The Good Ol' Days

I thought I wanted to be feminist, but then I realized how dark and scary the world is outside my kitchen. Give me a flower arrangement instead:

I also find, to my alarm, that there are a number of things I don't want to do and I don't care if they do lead the way to the androgynous, so-called feminist paradise. Bury cats (I'm talking about dead cats: I don't think anyone should be burying live ones). Investigate noises made by possible burglars in the middle of the night. Take things down from very high shelves. (OK, I admit it: I don't want to do much that can't be done while sitting). Cricket. I fail to see what can be the point of the children having a father if I have to get my head around batting averages and be forever on top of the test score.

I know what she means. Batting averages make my brain hurt, too. I only watch sports to admire the beauty of the playing field and of course, hope for a glimpse of a hottie athlete adjusting himself while a streak of brown chaw is propelled from his mouth. It makes all my feminist ideals slowly fade away.

The world has got too complex. I long for the time when we women knew where we were and what we were for, when we had a real, recognisable role. Bring back flower arranging and piling up pyramids of profiteroles.

Yeah! Fuck voting!