I never finish

A project. I never finish a project. I bet you all thought I meant orgasm. You can think it. The title was clickbait. I hope it worked. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads; I am very satisfied, sexually. Onto the projects.

I can half play about eight instruments; I can kinda use about five different specialist computer softwares; I have qualifications in random, completely non-related disciplines; I have one big ball (now now…) of very nice grey wool that once had a destiny of becoming a crocheted blanket; about four half read books (yes I fold over the corners and always write in the margins); one box of paint pens, un-used aside from the underside of one wine glass (pintrest, your fault); a tin of very expensive chalk paint, along with two packets of sanding paper, dust sheets and six paint brushes and a commitment to running any distance farther than 6k that is about as loyal as my commitment to dieting and flossing. I think that’s all. I even got Mr K to proof this paragraph in case I missed anything; he was proudly anxious that this might be the day I decide to restart everything.

I just don’t have any patience. I am the most impatient person I know. I can’t even wait for toast to toast; seriously, I will pop the toaster about four times before letting it do it’s sole purpose and toast my toast. (Side note: should it be toast my bread? Possibly).

Pasta is stressful. So are baths. You turn your back for one minute and there’s water everywhere. Kettles are pretty much my arch enemy. Why do things take so fucking long? Don’t even get me started on self service machines in supermarkets. IF YOU TELL ME TO REMOVE THE LAST ITEM FROM MY BASKET ONE MORE TIME.

I have so many grand ideas. Really, you should hear inside this redhead; it’s bloody wonderful. I’m going to cure inequality; climate change; the problem with self service machines; digitally inept companies; Britains urge to queue; cash machines asking if you want a receipt when you clearly selected cash no receipt.

Many of these (none of the above) come to fruition. I plough time, money and my poor friends attention spans into each and every one; buying the tools, learning the knowledge and making the connections that I need to. But I really don’t like being bad at things. It makes me so sad. I bought a 300 quid banjo and upon my first try realised it was going to be really hard. I picked it up two more times, then sold it on a Facebook buy, swap and sell group.

I don’t think I’m a bad loser. I just don’t like being bad at something. Learning to drive was fucking torture. My angel of a driving instructor had the patience of a saint; I told him the wrong date for my final test. He didn’t even swear at me when we turned up on the wrong day, at the wrong time, after he had cancelled three other pupils to hold my test…

My brother is the same. We’re not good at being ok. Ok; mediocre; average; moderate; regular. We were brought up by parents who thought we walked on water (I’m scared to tell them that might not be quite accurate) and by golly we believe it too. Anything less than perfect and it’s not good enough. Millennial they say; my feelings about the whole millennial movement and it’s angels could fill the pages of a book, so let’s not. My motto? If you’re not instantly good at something, move on. (It’s so shit, I know. It’s how I justify my flakey ass behaviour).

Ask my how my crochet blanket is going. I dare you.

I never finish

The Cows 

I just finished reading The Cows, by Dawn O’Porter.

I wanted to LOVE this book, because I adore Dawn. I love her style; I love her humour; I love her podcast; I love her husband; I love the name of her dog. I just love her. And I really wanted to love this book.

Now, let me start by saying I do like it, I like the story line, I like the characters, and I like the way it’s set out. Dawn has introduced three characters, three strong women who have their own story, each very different from the other. The story is told in each point of view, and in each chapter we hear from each women at regular intervals. This point, I loved. I loved how involved I was with each character, how we knew what they were doing at each moment in time, how it interacted with the other women.

Each character has an interesting life, each strong, each wilful, each a little bit mad. I read the book in two days. That’s a good sign.  Although, I did find myself skipping lines. I wasn’t interested in what filled each invisible dotted line on my page (okay, iPad, but you get the picture). I skipped the dull prologue and searched for the dialogue; that’s where the good stuff lay.

My biggest bugbear? It was all about men.

Ever since I listened to an episode (35 to be exact) of The Guilty Feminist, I carefully and judgementally interrogate everything I read, listen to or watch for the passing of the Bechdel test. Created by graphic novelist Alison Bechdel, a film passes the test if there are two women present, who talk about something other than a man for 2 uninterrupted minutes. (Google it, it’s a very interesting revelation). This book doesn’t pass it. I know that officially, books aren’t included. And I don’t want to ‘diss’ anything that Dawn does; see previous gushing love confession. But I hate that these three women, these three strong women, talk about men ALL THE TIME. Why Dawn, why?


Why does Cam, a feminist, no shit taking blogger, write about her toyboy? Profess about her man friend? She is such a good, badass character who has made her millions (literally) by blogging about her childfree, carefree, man-free life, and the main fixture of her story is a man.

Tara, a single mum, is a successful TV producer, and a superhero mother. Yet her story line focuses on a man, who after date one, made her so horny she masturbated on a train?

Lastly, Stella; she has an eighty five percent chance of getting cancer; lost her twin sister and mum to cancer; and has a pretty shitty relationship with her boyfriend. She has a crazy plot to get pregnant by her boss (a man).

What’s going on? Why are they all pining after men?

Please read it and let me know your thoughts? I think I’m being harsh, but then again, I’m allowed to be aren’t I? I’m allowed to feel angry and a bit upset that a woman I admire so much, took an excellent opportunity, and spent it writing about men.

Awaiting your opinions.

Your redhead.

The Cows