Might as well...

I have to blog today.

For reasons I won't go into here (fearing future employers may research me online) I am emerging from a few months spent trapped in what I have come to name 'the fog'. Those who experience 'the fog' will know what I mean when I say 'the fog'.

I realised today that this fog had lifted when I sat in a lecture listening to a very interesting and clearly talented author discuss his work and his writing process. When fog-free, listening to lectures, participating in discussions and taking many (many) notes is the norm. When the fog descends, however, it is all I can do to motivate myself to get out of bed let alone delight in all that there is to delight in around me (and there's a lot). Today, however, as I listened I realised that I was really listening, taking it all in and not just looking in the right direction desperately trying to focus. I decided to test just how fogless I was by closing my eyes for a few seconds and seeing if I felt relieved shutting the world out and reminding myself of sleep...I didn't! I actually wanted to be awake and be there in that room at that moment; for me this is a very good sign! It is a good sign because those who know me know that I LOVE being at university. I moan about deadlines and being tired and stressed like everyone else but I have never felt more welcome and at home as I do in a classroom listening to one of my lecturers talk with passion and expertise. For me, it just feels right.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I now want to try and convince you that the point of this post today is not to go on exclusively about depressi...er, 'fog' but to share some of the lovely things I've noticed now that I can see again. Three times this week I have wanted to clap during a lecture. One of these moments occurred yesterday in a class on globalisation; one little PowerPoint slide was so well considered, so wonderfully written that it clarified any niggling doubts I had about the process of abstraction. The second moment occurred as a result of another slide, by the same lecturer, discussing the implications of the autonomy we're all supposed to be 'thankful' for in enlightened society and the third arose this morning when the author, David Calcutt, read a few pages from a book he is working on as a means of answering my question about the 'starting point' of a new story. His writing was magnificent and after he read it he looked at me and said 'does that help?' I managed to pull myself together to say 'thank you; that was excellent'. It really was.

(A word on clapping while we're here: I didn't actually clap during any of the three moments I have shared here. I'm British and random outbursts of joy or excitement don't come easy. We clapped at the end of David's talk but that's because it's ok to clap at the end of things. Clap at any other time and you'll be branded a weirdo, even by those of us who are deeply suspicious of conventions...suspicious or not, social conventions are very powerful. Perhaps I'll think about the possibility of considering clapping next time, maybe.)

Other lovely things this week include better sleep, getting up at the time I planned, keeping meeting times with various people, energetic debates with fellow students in class (whether they like it or not), considering 'life after uni' and making arrangements to see a close friend for supper and a few other friends for drinks next week. I have really had to focus on doing these things but I've done them and I feel better for it and I think I have channel four to thank, in a roundabout way.

Earlier this week I was watching television with my dad and we happened to catch the end of a show about the Emergency Services on, as I mentioned, channel 4. We tuned in during a rather distressing situation involving an alcoholic suffering both addiction and severe depression. I will suspend my critique of why I think such shows are being broadcast (for now) but it is fair to say that I am often troubled by how addiction and 'mental illness' are dealt with in the media. In this instance, however, this man was clearly in an extremely dark, frightening and all-encompassing place and it was disturbing yet compelling viewing. As is the case with shows like this, they did a 'few months later' type thing and this man reappeared on this screen. He did look better; he was noticeably brighter and less encumbered. It was what he said, however, that has stayed with me all week. Without remembering the exact words it was something along the lines of, 'you might as well have a go at being happy'. What a wonderful thing to say, I thought. I am now wondering if this statement helped pull me out of the fog because as soon as I got back to my flat I stuck a post-it with those very words on the mirror in my bedroom. It wasn't 'wake up happy' or 'be happy TO THE MAX!!!’ often followed closely by 'buy this' or 'believe that', it was: 'have a go'. Now, I'm sure if I put my Baudrillard hat on I could criticise all of this and find a reason to send the lot back to the capitalist consumer system it came from; I do think, however, that this (relentlessly critical) line of thinking is sometimes where the fog is at its thickest and most powerful. Knowing what I think I know makes 'being happy' seem nothing more than a triumph of, to quote Mr. Baudrillard, 'the hegemonic culture of happiness'. Fundamentally, I do agree with him which means I won't be investing in a life coach, placing my faith in a new car or berating myself for not experiencing happiness in the same way as many others any time soon. I won’t be stepping blindly, hands bound, into happiness but I at least have to try and have a go at being happy in my own way, I might as well.

Mindfulness.

I don't blog much these days, my degree (and love of cooking and wine when not degree-ing) takes up most of my time and mental energy so it has to take something super duper to inspire me to post something here...I guess this post is about one of those things.


Last Saturday I cried at a tree. Not because we were arguing, that would suggest I hear voices coming from trees and I'm pretty sure I don't. I cried because I stopped walking and thinking and said 'what a lovely tree'. Then came a flicker of synergy and I shed a tear for a beautiful tree with the sun's light streaming through it in Wolverhampton's West Park. A word on West Park whilst we're here: if you live near it and think, 'I really should go for a walk around West Park, visit the hothouse, see if there's anything music-y going on in the bandstand, enjoy the beautifully kept grounds and have a reason to praise the local council for a change' then stop thinking and do it. I go a few times a week if I get chance. They've also got lovely tennis courts that you can use for free. I have all the gear, a bit of an idea but no one to play tennis with so if you want to play tennis with me in West Park followed by a cuppa in the little tea room then that would be swell. I realise this post is beginning to resemble an online dating profile so I'm going to talk more about the tree now.


When staring up at the tree, (I don't know the name of the tree but it didn't know mine either so I didn't think it rude that I never bothered to ask) I thought, I'm Nietzsche, I am West Park's Nietzsche without the syphilis (I hope) but with the overbearing sister, the ability to grow a moustache and the belief that, to quote dear Friedrich: 'there is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy'. I switched my incessant thinking off and felt the energy between me and this other living thing, the both of us rooted to this baffling world. I can't speak for the tree, of course, but this isn't the point. What I was trying to do that day was put into practice some of the techniques I learned through a year of cognitive behavioural therapy I received during my first year of University; at the time my shrink called it 'mindfulness' and apparently it was all the rage at the time of my therapy. I was given a book called the 'Mindful Way through Depression'. Unfortunately for this particular book, my reading of it coincided with my falling head over heels in love with French philosopher Jean Baudrillard (although I didn't know it at the time, I thought I hated him but that's how it usually goes with love isn't it?) and an increasing awareness of Foucault so I read the first chapter, groaned and chucked it on my dining table, never to be read again.


Psychology buzzwords aside, being mindful of mindfulness is something I reckon we could all do with practising a little (probably a lot) more, in fact I think your existence depends on it! By existence I don't mean I am going to kill you if you don't heed my warning and I am not going anywhere near negotiating the nature of existence and what it is to exist in this post; I get enough of that from my degree and again from my philosophy buddies in the pub. By existence here I mean noticing that you're alive, again whether that means as a simulation, a brain in a jar or a living, breathing animal civilised right into a pair of jeans and a jumper. For example, if when you're washing up your cereal bowl in the morning you are wondering about your impending journey to work, in particular the state of the traffic on the M6, or are fretting about a conversation you had last night where you felt didn't quite say the right thing or didn't sound smart enough (all hypothetical situations, of course) what becomes of the person stood in the kitchen elbow deep in suds? I was discussing this with a friend and asked, 'if I am pondering the future or mithering over the past then where exactly do I exist?' It's a bit creepy to think of myself walking around like a zombie with my mind lodged firmly in different time zones.


It's pretty obvious of me to suggest that we're encouraged by the media and various discourses to better ourselves (buy stuff), to strive (buy stuff), to succeed (buy stuff) and this takes some bloody planning if you're going to try and do it. It's commonly accepted, for example, that to lose weight you need to plan meals to avoid being caught starving in front of a chippy and to lose more weight and up your physical and mental health, exercise is also key. Again, to do this you need to plan times to do it especially if you have a job, a partner, kids, a house to run, a degree to finish all the while living each day to the max and living for the moment. This living for the moment, being more ‘you’than you’ve ever been bullshit falls on its arse when British Gas calls asking why you didn't make your last gas bill payment or when your waistline expands due to not planning your meals properly. Perversely, being free and living in moments defined by consumer capitalism means being a participant in a game where, to feel young, healthy and relevant you need to not only play by the rules but be good - the best - at it too. You can choose not to but then what? I try to answer this everyday and haven't managed to come up with much. Even if you were to run away to live the 'good life' somewhere you'd need somewhere to live and hot water and heating, well I would, perhaps I'm a sissy.


Being born in a big city, bombarded with images and being swept up in its fast pace I have become accustomed to this level of planning, game and role playing but that doesn't mean that I don't get sick of it, depressed by it and indeed scared by it but then again I do want to wear skinny jeans and saunter sexily into my local Ask restaurant for a bowl of pasta and a glass of primitivo. I'm reminded at this point of something Zizek considers when addressing those of us who 'do capitalism’ but 'ironically'. Zizek seems to be suggesting that it doesn't really matter how you do capitalism: ironically or in earnest, you're still doing it...what a bloody tricky idea to consider. I try not to worry too much though because, more often than not, you end up sounding like a self-righteous right-winger who thinks that if you're suspicious of the system and yet enjoy it's 'spoils' you have no right to attack it. What toxic nonsense!


Back to this mindfulness, (ironically, I went off track for a moment, it takes practice), I am actually suggesting something quite simple. I was slicing mushrooms for supper last week and whilst doing it I was thinking about the workout I had planned the next morning and whether, after the workout, I was going to shower first or eat breakfast. It was 8pm on a Thursday night and I was already 'living' at 7.30am Friday morning. I had said 'see ya' to my evening and, subsequently, already lived-out my Friday morning in my head rendering the 'actual' Friday morning a bizarre re-enactment. See what I am getting at here? Think Picasso, he said something along the lines of: if you already know exactly what you're going to do, why do it? I've already covered the impracticalities and seeming impossibilities of complete non-planning but I accept the sentiment entirely. For me, if I excessively plan everything (something I was pre-disposed to doing pre-CBT) I end up feeling like I am acting out my life and never truly living it. Like I wrote the script and am now cast in the starring role, again: creepy. For me, there's something magical about getting lost. The initial reaction is to think 'oh fuck, I'm lost and my important plans will be ruined', I still do this when my plans dissolve, which is often. Last week for example a friend and I got lost walking home from a restaurant, he had just moved into the area and we were busy chatting and somehow got trapped in a maze of terraced houses. At first I wanted to tell him off and let him know just how important is was for me to get home to, er, sit on the sofa but when he looked at me, sighed and said 'I've got no fucking clue where we are' I just laughed, opened one of the beers we had purchased on the way home and continued wandering around chatting for a bit. Getting my stuff ready for work the next day and making sure I got 8hrs sleep could all wait as we walked through unfamiliar streets enjoying a meaningful chat not sullied by putting the washing on, checking emails or getting ahead. In case you were worrying how we got home, in the end we listened out for the sound of zooming cars and followed it to a main road with sign posts.


Back to the mushrooms, I mentioned them as they provide me with a great example of how simple practising this mindfulness can be. Whilst slicing, I caught myself mid-thought and said, aloud 'I really like the way the blade slices through the spongy flesh of the mushroom' and, like that, I was back in the kitchen enjoying my evening. The next morning as I exercised I was already running through the lecture I was going to later that morning but, again, I said 'I like feeling the sweat running down my back as it shows I'm working my arse (and belly and bingo wings) off' and like that I was there, enjoying my workout. Like I said, it takes practice, I think we're hardwired to planning and the next thing on the list and if we can't do it ourselves we can employ someone to do it or download an app to help us. This level of auto-pilotism explains why people wake up one morning asking where the last 10 years went or are spooked to realise another week has passed. It's why people look at their partners one day and realise they don't know them anymore but how can you know someone if you're skimming past them all the time, living under the same roof but in different time zones? Such things inspire me to consider a year out of academia once my degree is finished. I have gotten so much out of it, learned so much and made friends I will treasure but I also live deadline to deadline and I experience a form of suffocation when I think that I could continue to do this without me being 'aware' of it until it's too late. I just need a little time to think about it, please.

If books could kill...

...the students at my university would be quite safe. Trying to come up with a clever title for this I initially came up with 'Show me the Monet' but realised this would be better suited to an art-free art gallery than a book-free library; which is what I am on about in case I'm not quite making sense yet.

Yes, the library at my university is a library in an airport departure lounge's clothing. But with no duty free. Interestingly the notion of something being free of duty takes on a sinister meaning when considering what the role of books and the suppliers of books (i.e. the university you are paying to make available the literature you require to gain knowledge on the subject they are going to award you a degree in) should be in the context of an institution of knowledge and learning. There should be a duty to make books the centre focus, both physically and in the "spirit" of academia. 

What the "library" - the quotation marks are always present when I refer to what was once a library in my university - offers students now is...er, nothing. Really there is nothing in there except computers and various seating areas. The books are hidden away in rooms and on other floors like stock in a warehouse. The ground floor now resembles a phone shop. These places always make me feel a little uncomfortable because there is nothing in them except for a few stunt phones standing in for the 'real' ones, bored staff and various seating areas. Next time I am in the "library" I am going to check that the odd couple of books I occasionally see stacked on the front desk are not just hollowed out boxes in disguise. Like those VHS cases my parents had in the '90s that looked like leather bound books.

What all of this seems to have done, for me at least, is create a sense of ambiguity. A "when is a library not a library?" gag but with no punch line. If a library is not a library then what is it? An empty space. Why are we paying higher fees for empty space? I can pretty much predict the answer I would get from educationalists who use words like "business facing" and "crafting individuals" when talking about students who want to learn more about, well, anything: "the empty space means you can create the contents, it's up to you guys. If your mind can conceive it, you can achieve it. Now, how about a freshly squeezed juice and some yoga?" If anything I would suggest that, to get thinking again, students of this generation need help from books even more than ever. A sense of academic community arises when you see shelves and shelves of books by people who dedicated their lives and work to thinking about stuff you think about, trying to make sense of stuff you worry about whether it be cures for diseases or trying to negotiate the very nature of existence.

I once said to a friend that before coming to university I would regularly have panic attacks just thinking about what I thought was the futility of life but after reading the work of Nietzsche/Plath/Kafka/de Beauvoir/Bataille (I could go on) I felt quite happy about being in the same boat with the same final non-refundable destination, as long as these guys were along for the ride too. It's like enduring a shit nightclub because your best mates are there. Yes, the vodka is probably watered down. Yes, the music is indescribable and you feel older every time you to attempt a night on the town but look your mate is with you and you'll make the best of it together. 

As a teenager (who am I kidding? I'm on my way to 30 and still feel like this) being regularly hit with the propaganda trotted out by the media in all its many, glorious forms, finding there are boat-loads of others who don't actually agree is both crucial and comforting. I have been assured that academic institutions once provided an alternative to the 'real world' of 9-to-5-jobs-to-pay-the-bills. If, however, they now resemble a shop one would visit at the weekend (when on two day release from such jobs) I am no longer sure they offer any alternative and so, fellow students, we must go in search of them ourselves. And reading books is a bloody good place to start! Books have provided me with so many examples of alternative ways to think and live, separate from the ideologies of capitalist neo-liberalism. Take these away and what are we left with? Empty spaces where thoughts should be.

I confess!

Warning: lazy blogger! Here's my homework for my Life Writing class. A very rough draft which become increasingly apparent:

I'm pretty wiped guys - deadlines and all - but still have glimmers of enthusiasm so, briefly, here's my rule-break:

The rule: "Do not smoke indoors Lucy!"

The break: I only went and smoked indoors, didn't I!?

My mum and dad found out that I smoked when I was 15 which was quite good going for me since I was throwing up regularly from nicotine rushes from about the age of 12. Either way the rule was 'smoke in the garden' or at least blow the smoke out of the back door in the kitchen whilst shivering on the door step.

My folks regularly went to stay with my mum's brother and his wife (aka my aunt and uncle) so I had the house to myself. This was when I'd sit on the sofa in front of the 'big telly' (the one in my room is a 'medium telly') and light up a Marlboro Light (are they still called that? I think it's just Marlboro now).

How did I feel? Well, firstly, warmer than I do in the garden but also independent and empowered. 'This is what it'd be like if I had my own place', I'd think. I did indeed have my own place for 1.5 yrs where I smoked EVERYWHERE - in the bath, even whilst cooking. Yep! - but being an impoverished student I came back to mummy and daddy, tale between my legs, ready to take my place in the garden. I sound like a dog don't I?

When the folks were out I was the Lady of the house and I smoked in that house! BUT, there is a price to pay for taking such liberties in a place where they were never really yours. The price here was anxiety and an obsession with the smell of smoke resulting in me spraying air freshener, walking out of the living room and then walking back in nose in the air sniffing around. Again...like a dog! What's going on here?

So, yes, it was nice being warm and comfortable, nice to puff away in front of the, quite frankly 'massive telly' but in the end, I felt very guilty and anxious and somehow increasingly like a dog.

Here we go again...

As is the Friday tradition I went to the pub for a drink and a chat with some other students from one of my classes. Some of them I know very well and some I've only briefly chatted to before. This mix seems to create an odd dynamic of relaxed exchanges between friends and stunted and edited exchanges with mere acquaintances. It was this dynamic that left me driving down the M6 having imaginary arguments with several of them.

We were chatting about an upcoming assignment and I mentioned how French sociologist Jean Baudrillard used the fantasy of having sex with identical twins in relation to his work on simulacra and simulation. A student I've not known very long suggested that it's all just about sex really and that academics are just like the rest of us (who knew?): driven by sexuality (not necessarily my opinion). Another student who I know particularly well concurred and joked about my naivety when it comes to befriending (male) lecturers; something about them genuinely wanting to talk to me but ultimately being driven by their libidos. Again, I'm putting it 'nicely'. What followed was cackles and hypothetical scenarios that were both rude and derogatory to all involved. And they wonder why I look elsewhere for conversation (this, of course, is not true of all my student friends. I'd say around 3 of them are friends of mine).

After advising the group that I talk to particular lecturers because of shared interests (music, books, film, food, etc) and that I have never once felt targeted for anything else they calmed down a bit. I understand that within the banter of a few beers after class this sort of thing is to be expected if you admit to associating with the Others: the 'tweed wearers'. You know: blow job = A grade and as vile and disrespectful as this was to me, as a student, and to the integrity of academia I accept that this sort of lecturer/student mythology exists. This doesn't mean I like it though, in fact, it really winds me up because I have worked at my education with a passion and dedication I didn't know existed in me and have earned every one of those grades. But, yes this kind of ribbing does go on, especially if you're the one doing well.

What really wounded me was when another student said, quite nonchalantly: 'it is all a bit weird though'. As if it were immoral, icky even, that I, a human being with particular interests, have conversations and connections with other human beings with similar interests. The 'confession' that I have also had lunch with lecturers was met with bemused faces and 'well what does your husband think of that?' Of what, me having lunch and discussing my thoughts on the counter-hegemonic practices of the Goth sub-culture? Not a lot as it's not really his area of interest.

Given that I do enjoy delving a little deeper into social interactions and what they may be saying about the individual or indeed society, I could really go to town on this and observe what may be afoot, both from my perspective and my fellow students. But then I decided not to bother because I've better things to do and what the others in my group were suggesting is just as banal as it has always been: lecturers are all sex-mad predators and us students are either vulnerable or out to exploit the situation for a decent grade. Yawn! It didn't surprise me to discover that they didn't bat an eyelid when I mentioned that I regularly email and speak to a female lecturer in the 'real' world too. I can befriend an academic as long as it's a female of the species? Again, yawn.

THE END.

The murky depths.

Having just watched an episode of Shameless where the residents of the Chatsworth Estate were plunged into darkness following a blackout (resulting in lots of drinking, violence and sex as is the case with 100% of Shameless episodes) my thoughts turned to French writer Georges Bataille's work on eroticism and being human.

According to Bataille (and others I'm sure), eroticism, a state of transcendental reality, is induced via the loss of self. The self, in this context, being the person we identify with in our day to day lives: Lucy, 26, student, wife, black hair, two eyes, one nose, etc. During this loss, experienced for example in orgasm or la petite mort (the little death) to use the French idiom, we enter a state of non-knowledge, oblivion. For those who don't have orgasms it can be likened to losing your temper or being excessively drunk. For those who don't get angry or drink alcohol, go and read another blog.

After this 'loss' we eventually reconnect with the self we were before, it may be somehow altered following the experience but we retrieve a sense of self once again. There may be feelings of shame, guilt, anxiety, increased desire; all things that will hold sex/anger/intoxication in a state of reverence until an energy founded on desire overwhelms us once more and we seek another transgression (have sex/get drunk). Simone de Beauvoir, despite being involved in a notoriously hostile feud with Bataille (alongside Sartre) appears to have encapsulated the 'real life'/eroticism dynamic in her superb book 'The Second Sex' (1949): 'desire, which frequently shrouds disgust, reveals disgust again, when it is satisfied'. Such desire may occur after a tough week of being communicated at by people and computers trying to extract or insert something in you for reasons not entirely known to you. This is a seemingly continuous rotation. It is, according to Bataille, what makes us human. This is neither a good thing nor a bad thing it just is; good and bad are binaries that we must not bog ourselves down with when considering such matters as the human condition.

For Bataille, what makes us human is work. Our human work. Having sex all day, drinking all day, being enraged all day (although I often do the latter quite well) is not conducive to productivity. Lying around in our own filth, shagging anything that moved would not have invented wheels, would not have built houses. No McDonalds. No Twitter. No blogs. Having sex occasionally, getting wrecked at the weekend, however, have uses in that they appear to 'renew' the ordered, day to day running of our lives. For example, going on holiday and coming home to your own bed, a bed you couldn't wait to leave 2 weeks previously before the excesses of rest, sun, food and alcohol in the Costa del Somewhere. Once home your bed feels like your mother's womb, your friends are interesting again and your morning cup of tea has a new charm. Put simply, the holiday is needed as much as the non-holiday. The suspension of daily life is required in order to keep the cogs of, in our case, Capitalism turning: you’ll turn up for work after two days away from the office doing something else. With this in mind we could suggest, in a Daily Mail kind of way that the characters portrayed in Shameless contribute little to society as we are expected to know it. That they aren’t quite as human as the rest of us.

The residents of the Chatsworth Estate don't have 'proper' jobs. They are on benefits, they make money on black markets, they have sex at 2pm on a Wednesday, they give in to violent impulses and they often drink all day. We're supposed to laugh at this, Other them, view them in such a realm of ridiculous that we couldn't possibly entertain the fact that they might be experiencing something that could well rival the shiny BMW on our driveway. Their supposedly chaotic lives seem perversely simpler than ours. They've cut out the middle man, the tax man, the policeman and are getting on with it. They aren't, however, going to build hospitals or schools anytime soon; they aren't going to provide security and safe peaceful family homes. They are also not going to start any world wars or make decisions that will affect the lives of millions of people. Wallowing in the muddy depths of base urges leaves little time for such things as civilisation, being human; often identified as being good/evil, something.

If I were to suggest Bataille was onto something (and I do) this ‘being human’ malarkey is an interesting position to consider. It seems to involve denying that which makes us animal in favour of that which generates money and power but also that which writes books, music, dances, sings and makes witty comments on social networking sites. The question to ask yourself in relation to your self, then, is where you'd really like to stand. If the grass really is greener or, if you prefer, muddier on the other side.

Won't someone think of the children?

Here I am, in 'Simpson' form, yesterday after the inspiration for this post struck:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qh2sWSVRrmo

It used to be that the responsibility to fuck kids up good and proper fell on the shoulders of parents. Exposing young and malleable humans to all kinds of stuff. There's competitive passive aggressive exchanges between mummy and daddy where everything appears to be hunky dory yet the air seems to have turned blue. Not forgetting lovely heart to hearts with mummy where she tells of the pain she endures staying with daddy just for lucky little you.

Yes, parents do a superb job. So much so that it may add insult to the already overwhelming injuries to join forces with the caring folk in the media and do something like this:

'What Not To Wear'

Not content with forcing middle age women with fat middles to equate clashing prints and unruly hair with total human failure conjoined bitches Trinny Woodhall & Susannah Constantine set their sights on the children of these badly dressed atrocities. It was during a daytime channel surf last week I noticed this show was still being aired. I actually used to watch this show when I was a kid so was interested to see how I'd view it now that I am older and have spent many hours learning how evil the media can be. If I were to take something positive from this experience I would suggest that my University tuition fees are pounds well spent in that within 30 seconds of viewing I was practically spitting my teeth out at the shocking scenes unfolding before me. This is where the silver lining ends.

The first scene viewed was at the workplace of the sub-human female Woodhall & Constantine were trying to save from certain doom. It transpired that the woman worked in social services, specifically, child welfare and regularly had to attend court hearings. Woodhall asked a colleague of their prey what she thought about the shoes she wore for work. Yes, when attending important court dates where the safety and future of a child is in question, they wanted to know if she was wearing the right shoes. I am not lying. You really can be as appalled as I hope you are by now.

The second scene, the scene that resulted in me turning the television off before I had a stroke, involved Constantine coming into contact with her prey's son. Ironically, whilst at court in the wrong shoes, protecting vulnerable kids, badly dressed woman's own kids were in danger. Now, we should all know that the first rule of protecting yourself from supernatural evil is to not invite it into your home. It was too late for this family, Constantine was in the kitchen and had the child in her sights.

Happily eating a bowl of cereal a young boy aged no more than around 6yrs old was asked what he thought of mummy's tummy. Was mummy's tummy fat? As he nervously giggled, looking confused at the task of communicating how his mothers gut made him feel he was blindsided with another question from Constantine: 'have I got a fat tummy?' More nervous giggles followed by an encouraged 'no'. Constantine then lifted her shirt and stuck out her gut. 'How about now?' The child was then expected to compare her tummy with his mother's and show, like in a maths exam, how he worked this out. This is where it all went a little hazy for me.

Of course I am not loading all of the blame on Woodhall and Constantine, they work in a vile industry and are not the only ones who prey on the weak for their own profit and satisfaction. They were just the ones I saw that day yet I fail to see how either of them could ever justify asking a child to objectify his mother in such a way as to make him question her worth on the basis of her weight and appearance; it reeked of 'grooming'. Preparation for a life where he will ascribe value to the beautiful/well dressed at the expense of other less superficial things. Not to mention confuse the poor sod in a society that is confusing enough 100% of the time anyway.

In the spirit of being optimistic, however, I found something online proving not all parent/media unions are evil and exploitative of both child and audience. In case you didn't know past TV Presenter Emma Forbes is now a spokesmodel for cosmetic company Sheer Cover who offer a 'natural' range of products that help uncover the 'real' you. When asked in, I'm sure, a completely spontaneous situation about her love of the wondrous products Forbes decided the best way to answer would be: 'I hope my children benefit from seeing me take care of myself'. 'What a lovely way to put words in the mouths of your children for the financial benefit of a soulless beauty industry company', I thought before retreating to a dark room, with gin.