the most part, the bodily equivalent of the embarrassing spinster Aunt who smells vaguely of cigars and urine that one must invite over at Christmas.
But just as you wouldn't deliberately go out of your way to harm Auntie Arabella ( after all, she does a certain something to the event) we women must resist the temptation to torture and subjugate our tootsies simply because some twisted 25 year old Technical Collage Design Graduate wasn't breast fed enough as a child.
Look at any magazine in any language doing the rounds right now, and you will see what I mean.
Fugly.Fugly.Fugly.
I am trying not to take the whole thing personally.
But unfortunately I happen to live 20 yards away from an entire street of shops dedicated to Chinese Antiquities, a number of which proudly display tiny delicate envelopes of silk known to create the Lotus Gait.
I am talking about foot binding, a practice so cruel and sexist that it was outlawed by a cruel and sexist government for being 'too extreme' a torture.
And yet, 2010, here we women are, tottering around in bunion producing, back breaking footwear of nosebleed heights, throwing good money after bad on products such as 'Party Feet Cushions' and anti inflammatory knee creams whilst we pound on the door of equal opportunity shouting at anyone who will listen that not only can we do everything men can do, but that we can do it standing on our toes.
Style AND Substance?
Perhaps.
But a sexy one and a half inch stiletto heel brings just as many boys to the yard as a pair of 5 inch toe crushers.
They don't call them 'Come Fuck Me Pumps' for nothing.
Besides, what sort of boys do you want in your yard whilst you are work conquering the world anyway?
So for the sake of ALL our sanity, lets get this wagon back on track and send the message out there.
If you can't kill a Dragon in them without looking like you've forgotten how to dress, or without sending out the message " I'm ready for sex just as soon as this baby is slayed"- leave them in the wardrobe until it's time to party.
Then by all means jump into those beautifully crafted uber expensive boy magnets and work on getting numb from the neck down as quickly as you lose feeling from the toes up.
'Cause we all know, nothing says "take me seriously" like a woman who can't walk unassisted.

The Whites of their eyes.......

It takes a certain amount of life skill to be stupid.
It must.
After all, Darwin's theory would indicate that if something is too stupid to live, nature will take care of it.
But no.
Survive they do.
I am, and I know you are, surrounded by people who defy the very laws of evolution and manage to do it with a smile.
I have taken pot shots at stupid people before.
And to some, given that laughing at stupid people is akin to yelling at a new born to do something other than just lay there and grow, it must seem cruel.
Deriding dummies is the comedy equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel.
Blonde jokes exist because comedians needed a way to say 'stupid people' faster.
Try saying this out loud.
"Why shouldn't blonde's have coffee breaks?It takes too long to re-train them."
Now say this.
"Why shouldn't stupid people have coffee breaks?It takes too long to re-train them.
The second version a beat too long.
In comedy, timing is everything.
I know lots of blonde's, hell, until I was about 12 I was a blonde.
Hair colour doesn't define intelligence, look at the Swedes.
For the past fortnight I have struggled with computer problems. When I dropped my notebook earlier in the month ( yes, I know) I took it to the irritatingly smug fucks at the Wan Chi Computer Centre. There a snot nosed 22 year old spent 10 minutes rolling his eyes at me whilst he exaggeratedly turned the unit on and off ( gee whizz batman, something I hadn't thought of) and wondered aloud in Cantonese exactly how much he should charge this ho fai gweipo (fat foreign devil female) for taking up his time and dragging him away from playing Halo online.
When I replied to his musings, in Cantonese, that he should stop being a cunt and charge me the same price as he would charge any young Chinese boy who had walked into his shop with the same problem, he seemed genuinely shocked.
This was not the game as he knew it.
He went and got his boss.
His smarted move that day.
Anyway, they fixed it.
But they made me feel stupid because I just stood there dumbfounded and at their mercy.
It was......a humbling learning curve.......
OK, it was shit, but they knew they had me.
"Ricky" ( why are they all called "Ricky" ?) knew I needed him. I was a deer in headlights with a busted motherboard, and he was the geek with acne that still lives with his mother, and has never had sex without paying for it.
Scratch that, even the working girls wouldn't have him.
However about two weeks ago, a new problem arose......I will not bore you with the details other than to say that if one could actually kill people with ones thoughts, half the staff at PCCW-my "service" provider- would now be dead.
But then, they would all have been dead a long time ago. Killed in the rush of non-idiots who happen to need technical support.
It's just that for some reason, when it comes to the human race, nature kind of throws in the towel.
I know of a woman who feels that discipline or pressure of any kind may wound her child's aura. So she lets him run wild, to do as he feels, with no artificial restraints such as bedtimes, or meal times, bath times or quiet times.
He will not be taught to read until he feels ready to take that message on board.
He will not be taught the novel concepts of 'right' or 'wrong', because these are boundaries set by man, not mother earth.
He is 5.
Guess what kind of a kid he is. Guess what kind of a teenager he'll make.
Now, I don't blame the boy. You can not help it if your mother is a space cadet, and I know because I speak from experience.
But it raises the question that if a Whale- for example- said to it's calf ( assuming they chat like this) " Look, I'm not going to train you how to do things, live as you feel. If you want to play in the shipping lanes, play in the shipping lanes, eat when you feel, or don't, be free to breathe or not, I don't want you to feel burdened by MY breathing hangups. We will live as leaves in the wind ( water wind, work with me here) and be as one with all things as we feel. Perhaps we should visit Japan? The waters are nice around there".
Natural.Selection.
So why not us?
Why is it that so many apparently mentally deficient people maintain jobs, and drive cars and have babies?
People who walk in front of moving traffic and believe that staring at the driver will protect their bones from breaking.
I have a friend who calls them 'oxygen thieves'. It's an appropriate term.
Stupid peoples survival must come down to instinct.
People with low E.Q - and for the record that is the measure I use for stupidity, not I.Q- must have a gut feel somewhere for when to cut and run, as it were.
They manage to duck, bob and weave at just the right time.
Or they stand there looking like giant pillars of salt, and whatever is moving towards them- ie: danger, disaster or people with high EQ's- just ducks, bobs and weaves out of THEIR way in order to avoid calamity.
In the ultimate game of "chicken" the person who doesn't flinch wins.
Keeping still is a life skill, who knew?
Like being boring and being stubborn, being brain dead appears to be a misunderstood strategy used by those who do not have the wherewithal to die in childbirth.
Not so stupid now, huh?