1. Three sold for about £0.99 each, which is less than the cost of the fuel I use driving to the post office and back. Yes, I know it’s my own fault, and I should have given them higher starting prices, but I’d already tried that, and although each item had lots of watchers, none of them bid, so I figured this time round I’d start off low and hope all those watchers would be tempted into participating in a bidding war. They didn’t, so between the listing fees, plus the time it took me to photograph the items, write the listings, answer various dumb questions (“What brand is the Topshop dress you’re selling?”), package them up, then head to the post office with them, I made a loss.

2. One person just didn’t bother to pay me, and when I looked at her account a few days later she was “no longer a registered user” and had multiple comments from sellers all saying “This is the worst bidder in the history of the world!” and “This person is Satan himself!” The thing is, though, because eBay no longer allows sellers to leave negative feedback, all of these comments were marked as POSITIVE, so I’d simply looked at the 100% positive rating, and hadn’t realised that every single one of those “positives” was actually a big fat NEGATIVE. Again, yes, I know this is my fault, but even so people, even so.

3. The one item that did sell for a decent price sold to someone who didn’t bother to pay me, or contact me in any way for four days. At the end of that time, when I finally cracked and sent her an email saying, “Look, are you actually intending to pay for this?” she was all, “Oops, sorry, I actually only intended to bid £5.50, I’m not prepared to pay £32 for it!” I’d maybe have believed her, too, if her bid hadn’t been placed when the item was already at £28.50. Sigh. (And when was she planning on contacting me to let me know about the “mistake”? My guess would be “never”.)

4. Having realised that the idiot in number three had no intention of paying me, I reported her to eBay, and sent a Second Chance Offer to the underbidder. It expired 12 hours later without the person accepting it, so I decided it was time to accept defeat. Then, two hours later, I got an email from said underbidder saying, “Hi, thanks for the Second Chance Offer! I’ve bought and paid for the item now!” HUH? But I thought it had ended unsold? I went back and checked eBay. Yup, sure enough, the item had not been purchased. I checked Paypal: no payment. So I emailed the bidder and politely explained that she must be mistaken, and… she emailed me back and tried to insist that yes, she had paid and I must send her the item, even although I hadn’t been paid for it. Funnily enough, when I finally managed to get her to agree that she hadn’t paid for it, and pointed out that if she wanted it, it had been relisted as Buy It Now, she declined to purchase. I think she was just trying to get me to send her it for free. I hate people.

5. FOOT. FETISHISTS.

So, at the time of writing, eBay has cost me more than I’ve made from it this month, and I’d actually be better off if I’d just taken my old clothes and shoes to the charity shop rather than thinking, “Hey, these are all practically unworn, let’s give eBay one more shot, shall we?” This is all particularly annoying to me, because any time I decide to buy something on eBay, it always sells for a fortune: almost always more than you’d actually pay for it new. There’s always a bidding war involving twenty different people, all hell-bent on securing the precious, precious item, and you’d think it was the freaking Mona Lisa we were bidding on, rather than someone’s secondhand dress. I, on the other had, could actually HAVE the Mona Lisa to sell, and I’d be lucky to get 25p for it. Even then, the winning bidder would take three weeks to pay me, and then ask me if I’d consider throwing in a photo of my feet for free.

In conclusion: I’m done. Oh, I’ll probably continue to buy secondhand dresses at vastly inflated prices, but never, ever again will I waste one more second of my time, or penny from my back account, on selling there – at least, not until they introduce the ability for sellers to deliver giant, virtual slaps to their buyers. Until then, if you ever see me on Twitter talking about the possibility of selling something on eBay, please feel free to give ME a giant virtual slap. I will deserve it.

The link I followed to the Fail today (sent to me by reader Maayam) was no different: I ranted about it until Terry finally got up and went to the gym just to get away from me, but this time I wasn’t ranting about the poor journalism or the “lobotomised at birth” standard of the comments. This time I was ranting purely about the story itself, the title of which is “Terrified girl, 12, dyes ginger hair blonde after receiving death threats from schoolmates“.

I make no apologies, then, for linking to the Daily Mail just this once. This story really saddens me. It goes on to explain that the girl in question (Who, by the way, has beautiful hair, but even if she didn’t, wouldn’t deserve death threats over it) has actually been withdrawn from the school in question, who apparently refused to take the parents’ complains seriously, and is being homeschooled by her father.  I’m not sure how much effort the Fail went to in order to coax a response from the school, but all they seem to have said is “Meh, bring the ginger in and we’ll talk about it.”

I was bullied myself at school, although NOT because of the colour of my hair, so I know how serious it can be, and how much of an impact it can have on a child. For me, it changed me from a happy-go-lucky, confident child who really didn’t have a care in the world, into a nervous wreck who jumped at her own shadow and had to be driven to school so I could wait in the car until the exact second the bell rung, and not have to risk spending even a minute in the playground with my contemporaries. As an adult, I still cringe when I walk past groups of children or young teens. I still expect to hear jeers and insults (and sometimes I do), and when I’m with a group of females I don’t know (because it’s always the women, isn’t it?) I’ll frequently get that sinking feeling that they’re just waiting for me to go to the bathroom so they can start bitching about me.

This is the legacy of childhood bullying, and let me be clear: I got off lightly. This poor girl is apparently too frightened to leave her house, and it doesn’t sound like she’s had the kind of experience you get over quickly. There is one positive in this, however. I finished the article, and steeled myself to read the accompanying comments, expecting the usual rash of “But gingers DO deserve to die!” nonsense from the Fail readers. This time, though, they surprised me, and I found myself nodding in agreement at the person who said:

“If she’d been teased because she was non-white the place would have been swarming with lawyers, police and politicians within hours.”

Very true. But of course, because the girl is “only” receiving death threats over her hair (and as we all know, it’s perfectly acceptable to hate “gingers” anyway), no one wants to know. So very sad, and I can only hope Nicole Nagington one day comes to realise how beautiful she is, and how pathetic are the people who want to bring her down.

As a counterpoint to this story, however, I present this article about how Kate Moss has – wait for it – lines on her face, OMG THE HORROR! I mean, can you even IMAGINE a 36-year-old having LINES on her face? And OK, let’s be honest: it’s true that Kate has clearly done her share of drugs in her time. In fact, Kate’s probably done everyone ELSE’S share of drugs in her time, too. But actually, Daily Fail, not many people manage to age without getting at least a few lines, and it seems a little hypocritical to me to publish one article commenting on how awful it is that someone is being bullied because of their natural appearance, and then turn around and effectively bully another person because of theirs. Women in their thirties get lines on their faces. They do. So do men. It comes to us all. I’ve never taken coke in my life (other than the brown, bubbly stuff, obviously), am younger than Kate Moss and I STILL have lines on my forehead. It’s called “not being 15 any more”. (It’s also called “Screwing up your face every time you’re in direct sunlight, because you’re stupid.”)

I’d also love to know what the Fail and its readers would like Kate Moss to DO about the lines on her forehead. She could get Botox, of course, but I absolutely guarantee that if she did, the Daily Mail would be one of the first to write an article saying, “OMG, Kate Moss has had Botox, can you even BELIEVE it?” and she’d be called “plastic” and “fake” and God knows what else. So Kate can’t win. Women in general can’t win. And no one who’s ever read the Daily Mail is in the least bit surprised by this…

(Aside: why do Royal Mail do this? I mean, why not just BRING ME THE FREAKING PARCEL, and allow me to pay for it right then and there, when I have the chance to, you know, LOOK AT IT and decide whether it’s something I want to pay money to receive? Wouldn’t that be easier than the postman coming to my door with a card (a waste of paper, and the earth’s precious natural resources!), then me getting into my car and driving to the sorting office (a waste of fuel! And time!) to ask ANOTHER member of Royal Mail staff (a waste of manpower!) to rummage through the mail, and find the parcel? It’s not like they’re not in the business of delivering mail ANYWAY, after all. It’s not like they’d have to sit scratching their heads for hours, thinking, “Oh my, how on earth will we accomplish the task of transporting this package to someone’s door?” Or, OK, given how much they struggle at this sometimes, maybe they would…)

Anyway, I got this card, and immediately I was torn. My natural curiosity, and, indeed, greed, made me desperate to know what was in the mystery package (What if Christian Louboutin had suddenly decided to just randomly start sending me shoes, like he did in that dream that one time?), but my natural laziness/stinginess made me reluctant to haul ass aaaaallll the way to the sorting office (I realise I’m making the sorting office sound like it’s in outer Siberia here. It’s actually just a few miles down the road, but, you know, lazy.), just in case the Mystery Package turned out to be something not worth paying £1.10 for. It was a difficult decision, but in the end, curiosity won out, so this afternoon I made the arduous journey and presented myself at the sorting office counter clutching a shiny £1 coin and a 10p piece which I’d stolen from Terry the day before.

The first clue that all was not as it should be came when, rather than disappearing into the other room and returning bent double under the weight of a hefty package, the Sorting Office Man simply reached under the counter and produced an envelope.

An envelope.

Can’t really fit shoes in an envelope, can you? “OK,” I thought doubtfully, “Maybe it’s just stuffed full of cash. Cash works for me too!” I stared at the envelope. It stared back at me, blankly. Once again, I was torn. It seemed unlikely that there was anything in there that I’d actually want to PAY to receive, but then again, you never know when opportunity’s going to come a-knocking, do you? Maybe the envelope contained notification that some wealthy, yet distant, relative had died, leaving me their entire fortune, plus a slightly creepy house in the middle of nowhere: a house with a CHILLING SECRET? Perhaps it was a letter from a publisher, saying, “We’ve read your blog and even although you only have five readers, we’re so impressed with the cunning way you weave tales about your teeth, that we want to turn it into a novel, which we will call TEETH: A Tale. Please sign the enclosed contract so we can transfer £1,000,000 into your account immediately for the exclusive rights.” Perhaps I just read too much chick lit?

With these thoughts racing through my mind, I slapped my £1.10 on the counter, and excitedly ripped open the envelope to find…

A PRESS RELEASE.

Yes, a PRESS RELEASE. You know, one of those could-totally-have-been-sent-by-email pieces of marketing designed to persuade me to write about someone’s product?

(Another aside: Why are people still sending press releases through the mail? Is it secretly 1994 again, and I just didn’t notice? Doesn’t it stand to reason that, as a blogger, I’m likely to be in possession of a computer and an internet connection, which would allow me to receive these things by email? Wouldn’t that be easier for everyone concerned? WON’T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE TREES?)

So, we’ve now reached a stage where I am actually paying to receive press releases, apparently. And not only that, I’m driving across town to pick them up, too. Maybe I could actually start WRITING them for the companies concerned? And I could PAY THEM for the privilege? Then I could publish my own press releases on my sites, and, I dunno, maybe I could pay them again at that stage? Because that’s the only way I can imagine it being any MORE inconvenient for me to be marketed to.

In closing, I feel I have to add my usual disclaimer here: I know not all PR people do things like this. I’ve worked in PR myself, I know people make mistakes. Hell, I make mistakes every single day. Sometimes they involve setting things on fire.

But damn, I was disappointed it wasn’t shoes.

Author : Jellybean

E-mail : too cowardly to provide one

Comment:

It’s been a month since you last updated.   Sorry, but that’s just ridiculous when there are so many other blogs available that cover the same ground.   After the recent downtime and server crash, this is the final nail in the coffin for me.   Deleting my bookmarks for this and Realtor and moving on to greener pastures.

This was posted today on my beauty blog,  Hey-Dollface, which was one of the sites I just wasn’t able to update during the break. That’s just “ridiculous”, isn’t it? Especially after the server crash that almost destroyed my livelihood and which, let’s just be honest, I totally did deliberately, just  to annoy Jellybean. Because the world revolves around Jellybean, didn’t you know?

Needless to say, Jellybean WASN’T one of the people who offered words of support and encouragement in the aftermath of Black Friday. (And, you know, it was hard enough to deal with that, without people acting like we did it deliberately, and berating us for it. Trust me: we suffered enough.) In fact, she hasn’t ever commented on any of my blogs, as far as I can tell: she’s just lurked there silently until today, when she apparently decided she couldn’t get through one more moment without lashing out at a complete stranger on the internet. This is fairly typical of blog commenters in general, sadly: slow to praise, very quick to flip out and start deleting bookmarks. Including the bookmarks for Realtor, apparently, which is interesting, because, er, that’s not my blog, it’s my mum’s. As it happens, my mum lost a very precious friend a couple of weeks before Christmas. THAT is why she hasn’t updated her blog (which, by the way, she writes as a HOBBY, so sorry, but she doesn’t owe you anything, Jellybean) - but, of course, people like Jellybean don’t think or care about the things that may be happening in a blogger’s life. They think we exist purely to provide a source of free entertainment for them: they don’t need to thank us for doing it, but by God, if we ever dare to stop, they’ll suddenly discover the “comment” button, and tell us how much we suck! (Albeit with a “Sorry, but…” Because that phrase makes it absolutely fine to be rude to someone!)

Unfortunately, this kind of comment is becoming the norm every time I take a break. I had a flurry of rude comments when I got back from Florida earlier this year, all to the effect off “It’s been too long since you updated, so you’re a bitch : UNSUBSCRIBE!” The logic of this really confuses me: I mean, telling me you’re never coming back isn’t exactly an inducement to me to start blogging again, and the loss of a reader who sends me rude messages… well, it’s not really a huge loss, is it? I will be honest: in the time I’ve been blogging, I’ve had a few “I’m never reading your blog again!” messages, and without exception, they’ve come from people who sound like absolute assholes. And I’ve been relieved to know their authors will never bother me again: in fact, I’ve often blocked their IPs just to make sure they stick to their resolution.

Despite the fact that this has turned into a huge rant (Happy New Year, folks!), it’s not actually about Jellybean. It’s also about the very first email I opened this year, which was from someone who wanted to make sure I didn’t start the decade without being told that I’m such a bad writer I shouldn’t be allowed to blog at all. (Argh! Conflicting messages! One person wants me to blog ALL THE TIME, without any breaks, the other wants me to be BANNED. FOREVER. Aargh!) It’s about the fact that I almost made myself ill (AGAIN) before my holiday, writing advance posts for The Fashion Police to make sure I didn’t get angry emails from the people who read IT, too… and got a bunch of negative comments instead, from people who obviously felt that the content wasn’t good enough: probably because one person (with the help of a handful of guest bloggers) had to write four week’s worth of content in advance, and it’s just not possible to do that without people being able to spot the difference.

I feel like I can’t win. If I try to make sure the sites are updated while I’m away, people complain about the (unavoidable) drop in both quality and quantity of posts. If I DON’T make sure the sites are updated while I’m away, people send me rude messages telling me off for daring to take a much-needed break. The obvious answer is to pay someone else to update the sites while I’m gone, but unfortunately we just can’t afford to do that, so I’m left with only one option: never take a break, and just update the sites myself, 365 days per year. And actually, that wouldn’t work, either, because if I don’t get regular breaks, the quality drops anyway. It makes it hard to know what to do for the best: I feel like no one really appreciates it when I make the effort to write advance posts, but if I DON’T go to that effort, I get comments and emails like the one above. Gah.

It’s particularly galling, of course, when these complaints come from people who have never bothered to comment before. If people don’t comment, then I assume no one is reading. And if no one’s reading, I assume it’s fine for me to take a break now and again – after all, no one will miss me. So when I come back to find random people telling me I suck for taking a break, it comes as a surprise, and feels a bit unfair. In a way it’s flattering to know that my blog is SO IMPORTANT to these people that the loss of it makes them forget their manners, but at the same time: how was I supposed to know they would miss it? If they never bother to tell me they’re reading, I don’t think it’s very fair for them to write and tell me they’re NOT reading. That just reeks of entitlement, and makes me wonder why I bother, to be honest. (To clarify: I’m not trying to bash lurkers here. It’s absolutely fine to read and not comment: I do it myself sometimes. All I’m saying is that if you never comment, the blogger won’t know you read them, so it would be unfair of you to complain about them taking a holiday.)

Umm, this wasn’t AT ALL the post I intended to write today, which was going to be about the fabulous New Year we had with Erin and David in Edinburgh, and how we got a police escort off the Royal Mile at midnight (but still managed to see the fireworks). That’s how I want to remember the start of 2010, and how I hope it will continue, despite people’s best efforts to bring me down. I don’t want anyone to go away from this post thinking that the Jellybeans of the world are achieving their objective and managing to ruin my happy thoughts or anything: they’re not, but the issue of what I do with my blogs when I’m on holiday is something Terry and I have been discussing a lot recently, and it’s something I need to find some kind of resolution to – ideally before my next break, whenever that may be! I figured letting my thoughts about it out of my head and onto the page might help me free up some headspace and let me get on with enjoying the rest of my day: and, of course, any advice you may have is welcome (as long as it doesn’t start with the words “Sorry, but…”!).

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that Terry and I would both be eligible for the swine flu vaccination when it became available: Terry because he is in a high risk group for serious complications (read: death) if he caught this flu, and me because I live with him and could pass it on.

Well, last week our area finally got some supplies of the H1N1 vaccine. And they’re refusing to give it to either of us. Terry called his doctor’s surgery three times last week. Each time he was told that, why, of COURSE he couldn’t have the vaccine! Only pregnant women can get the vaccine, because obviously only pregnant women can die from flu, d’uh!

Now, before I go any further here, I should first of all say that I’m all for pregnant women being vaccinated. Of course I am. They do seem to be at higher risk than most of us, and so obviously they should be one of the priority groups. ONE of the priority groups. Because, actually, pregnant women aren’t the ONLY people at serious risk from swine flu – or any other flu, for that matter. Absolutely not. Terry is a transplant recipient. Every day he takes immunosuppressants which basically leave him with no immune system whatsoever. A bad dose of flu could be really serious for him, and that’s not just my paranoia speaking: it’s what we’ve been told by Terry’s doctors, and it’s why he gets the regular flu jab every year.

He’s not getting this one, though. Because he’s not pregnant. On Friday, his doctor called him and said that, contrary to the information the NHS have been churning out for months now about how they will be offering the vaccination to people with chronic health conditions, where we live they will ONLY vaccinate pregnant women . Our health centre, which serves a population of tens of thousands of people, you see, was only given 100 doses of the vaccine and they’ve decided to use it on pregnant women only. (For the moment, anyway. If and when they get any more supplies of the vaccine, they might think about giving it to people with serious underlying health conditions, but only if there are no pregnant people to give it to first.)

And the reason for this?

The media.

Yes, Terry’s doctor admitted to him that although Terry is in a high risk group and should be given the vaccine, media pressure has forced the NHS here to make the decision only to vaccinate pregnant women. This is despite the following information, from the NHS’s own website  :

1. “hating on”

When did we start hating ON things? Why can’t we just hate them, like in the olden days, when “LOL” still meant “laughing out loud” and wasn’t just a weird kind of punctuation mark to use at the end of every sentence, lol? Also, when did it become law that as soon as you say you don’t exactly love something, everyone will be all “WAH! Stop hating on it!” Can no one have an opinion now?

2. “chillax”

A mixture of chilling and relaxing.  Do you see what those clever kids did there? But, um, WHY? Why do we need a special word to denote the activity of chilling AND relaxing? I mean, can you think of a single time you were totally relaxed, but NOT “chilled”? Or a time when you were, like, totally chilled man, but not relaxed? I read a book a couple of weeks ago in which the main character kept wanting to “chillax”, and trust me, it wasn’t an ironic kind of chillaxing either. I hated on that book.

3. “sick”

If you’re actually sick, fine. I hope you feel better soon. If you’re using this word to say you like something, i.e. “This beat is sick!” (yeah, Lady Gaga, I’m looking at YOU), I’m probably hating on you RIGHT NOW. Lol.

4. “Geek/nerd”

Everyone’s a geek these days, aren’t they? Like, absolutely everyone.  Because these days you describe yourself as a “geek” simply for using the internet. And you’re proud of that fact. So you will say, “I’ve been online all day. OMG, I’m such a geek, lol!” Er, no you’re not, you’re just someone who uses the internet, like the rest of us. And you’re a “nerd” – and a PROUD nerd at that – if you have any kind of hobby at all: book nerd, clothes nerd, food nerd, movie nerd, chillaxing nerd. I guess I would be a shoe nerd, although “I’m sitting here totally geeking out over my shoes” probably ISN’T something even I would say. I don’t think I’m cool enough to be a nerd, given today’s meaning of the word.  And don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that the geeks and the nerds are finally having their day. They’re the Cool Kids now, and everyone seems to want to identify with them. I’m geeking out over writing this list, in fact. I’m such a blog nerd!

5. “nom”

By decree of the internet, all references to food shall henceforth be accompanied by use of the word “nom”.  Extra “geek” points if you provide multiple “noms” – nomnomnom! Blame the LOLcats. They started it.

And while I’m on the subject, did you hear that CNN have started a segment called “Just Sayin’“? It’s like the Internet came to life. I fully expect them to follow up with one called “I’m Sorry, But…”, or to require all their newsreaders to use “lol” as punctuation, internet-style. “Out-of-control wildfires are raging through Athens and LA, lol!” Gah.

Over to you, then, folks: what words/phrases are you hating on right now, lol?

And what did Lil’ Bitchy have to say to me? She said:

“Ummm not to be mean but why do u have like scabs on ur lips?”

You know what, though, folks? Call me a cynic (I mean, I’ve been called worse. Like “scabby lipped”, for instance.), but I think  Lil’ Bitchy DID want to be mean! I think she was… wait for it… lying when she said she wasn’t! Don’t you think she was probably lying? Because really, when you get right down to it, there’s never really a non-mean reason for calling someone “scabby lipped”, is there?

(These personal insults don’t bother me, by the way. I only take criticism seriously when it comes from people who actually know me and who I know have my best interests at heart. When it’s random kids who can’t spell, I take it for what it is: a pathetic attempt to be a little bitch. And I delete it. Oh, and I don’t have “like scabs” on my lips either. Or even just regular scabs. Just so’s you know.)

But what never fails to make me laugh about these stupid insults is the way people will always first of all make a transparently insincere attempt to pretend that they’re not just being a bitch. Seriously: “not to be mean, but…” That’s hilarious! What’s the point of even PRETENDING you don’t want to sound mean when you’re about to accuse someone of having “like scabs” on their lips? I mean, you may as well just admit it, right? It’s not like the person who receives that message is going to think, “My God, this person says I’m a scabby lipped ho! Oh no, wait… she says she’s not being mean! Whew!” is it?

And there are so many stupid little phrases like that. I’ve already mentioned the classic, “Sorry, but…”  YOU’RE NOT SORRY! Don’t try to pretend you are! Just admit to yourself that you’re trying to make a complete stranger on the internet feel bad, and that that’s how you get to feel better about yourself. It will save you a fortune in therapy later!

Then there’s the rest. Last week, for instance, I was hit with, “I don’t want to burst your bubble, but…” And the thing about that? I didn’t even HAVE a bubble at the time! No, really, I didn’t. (It was a post about a new skin cream, and I think a lot of the time, people confuse “me blogging about something” with “me caring deeply about something”, though, which perhaps isn’t their fault) But if I DID have a bubble, you can be sure that person wanted to burst it for me. Oh, he may have SAID, “I don’t want to burst your bubble,” but what he MEANT was, “Excuse me, is this your bubble? Do you mind if I just… *BANG!*”

Basically, any phrase containing the word “but” is almost guaranteed to have me rolling my eyes. That and “Just sayin’”, which is a variation on this theme that’s used at the end of the insult rather than at the start of it and means, “I’ve just been a complete asshole, but, you know, just sayin’.”

Or how about “I’m just being honest!”, the clarion-call of the Big Brother generation. Let me tell you something: honesty is not always the best policy. You don’t actually NEED to tell someone you think they’re ugly, for instance. It doesn’t achieve ANYTHING, other than to make you look like an asshole. I, for instance, already know exactly what I look like. I see myself in the mirror every morning. I’ve known myself for … a while. I don’t need you to point out my flaws. Chances are, I already know what they are. Did your mother never tell you that drawing attention to other people’s flaws is rude? And makes the baby Jesus cry? And then Bichons come and bite your bum, and trust me, you do NOT want Bichons to come and bite your bum? DID SHE?

Bum-Biting Bichon

These people are not sorry.What they’re saying is, “I’ve noticed that you’re not perfect [and hey, who is?] and I’m worried that you might not feel quite bad enough about it, so I’m sending you this email/comment to make sure that you DO feel bad about yourself. Like I do.” That says a helluva lot about them, but it doesn’t actually say anything at all about me. My bubble remains intact.

Umm, where was I? Oh yeah, Bitchy McBitcherston, and all of the many, many other people like her recently, who try to make themselves feel better about their own problems in life by going out of their way to try to make a random stranger feel bad. I have a message for those people.  To paraphrase a much better writer than me: my scabby lips* will heal. But you trolls will probably always be nasty little bitches. I know I’d rather have the scabby lips than the personality disorder any day.

*Note: totally don’t have scabby lips. No, really.

So, the Virgin Media engineer who was booked to come out to us today to fix our internet? Isn’t coming. Because Virgin cancelled the appointment. Thirty minutes before it was due to happen, because obviously our time isn’t important AT ALL, is it? Hell no, we can change our plans for you, Virgin Media, but don’t worry about letting us down at the last minute or anything, we’re only customers, after all!

And the reason they’re not sending the engineer? They’ve decided there is a “network issue in our area”. Well, it’s great you could finally join us in the “People Who Knew There Was a Network Issue in the Area” club, Virgin Media, because we told you that on Friday. It was obviously a network issue. The fact that it’s taken them FIVE FULL DAYS to work that out – five full days during which we’ve only occasionally been able to access the internet – is just unacceptable to me. If it takes them five days to work out there’s an issue affecting a whole area, then it doesn’t really inspire much confidence in them, does it?

So. Five days without the internet. Two missed appointments. Huge disruption to our lives and business. And the next time the weather’s hot, it’ll probably happen again (one of the many, many people we’ve spoken to over the past few days confirmed that there’s an issue connected to “hot” weather.). Obviously we realise that sometimes things go wrong: as Terry says, it’s how the company deals with those things that matters, and, once again, Virgin Media are doing a fantastic job of convincing me they really don’t give a crap about their customers.

I think it’s time to start investigating new ISPs…

Why am I all of these things, I hear you ask? (OK, not really, but let’s pretend.) Because I don’t want to have children. And according to a certain columnist for the Daily Fail Mail (a newspaper I hate with every fibre of my being), this makes me all of the above, and more.

I read Carol Sarler’s piece on Why bosses are right to distrust women who don’t have children this morning (I know, I should know better to read anything in the Mail, but there was a link on Twitter, I clicked…), and spent the next ten minutes or so ranting angrily to anyone who would listen (sorry, Terry and Rubin) about how women like Carol are the reason we’ll never have true equality with men: because as long as women insist on putting so much time and energy into tearing each other down, calling each other names and being holier-than-thou about every little choice other women make, we’ll always just seem like a bunch of cats fighting in a sack. And we will never, ever  be taken seriously.

Here’s the part where I prove my point by tearing Carol Sarler down and being holier-than-thou. But where to start?

How about at the very beginning:

“Much as I like to trumpet the importance of a woman’s right to choose all things at all times, [says Carol] there’s one choice I simply cannot understand: the choice of an otherwise sane and healthy woman not to have children…if she says she hasn’t a shred of maternal feeling in her, moreover, if she says she would prefer to concentrate on her career and that a child would only get in the way of it, then my head might acknowledge her right to do so. But my heart whispers: ‘Lady, you’re weird.”

It’s interesting, this, because when I hear another woman say she’d like to have children, I think… well, nothing, really. Partly because it’s none of my business, but also because I learned something a long time ago that I think is a basic truth. It’s this: we are not all the same. Women are not all the same. Men are not all the same. We want different things, like different things, are good and bad at different things. Different. It’s what makes us spechul. And as far as I’m concerned, as long as people aren’t actually hurting anyone else with their choices, I don’t really care how they choose to live their lives. (Unless they choose to do it to the accompaniment of music from tinny speakers. Then they can all go to hell.) 

Me not having children doesn’t hurt anyone.

From the way some people choose to react, though, you’d really think it did. Being child free is one of the last great taboos (Well, that and being ginger, obviously. I win at taboos!) and there’s a surprisingly large number of people out there who’ve failed to grasp that basic truth I mentioned above, and who feel that unless everyone else in the world chooses to live their lives in exactly the same way they do, then they must be “mad”, and it’s probably a good idea to call them names. Because being derogatory about people who aren’t harming anyone ISN’T mad or “weird” in any way, you see. It’s important that we’re clear about this.

Lots of people do this. I’ve actually lost count of the number of times people have called me “unnatural”, “weird” or any other variety of unpleasant names, just because they’ve discovered that I don’t want to have children. (And trust me, such is the strength of feeling about this subject that I don’t generally offer that information up unless pushed.) I’ve been told repeatedly that I WILL change my mind. Well, I’m not going to deny that that could happen – of course it could – but so far the signs aren’t encouraging, and quite apart from anything else, the sheer rudeness and presumptuousness of the statement takes my breath away. When will I be considered old enough to know my own mind, I wonder? Why do people who’ve only just met me think they know me better than I know myself? Why is such a very personal choice even up for debate? If someone tells me they’ve decided to have a child, I’m not going to say, “Ooh, are you quite sure about that? I’m pretty sure you’ll change your mind!” Because a) it’s none of my business what other people do with their lives and b) it’s none of my business. Really.

My reproductive intentions, though, ARE considered to be everyone else’s business. (And by “my” I mean “women in general”).  So, really, I shouldn’t be surprised by Carol Sarler’s hatred for the child-free: it’s symptomatic of a society which likes to control women by persuading them they are “mad” or “bad” if they fail to conform to the “norm”, whether they want to or not.

Even so, I had to question just what planet Carol actually inhabits when I read this bit:

“Besides which, in my experiences both as a colleague and an employer, I have found that mothers almost always bring something extra to the job, to the benefit of all.

It’s not the mothers, for a start, who are going to turn up late and hungover after a night on the razz; they’ll have been up, dressed and alert for hours, having cooked a family breakfast and delivered their children to school. On time. “

Wow. Way to completely generalise as a way of getting attention, Carol! Bravo! And of course, she’s right: all mothers are exactly the same. And all non-mothers are exactly the same. I must’ve somehow missed the memo telling me that because I don’t have a child, I’m supposed to be “on the razz” every night. If I’d only known that, I wouldn’t have dutifully turned up at work every day ON TIME, and stayed late most days – often because my colleagues who had children had to leave early to pick them up from school/take them to an activity/wanted to spend time with them.

I’m not going to be so stupid as to suggest that ALL mothers are like this: of course not. BUT. When I worked in an office, I was frequently asked to come in early, stay late, work weekends, change my holidays or take on extra duties, all to accommodate colleagues who insisted that their children came first. I should emphasise that I don’t blame them for that. If I had children, I’d be exactly the same. In fact, even without children, I am exactly the same: my family comes first. Always.

Again, though, I seem to have missed a memo somewhere, because according to Carol Sarler all women are EITHER wonderful, warm-hearted mothers OR cold, calculating career-women. There is no middle ground, which confuses me, because I’m neither a mother or a career woman. I work because I need the money. I’d rather not have to work, to be honest. But I don’t want children either, so I don’t seem to fit into Carol’s neat stereotypes at all. I somehow don’t think I’m the only one.

“It’s not the mothers, usually, who run the office bitch-fest.”

And it’s not the non-mothers who write nasty, bitchy articles, calling other women hugely offensive names just because they’ve made a personal choice that affects no-one but them, is it? Oh, kettle, you’re looking very black today!

“You cannot be a mother without knowing something about selflessness, compassion, generosity, commitment, fierce loyalty and plain hard work.”

I know, and Mother Teresa was just a hold, hard, calculating bitch, wasn’t she? That weirdo better not be getting a sainthood, because, after all, she wasn’t a mother: what would she know about selflessness or compassion? Also, Gandhi? Used to rock up to work drunk every morning, FACT.

And being a mother may well teach you all about selflessness, etc, but it apparently doesn’t preclude you from being judgemental, narrow-minded, prejudiced or the kind of person who’ll bad-mouth others just because they’re not exactly the same as you. Which is a shame.

Seriously, though. I mean, SERIOUSLY. I’m not denying that mothers are great. Sure they are. But are we REALLY so narrow-minded as to believe that they, and they alone, are capable of selflessness or compassion? That only mothers know what it’s like to work hard  or be loyal? REALLY?

And what about the men in all of this? They’re not mothers, so we have to assume they’re also cold, calculating weirdos. Being a father just doesn’t count. After all, you never hear a man being asked how he intends to “juggle” fatherhood and career, do you? And you never see a child-free man being lambasted for his choice, told he WILL change his mind, or being called “unnatural”, do you?

No, because it’s only women who are made to feel like failures, no matter what decision they make in life. It’s only women who get to be ALWAYS WRONG, no matter how hard they try to get it right. And it’s only women who take such unadulterated pleasure in bitching about each other. The Sisterhood:  ur doin it rong.

The last word* goes to our old friend Carol, who has single-handedly just set the feminist movement back about 50 years:

“So three cheers for the employers who are catching on, the ones who don’t want to people their workforces with the cold, the calculating, the sad and the mad. The only question is: what took you so long? “

Indeed. Three cheers for ignorance, prejudice, bullying and discrimination! There’s no need to give them a warm welcome back to the workplace, though, Carol: thanks to women like you, they never actually left.

(*Whoops, no, it looks like the last word went to me!)

1. People who send text messages during gym classes, or answer their phones. Come on, it’s ONE HOUR, surely you can survive that long without using the phone? I mean, I manage to last that long without checking my email, and I check my email constantly, so I know you can do it too. Fair enough if you have an emergency, but some people at our gym answer their phones during every single class, and they’ve never once had to leave the class as a result of what was said to them on the phone/by text message, so I’m going to assume it wasn’t THAT much of an emergency.

2. People who answer the phone while you’re visiting them, and then have a long conversation with the person on the other end, while you sit there looking on like a dumbass. Extra points if the person frequently roars with laughter while pointing to their handset and making faces to indicate that “OMG, this is the Best! Phonecall! Ever!” If I wanted to sit silently staring at the wall for half an hour, I’d do it at home, thanks. Is it really so hard to say, “Look, I have company right now, I’ll call you later”? Apparently.

3. Retail workers who answer the phone when there’s a long line of people standing waiting to pay. The people who are actually IN your store waiting to buy something should come before the one who calls to ask you eighteen questions about your stock. If you must answer the phone to them (and I understand it’s annoying to let the phone ring), THEY’RE the ones who should be put on hold.

4. People who phone you to tell you they’ve just sent you an email.

5. People who phone you five minutes after sending you an email to ask why you haven’t answered it yet.

6. A possibly controversial one, but: people with a non-urgent enquiry who call your home phone and, getting no answer, immediately call your mobile. If I’m not at home, I’m out. If I’m out, I’m probably busy doing something. If I’m busy doing something, I probably don’t want to be disturbed while I’m doing it. (And yes, I know the whole point of  MOBILE phones is so that people can reach you when you’re, er, mobile, but I still view this as an “only if you really HAVE to speak to me rightthatveryminute” thing. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but this need for near-constant communication just irks me.)

7. People who use their phones in movie theatres. Seriously, that should be an arrestable offence.

8. People who phone you about a work-related matter you’ve specifically asked them to email you about. And then say, “I know you asked me to email you, but I thought it would be easier if I just called instead.” Well, it may be easier for YOU, but it’s not easier for me. That’s why I asked you to email me. If it was easier to do whatever -it-is by phone, I’d have asked you to phone me.  (This doesn’t happen so much now, but when I used to freelance, I much preferred people to put the instructions for their project in writing, so I could be totally clear about what they wanted, and so they couldn’t come back to me two weeks later and say, “oh, but I really wanted you to do it THIS way…” It was fine for them to have an initial phonecall to discuss the thing, obviously, but when it came to them giving me long lists of complicated instructions, I needed them in writing, because no, it just wasn’t easier for me to struggle to write them all down/remember them with the phone lodged beneath my chin and the person talking nineteen-to-the-dozen on the other end.)

9. People who phone you really late at night. Look, it’s nice that you were thinking of me, but if it’s later than about 10pm, I’m going to assume someone just died.

10. People who call you really early in the morning. And then say, “Oh, sorry, were you sleeping?” Well, it’s 8am on a Sunday morning and I’ve been working all week, so… yeah. Extra points if they then smugly say, “Oh, I’ve been up for HOURS, I just can’t lie in bed all day!”

11. People who call you and then eat something noisily with their mouth right next to the receiver. If there was a “detonate” button on the phone, I’d use it on these people.

Any more?