In Margaret Thatcher’s words, “let us rejoice.” Yes, Johnson has been rejected by his cronies. Has he resigned? It didn’t sound like it when he gave his so-called resignation speech outside No.10. He sounded more like a petulant school boy having been told by his gang that he wasn’t the leader anymore. “You’ll be sorry” and “after all I’ve done for you” seemed to be his main comments ignoring the fact that it is his dishonesty, lazy incompetence and narcissism that lead to this situation.. I worry what he’ll get up to while he’s allowed to stay in No.10 – graffiti the expensive wall paper, scribble on the pictures of former PMs, spill wine on the carpets each evening as he drinks himself into a regretful stupor (regret at being shoved out not for all the lies).
Mind you I am not expecting much from the replacement PM. The record 50 or so who resigned this week are tainted by contact with Johnson as are the majority of Tory MPs who stood up for him in public despite knowing he had lied repeatedly. It was as if a drought of integrity was broken by a deluge of righteousness.
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At the risk of boring readers, I want to comment on the reports that Maya Forstater, a researcher at a thinktank, has won her claim that her employers discriminated against her for tweets concerning her belief that “transgender women cannot change their biological sex.” The judgement said that the right to hold and proclaim this belief was protected by the Equality Act. Forstater received support from J K Rowling in fighting her case which she first lost then partly won on appeal.
I accept that people have the right to believe anything and say what they believe. People can believe the Earth is flat, that they have been abducted by aliens, that a man was killed and came back to life. We can argue about those beliefs and present evidence in support or against them but it is wrong to denigrate or mock someone who holds different views and insist that their own view is the only one that should be allowed. Freedom of speech is a right but also carries with it the responsibility not to cause another person harm.
Forstater’s view is that only physical characteristics established at birth can contribute to someone’s identity. She rejects the contribution a lifetime of brain growth and experience make to the development of personality and character. Gender identity does not depend solely on a number of genes on the X and Y chromosomes that make up just two of the 46 in every human cell. It does not depend on the quantity of testosterone (just one of a number of “sex” hormones) circulating in the blood. It is strange that hers and others comments only refer to transwomen. Transmen do not seem to rate a mention.
Do women really want to be defined by their possession of ovaries or lack of a Y chromosome. While genetic and genital sex at birth may be binary (except for the little matter of intersex births), children and adults show a huge range of personality traits of which gender identity is but a part. If we are to allow everyone to be equal in the eyes of the law, then all gender identities must be accepted as valid. Personally, I don’t claim to be a woman but neither do I feel particularly masculine. My gender identity has little to do with my physical characteristics but, I believe, is a result of my complete genome, my development since birth and my life experiences. I consider myself non-binary or gender fluid i.e. somewhere along the male-female spectrum but not at either extreme and see no reason why I should not express that feeling or have it acknowledged.
This week’s writing theme was on the topic “addiction”. I don’t want to mock those who are addicts but my piece was intended as a slightly light take on the subject. Nevertheless, there are many things one can be addicted to…
The Addict
The new day had not dawned when Greg tumbled out of bed and limped to the bathroom. Sleep had refused to come and he could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. His skin felt warm and sweaty and his eyes just wouldn’t focus. He stood under the shower for a few minutes, repeatedly soaping himself, forgetting which “bits” he’d done. At last, he tired of the patter of water on his head, stepped out and grabbed the threadbare towel from the hook. He didn’t feel cleaner, didn’t feel more awake, just damp.
He dressed in an old t-shirt and grubby jeans and went to his small kitchen. He didn’t need to look in the fridge and cupboards, but he opened doors, nevertheless. There was no food. Of course, there wasn’t. He hadn’t been shopping for food for days. There were a few grains of coffee left in the jar. He held the kettle shakily under the tap, then spilt water down his trousers as he moved it to the socket.
Greg took his mug of weak coffee into the living room, squeezing between the piles of books to reach his one easy chair. He sat down but couldn’t feel comfortable so stood up again and moved around the room, lifting books here and there, glancing at the titles, opening to a random page, reading a few lines, then putting the book back down.
He couldn’t go on like this. He needed a fix. Greg thrust his hands in his pockets. They were empty. He returned to the bedroom and searched the pockets of his old corduroy jacket. Joy! A few coins. He counted them; more than three pounds.
Anticipation filled him with eagerness to get out. He pulled on the jacket and hurried from the flat. He all but leapt down the stairs, almost stumbling on the bottom step and strode out onto the street.
The day had started now. People were on their way to work. The pavement became more occupied as he neared the town centre. He bustled through the crowd, occasionally jostling someone walking more slowly or coming towards him. A few people reacted calling insults or elbowing him back, but he didn’t respond, staggering on towards his goal.
He passed the shops in the high street though most of them were open now. The odour of fresh bread from the bakers did not attract him even though his belly felt empty. He turned into a side street and stopped at a small shopfront. The door was closed. He pushed on the handle. It didn’t move. He rattled the door in its frame then tapped firmly on the glass.
“Alright, don’t break the door down,” a muffled voice called from deep inside the shop.
Greg responded by knocking again.
“OK, I’m coming,” the voice said, growing louder as the speaker approached. A hunched figure appeared behind the grubby window in the door. There was some fiddling with the lock and then the door swung open.
“Oh, it’s you,” the straggly haired shopkeeper muttered, shuffling backwards. Greg pushed through the door and stopped.
The familiar, delicious odour filled his nostrils. It was almost enough to still the pangs of desire. Almost. Greg moved into the interior of the shop until he was surrounded by the ceiling high shelves and heaps of stock. All was covered by that particular kind of dust that collected in second-hand and antiquarian bookshops, the spores of the fungus that grew within the pores of the old paper and gave off that delicious perfume.
After a few moments, the pleasure of absorbing the atmosphere of the dimly lit emporium faded and Greg re-experienced the need to search.
“Got something you’re looking for?” the aged bookseller asked.
“Er, nothing in particular,” Greg replied his eyes scanning the stacks.
“I’ve got a first edition Graham Greene, just come in, here somewhere,” the old man said shuffling to the battered captain’s chair beside the ancient cash desk. He had to squeeze between tottering piles of books to do so.
Greg felt a pang of lust. “A Greene, you say. Which one?”
“Er, it’s here somewhere.” He lifted books from a pile until he came to the one he was seeking. “Here it is, The End of the Affair, hardback.”
Greg’s heartbeat faster, his palms became sweaty. He felt desire, he wanted that book. He imagined it on his shelves alongside the other Greenes, not that he could recall precisely where that shelf actually was.
“Let me see.”
The old man passed the book to Greg. He saw immediately that the dust jacket was torn. He opened the cover, noting their stiffness. He turned the yellowing pages, breathing in those fumes that stoked his need. “How much?”
“Ninety-five.”
“Pounds?”
“You didn’t think pence, did you? It’s a first edition.”
“Yes, of course. Um, you couldn’t give me…”
“Credit? Don’t ask. Cash, that’s all I take. You know that. Do you want it?”
Greg caressed the Greene. Of course, he wanted it but all he had were the few coins in his pocket. He handed the book back. “No, not today. Perhaps some other time.”
“I’m not holding it for you.” The bookseller put the book back on the pile.
“No, no, I understand. I’ll just take a look at the paperbacks.”
“Well, you know where they are. Don’t muddle them up.”
Greg snorted as he moved towards the back of the shop, deep into the gloom. Don’t muddle them up. As if the old man kept things in order. Greg wondered if he’d ever heard of the Dewey system. He leaned close to the shelves trying to read the titles on the creased spines of the old paperbacks in the light of a single dim yellow bulb. His finger shook as he levered out a slim copy of The Far Country by Nevil Shute. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he turned the beige pages. This was one of Shute’s novels that he didn’t possess. It was a well-thumbed copy but there were no obvious missing pages, no tears. He turned back to inside the front cover. There was some pencil scribbling on the facing page and a figure, £4. Yes, he had that much, he was sure. He pulled the coins from his pocket, three pound coins and a couple of fifty p’s. He closed the book and clutched it to his chest.
Greg headed back to the entrance. He considered walking straight out, was reaching for the door handle.
“You found something then,” the bookseller rumbled.
Greg stopped and turned, filled with guilt for even considering the theft.
“Er, yes. Four pounds. Here it is.” He held out his palm holding the cash.
The old man thrust out his hand. “Let me see.”
Greg gave him the book. The shopkeeper glanced inside the cover. “Yes, four pounds.” He took the coins and deposited them in his cash machine with a clanging of bells and gears. Greg grabbed the book and dashed from the shop.
He made his way home feeling elated. The town seemed brighter, people on the streets more cheerful. He was content. Back in his flat, he held his prize to his nose, inhaling the familiar smell, then went from bookcase to bookcase looking for the other Shute novels he possessed. There they were, a half dozen similar old, slim paperbacks with small print and cheap rough paper. He slid the new acquisition onto the shelf beside the others. He took a step back, proud of his collection. There was a small itch at the back of his head. Maybe he could complete his set of Shute’s novels. Just a few more, perhaps one or two at a time. He’d only need a few quid. His fingers twitched.
ellifont 