Happy Easter - or Eostre - everyone.

Introducing Ella. Our Easter bunny.

…but then I decided to plagiarise this instead.

A Facebook conversation which had me in stitches. I've had to delete the names to protect the innocent.  I hope if any of them happen across this by accident they will forgive me. The subject is: Chocloate eggs and what they have to do with Easter:

'Am I the only person who disagrees with the ridiculous notion of celebrating Easter and the resurrection of Our Lord by greedily munching into chocolate eggs? I am quite sure that nowhere in the Bible does it mention chocolate. This year I am going to shave a coconut and paint it with garish colours. This way I'll save a few bob by not having to buy a new egg each year. And before you ask - Yes, it does mention coconuts in the Bible. But not macaroon bars.'

Wow

PSALMS 119:103 KJV How sweet are thy words unto my taste! [yea, sweeter] than…

KINGJAMESBIBLEONLINE.ORG

Luke 11.12 ...."Or if he is asked for an egg, he will not give him a scorpion, will he?

Easter is an appropriated pagan festival so I believe the eggs come from there

In the pagan version they're rabbit eggs.

Deuteronomy 72 RPM - Laugh not lest ye feel the heft of my shinty stick.

... or mum's broom handle cleft in twain?

And ye shall receive a bounty of coconut eggs

Eggclesiastes 4:3 "And thou shalt gorge thyselves on the cocoa bean of glory, having first searched high and low to gather the glorious bounty. Other chocolate bars are available ".

Shaz 1:1 "Yey, though I walk thru the valley to Morrisons, I will fear no price crash, for the staff and the patrons do comfort me and my purse doth flow over with credit cards"

Gadzooks!!! Spring has indeed sprung! It is heartwarming to see that someone has rolled away your virtual boulder to enable to wander the greenways & holloways of this august social media once again. I was beginning to wonder if you'd suffered the ignominy of a double death! Your cadaverous cumudgeonliness has been much missed!

There is a green hill far away. Why don't all you blasphemers sodding well go there.

I'm going to Lanzarote on Thursday - that'll have to do.

I once went to Rhyl.

You've irked me so much I've cut my finger while shaving that blasted coconut!

Try waxing instead......

You wax your coconut? Good heavens.

Smooth as a badger's nose, Strachan - can't recommend it highly enough (and you can pick the remainders off the wax and make your own doormats too! - that should appeal to you as a Scotsman)

The Good Lord gave us chocolate as well as coconut. I prefer chocolate.

Cadburys gave us chocolate, madam.

This particular church secretary (who happens to be up to her eyeballs in Holy Week church bulletins at the moment) thanks you for the much needed comic relief. I don't know that Sophie would approve, but I certainly do. And the Eggclesiastes passage will be shared with my ministerial staff.

Happy to help.

Trust me, this week I need all the help I can get.

Ah, Holy Week.... Cuppa? Sherry? Meths?

Coal bunker. Now.

I have called the Royal Society for Protection of Nuts. You sir, should not be shaving coconuts and displaying them for all to see.

Sir (and it's not Madam, actually) chocolate comes from cocoa beans. Which God gave us. Chocolate is therefore one of my five a day.

One of our local churches plan on having a giraffe on site for Easter service. Somehow I think chocolate makes more sense.

A marzipan giraffe?

I'm an eggnostic.

 Neil 1.1 " Thou doth needith to remember it is a coconut else thou will breakith a tooth."

Chocolate gives me migraines

I want the Biblical coconut quote, chapter and verse.

There are no atheists in the chocolate aisle.

I wouldn't know. I'm still trying to figure out why I would have slivovitz for Passover. What Angel of Death suggested that??? How did THAT stop any first borns from getting nixed?

One with a sense of humor?

Last time I shaved any coconuts, I had to get cream for the rash.

What sort of beastie lays a chocolate egg?

Surely they must be even bigger & even more chocolatey.

I want one of those.

If your stick is shinty I think you should have AW draw you a bath.

He would, but his pencil is broken

And last time he got a toe stuck in the tap...

Um... you might be thinking about the loofah story.

 And it wasn't a toe.

So much for discretion...

 Well, now, chocolate is a religion to some.

 It's pretty bad that chocolate is not mentioned anywhere in the Bible. What was God thinking?

Speaking of atheists, Amazon recently told me: 'Customers who bought "An Atheist's History of Belief" by Matthew Kneale also bought Brabantia bin liners' which was really helpful.

I was going to write about the state of the world….

…….after an evening crying to myself about the bombs in Brussels, the atmosphere of fear we live under now, and the thoughts that my daughter will be at St. Pancras station tomorrow, my son in Heathrow after a flight from Istanbul on Friday.

…. after a disturbing conversation with friends earlier in the week that revealed just how closed the minds of  some can be. This little town has taken in a family of Syrian refugees. I would have expected my intelligent and - I thought - sensitive friends, who write lovely sensitive poetry about their own loves and losses, to be more understanding of these people who have been torn from their country, travelled the most horrendous and terrifying journey, old and young, to be finally housed in a cold, grey and  -- apparently - unfriendly land.

The grievances are: Headscarves, The women shouldn't wear headscarves because it makes them stand out. Actually their poor clothing makes them stand out too, besides which, it isn't so long since all women in this country, from the Queen down, wore headscarves. That was OK for a different reason - non-religious. It was to hide their rollers, keep their hairdos in place or their heads dry. Or just to keep themselves warm - which, let's face it - a Syrian refugee planted in Scotland might need.

Second grievance: Old man seen sitting on a bench in the High Street smoking and staring at passers-bye. Um…. could have been a local? Could be a refugee wanting to absorb the local atmosphere, see what it's all about… also doing what old men do in many countries (with  better climates tis true) sit outside under a plane tree watching the world pass by. Maybe he wanted a moment of feeling 'normal' again.

Third grievance: Single man (again old I believe) seen sitting in the park near the children's play area watching the children. This was seen as sleazy behaviour. So every refugee is a potential child molester? To me it brings an entirely different, heart-tugging picture of a man possibly watching his own children or grand-childen play freely at last. Equally possibly, remembering the children in Syria who were afraid to leave the house, afraid the house would be bombed around them, afraid, afraid… having no childhood. Equally possibly he, like the man in the street, was just sitting somewhere watching normal life in a, so far, peaceful country and getting some healing from it.

Local hero 2: The Wizard of Gordonstoun

The son of Ludovick of Gordonstoun and the second laird to bear the name Sir Robert of Gordonstoun, was one of the most colourful and intriguing character to have ever lived in this part of Morayshire. 

Sir Ludovick of Gordonstoun’s heir Robert was born in 1647. This was at a time when the Renaissance had blossomed all over Europe giving inspiration to men of a scholarly bent who were wealthy enough to indulge their interests in the new culture, in questioning beliefs, testing new scientific thinking and in mathematical studies. The great Galileo was not long dead and Sir Isaac Newton was born as the first Sir Robert, Ludovick's father, took over Gordonstoun house. Robert Boyle, one of the founders of the Royal Society was only 20 years older than Sir Robert and had correspondence with him on matters scientific . It seems that quite early in his youth the young Robert showed himself to be more like his learned grandfather than his father in his preference for learning rather than estate management and so he was sent to Italy to study at the University of Padua where he met some of the finest scientific minds of his day.

When he returned to Gordonstoun Robert began to collect what would become an impressively large library. He also set up a workshop and laboratory on the ground floor of the house where fires could be seen burning late into the night. Multi-coloured flames and shadows dancing behind mullioned windows no doubt began the legends that grew around this man who was somewhat of a recluse. To the uneducated people of Moray it was obvious that he was a wizard and it is quite probable that he encouraged such talk because in those days when the only law-keepers and discipline dispensers were the landed gentry, it increased the awe in which he was held and made it easier for him to keep discipline amongst his tenants without having to expend much effort. Fear of enchantment was a terrible deterrent to the superstitious. It also meant they left him in peace to do what absorbed him most. 

So it was that word got about of a fire spirit raised from the regions beyond death by the laird in his furnace. This fire spirit could tell Sir Robert secrets unknown to the rest of humankind, and, furthermore, in his lust for yet more knowledge of the natural orders (denied to humans by the King of Heaven for their own good,) the wizard laird had, whilst in Padua, entered into a pact with Satan, called forth by blasphemous symbols, incantations and perhaps even sacrifice. 

Satan would naturally have charged the usual price to give up the secrets of the universe, that is to say he would have demanded a human soul. Being a gentleman Sir Robert had undertaken to pay the price himself at the end of one year. 

It amuses me to think that the same mechanism of denial operating when folk fall to the temptation of buying a three-piece suite with ‘Nothing to pay until 2015’ must have been similar to Sir Robert’s hopeful expectation of some future lucky event intervening to annul the final reckoning to this pact. The future is a safe place where the very course of history can have changed so that payment may never have to be made at all. It seems quite credible that when one year later to the second, in the full heat and sunlight of an Italian afternoon, the dapper gentleman in black appeared for the rendering of his account Robert had forgotten the agreement and been startled by this unpleasant demand for his soul. However his wits did not desert him entirely. He looked up and down the empty thoroughfare and seeing but one moving object with any claim to life pointed to his shadow crying ‘Take him instead!’ 

We are told the Devil is one for a jest and that he appreciates above all a spirit of courage and impudence in his future prey so with a great roar of laughter he agreed to take the shadow which promptly disappeared from the ground. Then he told Robert in merry tones: ‘You have bought yourself 25 years more for your quick thinking but I WILL have your soul Robert. All Hallow’s e’en 25 years from this day we will roast your soul together.’

So it came to pass that when Robert returned to Gordonstoun he was never to be seen except in cloudy weather, for if the Kirk had come to hear that he lacked a shadow they would have had the proof to take him for sorcery, and the punishment for that was the stake.

Many tales were told but none could be proven. It is said that one frosty night when he was due at an appointment in Elgin he set off in his coach to cross the loch by ferry (as loch there was in those days.) When the coachman brought them to the edge they found that there was a covering of ice just thick enough to prevent the ferry from setting out but not thick enough to drive across. Fearing he would be late, Robert told the coachman to drive on across the loch keeping his eyes fastened to the other shore and not looking back whatever drew him to do so or the devil would drown them both.

In fear the coachman drove and in awe he found the ice held them. Unfortunately, like Lot’s wife, natural curiosity got the better of him before he quite reached the other bank and he turned his head to look back at the laird. What he saw caused him to tremble so much he lost the reins. A great black crow sat on the Laird’s shoulder. The moment it saw the coachman turn it flew cawing angrily into the air and the coach sank up to its axles in the mud.

Twenty five years passed and this time Sir Robert did not forget his soul was in danger. When the stables and barns at Gordonstoun were in need of replacing he designed a new building with this very event in mind and with all the cunning of a learned mathematician. It was the fashion to build such amenities slightly away from the main house and in the form of a hollow square , that is four sides of the necessary accommodation for coach, horses and fodder, around a courtyard with an archway for entrance. He had instead built what is now called ‘The Round Square’  designed to his own mathematical calculations to have no corner in which the devil could catch him. 

However, when the time drew near it seems Sir Robert did begin to doubt his own cleverness and he sent the same coachman who had attempted to cross the Spynie Loch to fetch the parson of Duffus to spend the evening with him. He also set the clocks forward an hour to confuse the devil and to give himself time to make a bolt for it if necessary. 

The parson came and was dully wined and dined until warm with hospitality they both sat by the fire in the great room, then Sir Robert told the increasingly distressed parson of his foolish youth and of the dreadful pact he had made. As he talked his eyes turned often to the clock. When the hand reached midnight one of the window panes burst in bringing with it a great gust of wind and a diabolical voice boomed out: ‘ Now Robert, your hour has come!’ 

‘Oh no’ shouted the wily laird, ‘ I have changed the clocks. I have still one hour more to call my soul my own!.’ 

The devil laughed heartily.  ‘Very well, but this is the last time you make sport with me! In one hour I shall claim your soul.’ 

The parson pleaded with Robert to make haste to the only place holy enough to keep him safe, the Kirk at Birnie. Robert still claimed his Round Square would do the job but the parsons’ pleading must have finally shaken his belief in himself because he set out for Byrnie kirkyard at a run taking the route he thought the devil least likely to know.

Now it happened that the Rev. John M’Kean of Birnie had been out visiting in Alves on ecclesiastical matters and was returning home shortly before midnight when he heard the footsteps of a man running in his direction. The man soon came level with him and hardly pausing in his stride called to him ‘tell me man, am I on the right road for Birnie Kirk?’ Recognising Sir Robert’s voice the minister hastened to assure him that he was indeed on the right road and before he could ask what the trouble was the laird had disappeared into the mists ahead of him, leaving the reverend very perturbed. Why should the laird of Gordonstoun be running so far and in such evident desperation at midnight?

No sooner had he collected himself and started on his way again than he heard the thudding of hooves behind him. A rider drew abreast of him on a jet black horse, his own form covered with a dark hooded cloak beneath which his face was just another shadow in the night. From this form came an unpleasantly guttural and wheezing voice asking: ‘Has a man passed this way? 

The minister was about to say that yes, Sir Robert of Gordonstoun had just run on toward the kirk when some intimation of evil in the thing that had asked the question pulled him up short and he bethought him of Sir Robert who had never done harm to him, nor indeed as far as he had heard to any other man, so instead he shook his head and declared ‘No. Not a soul has passed this way.’

The horse plunged on into the darkness. As it disappeared from sight the reverend was even more disturbed to see what looked like two large four-footed creatures following it. Full of misgiving, and with the ominous foreboding of preternatural doom the minister walked on, as silently as he could for fear of being found again by what he know was sure was a fiend from the nether worlds of hell. 

In a short time he heard hoof beats and the horrid sound of hunting dogs. He shrank back into the bushes as a sudden break in the cloud let through veins of  blue-white light from the moon by which he saw the horse and rider returning, but this time across the saddle lay a bleeding human body with the fangs of a great wolfhound still hanging on its throat, another three hounds baying on behind. The horse slowed as it passed him and he heard the voice of the fiend growl out ‘I shall return in time for thee.’ Then the devil  disappeared into a smoking cavern which opened in the ground at the horse’s feet. The minister, praying fervently but to no avail, stumbled on toward his home which alas he never reached because he was overtaken once more by the ghastly entourage and in the morning was found dead on the path, his throat torn out as though by a wild animal. 

And so, by common consent, came the end of the wizard, Sir Robert of Gordonstoun. Those who tell you he died in his bed at a grand old age are surely mistaken.

Sources: 

‘The Michael Kirk, Gordonstoun and its historical background’ Edward Lightowler. Paul Harris Publishing, Edinburgh 1980

(Where we read that for 150 years after the death of Sir Robert, the Michael Kirk which was built as a mausoleum for his body by his second wife Elizabeth Dunbar, was to be avoided after dark for fear of spectral presences.)

‘The Lintie O’Moray being a collection of poems chiefly composed for and sung at the anniversaries of the Edinburgh Morayshire Society from 1829 to 1841.’ Compiled for the 1851 edition by George Cumming and for a second edition, published in 1887, by Charles Rampini , sheriff of Caithness, Orkney and Shetland.

Local Hero 1: The Wolfe of Badenoch

There are many facts and fancies told of  the Wolfe of Badenoch's dastardly and rapacious deeds.  For instance, in a fit of pique against the church he  destroyed Elgin cathedral, and he likewise caused great destruction in Forres, all of which makes him a local anti-hero. Legend says he died in 1394. Others maintain it was in 1405, after he played chess with the devil, a coming together of minds that had dire consequences for the Wolfe. Here is how the tale of that meeting goes:

The Wolfe was visited at Ruthven Castle by a tall lean man dressed in black. The man told the Wolfe that he wished to play a game of chess with him. Knowing nothing about the devil and his renowned prowess at chess the Wolfe’s pride caused him to accept the challenge. The game went on for several hours until the tall dark man moved one of the chess pieces and, rising from the table, called 'Check' and then 'Checkmate!' As his cries echoed around the castle there was a terrible roll of thunder, followed by violent hail and great slashes of forked lightening which tore apart the sky. The storm continued throughout the night. As dawn broke a dreadful silence fell on the castle. It was then that neighbours courageous enough to approach discovered the Wolfe's men outside the castle walls, dead and blackened, as if they had all been struck by the lightening. The Wolfe himself was found in the banqueting hall, and although his body appeared unmarked, the nails in his boots had  been torn out.

The funeral was held for the dead two days later, the procession of coffins led, as befitted his royal lineage, by the Wolfe's own. Again a terrible storm arose with thunder and lightening crashing overhead. It came closer and closer, gathering in intensity as each of the coffins joined the solemn procession. It was only after the Wolfe's coffin was put to the back of the line that the storm would cease. Once that happened the black storm clouds rolled away.

It seems the bad boy of Badenoch had even offended Satan.

Arts and Tarts

Yesterday’s NDFAS was entitled ‘Great Tarts in Art.’ The lecturer was superb. She was fluent and funny. She began by telling us that although there were many names and euphemisms for prostitutes, some carrying more overtones of disapproval than others, she had chosen ‘Tarts’ simply because it rhymed with Art. After this disarming admission she went on to be witty, knowledgeable, and not in the least judgmental. 

Since NADFAS is all about art the subject necessarily focused on the paintings of famous courtesans, king’s mistresses, and the women whose good fortune and good looks enabled them to both feather their nests comfortably and rise in society to situations where they were treated with deference, occasionally with respect. Some became quite fabulously rich. A beautiful woman known for her discretion (and discretion was important, even in the societies permissive in this area) could ask the modern equivalent of £6000 for a night in her company. A career with such an obvious expiration date meant careful husbanding of wealth and contacts. Some were better at it than others. If they became ‘kept’ women they could ask for a fine house, servants, a carriage, exquisite jewels and clothes. With this equipage they could receive guests, hold ‘salons’ and influence the dealings of the day both in court and in politics by bestowing attention on young men who also wished to rise in station. This was the social networking of the time, the salons, and the public school system once it arrived, were the way society drew into itself those it enjoyed having close, the most useful, amusing people, and those who would play its games in order to attain desirable heights.  

The faces we are accustomed to seeing in the art galleries are most often mistresses of one of the Kings. Charles II was especially beneficent to today's art-loving public in this respect.  In order to hint at their special positions (and distinguish them from the wives) these women were frequently portrayed as shepherdesses. We were told by our lecturer that during the Q&A section of one of her events the ‘why?' of this fact was asked. Though she didn't have a definitive answer herself, a male member of the audience did: ‘Because they hadn’t invented school uniforms.’ Shrewd. Youth and innocence have always been a turn-on, added to which the implied healthy lifestyle of the background suggested a disease-free young woman - a serious bonus in those days. 

Peter LiIly, the Dutch painter who succeed Van Dyke as court painter, has given us several of the lovely ladies who enlivened the days of Charles II, generally simultaneously. That is to say they knew of each others existence and there was great rivalry between them. One mark of the king’s favour was especially important and that was the bestowing of titles. Elizabeth Strickland became Lady Elizabeth Stricklend, then Countess of Kildare. Henrietta de Kerouaille became Countess of Pembroke. These two hated each other, vying constantly for position. They were pregnant at the same time and lobbied for their sons to be given important titles. Harassed by their insistence the king reportedly said: ‘first come, first serve’ meaning not which child appeared first, but which envoy got to him first with the petition (if that's the word.) It seems that Lady Elizabeth Strickland had the fittest envoy because her child received the most coveted title. 

These women where also the Stars of their day. The Posh and Becks, the Brad and Jennifer. The populace had their favourites. When the carriage of Lady Strickland was stoned and almost overturned by a baying mob, disaster was only avoided by the beautiful passenger appearing in the window crying: ‘I am not the whore from France. I am the whore from Lambeth.’ 

Neither felt much challenged by the lovely Nell Gwyn it seems, probably because she was ‘common as muck.’ Nell was one of the lucky girls allowed onto the stage after Charles II changed the law (which incidentally put hundreds of pretty young boys out of a job.) It was a wonderful opportunity for good looking women to better themselves and find a patron. The lovely Elizabeth Armistead, painted by Joshua Reynolds, who started her career as a whore in one of the most famous brothels in London, spent a short time treading the boards. The critics where not impressed by her acting skills but were very impressed by her looks and figure.  

Women who already had positions, came from good families and married well were not above having their fun. As long as they were discreet their husbands would ‘turn a blind eye’. This has occasionally blurred the hereditary genetic demarcation lines. Women waited until they had provided their husband with a son and heir before they began their adventures, but if that child died it might well be a subsequent, illegitimate, child who succeeded to a title. 

  

There were the occasional almost fairy-tale endings when true love was found between a nobleman and his courtesan. Elizabeth Armistead was one of these. She was taken from the brothel by Lord Bolingbroke who became her patron. There were other patrons along the years who endowed her with pensions and made her wealthy, but she always remained friends with James Fox, a young politician of the Whig party, who had been in the company of Bolingbroke when he met Elizabeth and rescued her from the brothel. Eventually after 10 years of platonic friendship, Elizabeth and James married. On the internet I found this touching piece: “In 1795, after they had been together for more than ten years, Fox wrote to his nephew, ‘I think my affection for her increases every day. She is a comfort to me in every misfortune and makes me enjoy doubly every pleasant circumstance of life. There is to me a charm and delight in her society which time does not in the least wear off, and for real goodness of heart if she ever had an equal she certainly never had a superior.’” Elizabeth lived to be 95 years old. 

Predictably, Hogarth represented the darker, gloomier, side of prostitution amongst the poor in one of his inimitable cartoons. This one is a triptych. He shows a sly looking madam, a very young girl who is obviously distressed, a finely clad gentleman, and a greedy, dissolute looking doctor. A phial of black pills in the hands of the gentleman is at the centre of the group and tells the story. These pills would have been mercury, which has been shown to alleviate some of the symptoms of venereal disease but with obvious side effects. The madam would have bought the child, sold her to the wealthy ‘gentleman’ who was now aggrieved that his purchase was not as pure as he had been led to believe. The madam and the gent both have the tell-tale black patches known as ‘beauty spots’ that covered either smallpox scars or signs of syphilis. 

A later painting by one of the Impressionists (if I remember rightly) shows a woman propositioning a well-dressed man who is holding her in what, at first sight, looks to be a tender caressing sort of way with his hand on her elbow. This, we were told, was actually his way of assessing her state of health. Syphilis causes swellings in the joints, notably the elbow. Various sayings have come out of this cautious act, ‘elbowing ones way around the room,’ for instance. 

As always, seemingly innocent and charming nursery rhymes have come from the prevailing, less pretty, realities. This pleasant little song that most (at least amongst the oldest of us) will have heard at one time or another, is an example:  

This version appeared in ‘A Baby’s Opera’ by Walter Crane in 1877.

1. "Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?"
"I'm going a-milking, Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"I'm going a-milking, Sir," she said.

2. "Shall I go with you, my pretty maid?"
"Yes, if you please, kind Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"Yes, if you please, kind Sir," she said.

3. "What is your fortune, my pretty maid?"
"My face is my fortune, Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"My face is my fortune, Sir," she said.

4. "Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid."
"Nobody asked you, Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"Nobody asked you, Sir," she said.

'Suffragette.' A reactionary reaction.

We are all products of our genetic inheritance and our upbringing. Which has the greater influence will probably never be proved. Some throw in ‘past lives’ as an additional complication. Who knows? 

What brought on this self-introspective?

Yesterday I watched “Suffragette.”  I didn’t expect to like it and I didn’t. I have always been suspicious of feminism, and the militaristic fight those women indulged in doesn’t move me. Feminism as I met it in the 60‘s and 70’s had no appeal for me either. In part, the status quo suited me. I had never wanted a career, felt obliged to get one, hated it, and was happy with the husband-wife balance as it stood. Maybe I was lucky to have met only good men. I was also unlucky enough to have grown up with women I neither liked nor respected. I felt, and still feel, sorry for my mother, but that didn’t mean I liked her. She was clever enough to have had a good education and to have changed her life but she was weak. She was depressed and depressive. Cowed by her own mother, who was, I have to admit, a witch, but really wasn't able to do more than be sarcastic toward her daughter. My father, on the other hand, was cheery and insouciant in the face of a suffocating family situation. He was kind. When I got pregnant illegitimately and had to tell my parents, my mother wailed about ‘what the neighbours will think,’ and ‘sinning in the face of the Lord.’ I once broke into the wails and sobs with: ‘Oh, for god’s sake…’ and she accused me of ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain.’ Not much use arguing with religion. I had half hoped that a more considered and kindly reaction - a more grown-up reaction one might say - would have meant I could keep the baby, but obviously this wasn’t going to happen. To keep her sane I had an abortion. When my father picked me up from the railway station after the operation he was on his own. He didn’t say much, but what he did say was kindly, understanding, and, above all, caring. He was thinking of me, not just of himself and his own reputation.  At home my mother didn’t look at me for days. In later years she apologised, but it was too late. I never really forgave her although I told her I had - again for her sanity and my peace of mind. 

This is probably the basis of my anti-feminist views. Rightly or wrongly I saw the movement as being aggressively anti men. Therefore I rejected it. Still do, (with careful reservations about radical Muslims and Sharia Law of course.). 

So. The film. It wasn’t inspirational, it was simply rather pathetic and sickening. It misrepresented the women’s movement, giving the impression that their ranks where swelled by working women, the wealthier women being shy to join in because of what they might lose. The truth is that the leading figures in the Suffragettes were from middle-to-upper-class families, educated women, many of whom achieved degrees. Despite the brutal tactics resorted to in the prisons most of them lived to a very healthy old age, one dying at 105. As far as I can find out, in no other country did women adopt violent, life endangering methods of civil disobedience. In several countries women got the vote much earlier after meetings, parades, lobbying. 

The film focuses on the hard life of two women working in a laundry with a lecherous, sleazy overseer. The husband of one woman beats her, but the husband of the other is a loving man. When his wife joins the ‘Votes for Women’ marches he is chiefly humiliated by taunts that he can’t keep his wife under control and afraid of neighbourhood ostracisation. He struggles to look after their son during her incarcerations but eventually lets him go for adoption as the best chance of a good life for his boy. It was, for me anyway, a heart-wrenching moment. I had more sympathy for the man than for his wife. He had to work a full hard day and there was no-one willing to look after the boy when school was over because the women who had helped in this way were against what the wife was doing. This was probably a realistic enough reflexion on the societal situation of men and women at the time. Cruelty and injustice were rife, brutality to women not confined to men (witness the appalling behaviour of nuns in the Catholic ‘homes’ for pregnant girls.) Changes were needed but, like every other change to the order of things, it would be slow coming. The minds, hearts and ethos of a society has to change through education and understanding first. This is never easy.  

Of course I'm glad that my children have been recognised as mine rather than my husband’s - that we had equal claim over them. For the rest, I’m not so sure that there has been positive progress. The mother working in the laundry had to leave her son from early in the morning till 6pm. What happens these days? Mothers are more or less forced to go back to work soon after the birth of their child (or perhaps they want to in order not to lose their career, which often seems to figure more highly in their idea of what is important than the well-being of their babies.) They therefore leave the child in a creche from early in the morning until 6pm. How is that better? The incidents of teenage misbehaviour and violence grows. In some kibbutzim children were taken from their parents and brought up in ‘children’s houses’ seeing their parents 2 -3 hours a day or less. As they grew up evidence of depression, disassociation and destructive social behaviour amongst them were noted. The experiment was discontinued. 

What else have we achieved? Women in Parliament are as bad or good as the men. Women in the work place are as bad, or as good, as the men. Young men have no point of reference, they're no longer required as the breadwinner, the defender, the strong presence in the household. Some are constantly demeaned by the women around them, including, perhaps unwittingly, by their mothers. who being feminists are more likely to encourage their daughters. There's no evidence that women have improved the lot of humanity beings from their positions of power. Young girls become ladettes, spew in the streets on Saturday night binges, wear clothes that are rightly condemned as provocative, and squeal loudly when men treat them with disrespect. 

Seems I am drifting into right wing middle age, Or - am I just seeing the cycles of reality? Here are some quotes to shore up my opinions:(The following are quotes from various places on the net.)

Not all men had the right to vote at the time the Votes for Women campaign started. Even before 1918....

“Only 58% of the adult male population was eligible to vote before 1918. An influential consideration, in addition to the suffrage movement and the growth of the Labour Party, was the fact that only men who had been resident in the country for 12 months prior to a general election were entitled to vote.

This effectively disenfranchised a large number of troops who had been serving overseas in the war. With a general election imminent, politicians were persuaded to extend the vote to all men and some women at long last.”

‘Men's right to vote isn't much older than women's. Feminists like to make it sound as if in the middle ages, the male peasants walked from their fields to the voting booths every four years to elect the new king.

Secondly, it was conditional. In order to be allowed to vote, men had to serve in the military. When women got the right to vote, it was simply handed to them. A gift to make up for the hardship of staying at home while their husbands, fathers and sons fought and died for their country.’

Some opinions of men on the position of men in the 21st century:

‘Just ask those "true feminists of true equality" about what feminism has done to benefit men.

Gender roles for men are still in place. Stay-at-home dads, weak men, emotional men, shy men are still not respected, neither by fellow men nor by women.’

‘No efforts are being made to bring men into female fields like education, HR and the like. Especially in education, men are actually heavily discouraged by the feminist fear-mongering about all men being dangerous.’ Possibly a slight exaggeration here but it has been true in the past.

‘Battered men, raped men, sexually abused and harassed men are still not taken seriously. Again, feminism actually works hand in hand with traditionalism on this one: male victims either do not exist or are responsible for the crimes committed against them themselves.’

‘Love and relationships: Feminists love to claim that the sexual liberation made male sex live richer, but is it really so different? Women still expect to be treated like princesses, while men must go to great lengths to become an adequate suitor. Virgin-shaming is actively perpetrated by feminists. Additionally, divorce rates are skyrocketing and single motherhood is pervasive.’ 

‘In education, boys are left behind while girls are still showered with special treatment. Common example: If yet another study shows girls are worse in maths than boys, people say it's an outrage which warrants immediate (and expensive) government action. If a study shows boys are worse in everything except math than girls, people conclude it's their own fault for being stupid and obnoxious instead of obedient.’

And so on.....