Feminism is a dead end for women.

I’m a bloke who writes a blog, so all you’re ever going to get here is a bloke’s viewpoint, and it’ll be honest and unvarnished – that’s my contract with you, the reader. I get paid nothing for doing it and you’re under no obligation to read beyond the first paragraph of anything I write, should you find it in some way offensive. I’ve no interest in, nor ever will allow, somebody else to control my narrative.

My thoughts and opinions are my own, and I’ll express them in my own words and manner, and with complete disregard to what is currently politically correct. I’m not interested in doing fashionable things like exploring my feminine side because I know I simply don’t have one. No man does, except if he’s homosexual, or just likes running around in women’s dresses. When it comes to women it’s always been simple for me. Respect them, love them, cherish them and look out for them, and a natural male protectiveness that was welded into the hinterland of my brain from the word go. You may consider that a patronising attitude, but I think without that, as a man, you’re pretty much second rate.

In an unconscious way, some men see women as barely sentient bovine objects and even more sadly, that appears to be the basis of some long-term relationships that people have settled down to. There’s no contact between a man and a woman there. Different folks, different strokes, as they say. On the other side of the coin, it’s become fashionable for a certain type of woman to just hate men. Ask most men and women in public if they support feminism, and you’ll get a tepid yes, of course, but in private, Gawd no.

The more outspoken of them are not afraid to say in public that they’re horrified at a reasonable movement that started in the 70s with Women’s Lib and has now mutated into just hating men and being incapable of seeing a problem with like things a freedom activist, aged 20, who gets sentenced to 15 years imprisonment in Iran for “spreading prostitution by taking off her hijab” – why wasn’t there a single feminist march to protest such medieval brutality towards a young woman?

Or to find nothing offensive with the sight of a woman walking around covered from head to toe in black with just a slit left for her eyes and who’s had her sexual organs hacked off as a child. It’s as if putting a collar around a woman’s neck and attaching a leash to it simply wouldn’t be humiliating enough. The tough women’s libbers of the ’70s would have looked at feminism and recognised it for what it is – a club for self-indulgent brats who’re only campaigning on trivial or non-existent issues, while studiously avoiding real issues for women like child marriage, genital mutilation, draconian dress codes enforced by imprisonment and a Muslim husband’s right to beat his wife sanctioned by creeping Sharia law in the civilised world.

Friends I know who were part of the original Women’s Lib movement despise them as white, middle-class decadents who think women’s rights are nothing more than a fashion statement, and who avoid like the plague any thorny issues.

At a recent dinner party, I had a conversation, perhaps better described as a verbal fire fight, with a woman who had not a good word to say about any man. We were sat opposite each other by the hostess, I think in part to provide a few mild fireworks and a break from the usual topics of work, the kids and how your pension plan was doing. Sitting down and seeing the instant glare she gave me that I recognised so well, I decided from the very start not to play.

I threw a venomous look the length of the table which the hostess caught, and just grinned back at me. The message was clear – you’ve got her for the night. I love the hostess, but she can be such a cruel and catty bitch at times. She knew there was no way we wouldn’t rub each other up the wrong way. I munched through the starter after the introductions, and did the noddies to whatever bollocks she was talking.

I think it took less than 30 seconds for her to bend our conversation in a direction more to her liking; feminism, the patriarchy and female victimhood. I survived to the end of the starter by basically going the noddy route and excused myself from the table. I was heading out momentarily to the back garden to have a smoke. I gave up years ago, but when I go to any sort of party, I sometimes buy a pack. I was standing there having a blessed smoke, looking at a perfect winter moon and thinking of the Yeat’s poem where he talks about the “The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun” and who should appear at my elbow but the crazy woman, determined to continue what wasn’t a conversation but a harangue of me.

She didn’t smoke and from the sneer on her face, me having a cigarette confirmed all her worst stereotypes of me. She resumed her unasked for rant on my cigarette break and I thought fuckit, we’re in a private space here. The essential devil in me came out to play, because I was irritated at the lack of perceptiveness of somebody who didn’t see I was only outside in the freezing cold smoking a fag to escape her scintillating company. I turned to her and interrupting her tirade, offered the open cigarette pack to her.

Do you want a cigarette?

Of course not!

Then would you mind fuckety fucking off while I enjoy my one?

I think it might have been some time since somebody was that direct in telling her where to get off. I went back to gazing at the moon and thinking about Wandering Aengus and his life-long search for that glimmering girl with apple blossom in her hair, and the mad cow was blessedly no longer there. I finished the smoke and put the butt into a small ceramic jar I know the hostess puts out purely for me, knowing my foibles. She’s observant and thoughtful, even if at times she can’t resist prodding the beast in the cage with a stick. I reentered the house and made sure to swing by the head of the table where the hostess was sitting.

I leant down and whispered in her ear – I will find a way that’s suitably cruel and unusual to get back at you for seating me opposite that mad cow. I’m still working on that revenge plot.

My bum had barely hit the seat before round two began. While I’d been having my sanity break and taking a Nicotine hit, a cunning plan B had been hatched by mad cow – she was going to psychoanalyse me in public. Her unasked for thumbnail sketch of me wasn’t complimentary, loaded with stereotypical assumptions, inaccurate and socially just too vicious a step over the dinner party etiquette line. The whole dining table stopped talking to listen.

She was looking for some sort of screaming match confrontation and I simply wasn’t going to oblige. The hostess looked a bit stunned. She hadn’t realised mad cow didn’t have much in the way of manners, never mind social boundaries. When you’re a guest at someone else’s doo and confronted by another guest who’s become totally fixated on you because they’re either blind drunk or totally out of order, and the host doesn’t appear to be able to control it, you’re best to call it an early night, otherwise the whole thing just escalates. I stood up and started to make my excuse about buggering off and the hostess, who was not best pleased at mad cow’s excessive behaviour, finally started trying to calm the whole thing down.

Mad cow wasn’t used to being reined in – So, you’re going to run away from me then? Typical man.

Some people just don’t know when to stop, even when they’re nominally ahead. I glanced at the hostess, and she gave me an almost imperceptible nod, which I interpreted to mean, feel free to give the silly cow hell, so I sat back down and looked at her. I’m an articulate person who can think on his feet, and when circumstances demand has a sharp tongue, which I rarely use in polite company, because that combined with on occasion being able to read quite deep into another person’s fragile psyche becomes verbal violence, which always leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth. Crushing a weak personality is a no win for me.

I looked at her, acutely conscious of the silence around the table of people waiting to hear what I’d say in return, but I did that mental count to ten thingy and exercised some restraint before speaking. The pause built the tension up nicely. I too can be a drama queen at times.

I can’t think of one thing you got right in your Saturday night special stab at analysing me. I’m not getting over my third divorce, I’ve been married only once and for several decades to that same woman you see down the end of the table who’s having a lively conversation with the woman across from her, who also knows how to enjoy and have a laugh at these occasions without acting out like a petulant child.

Yes, I do have children but I’m not estranged from them, in point of fact one or the other of them turns up back home nearly every weekend to see if there are any jobs Dad might need done around the house or garden. They love and respect me, and both of those sentiments I return. I’ve grandchildren who visit and stay over at least one weekend a month and totally enjoy their time in our house because it’s safe, fun, slightly chaotic and unpredictable because I take care to make it slightly chaotic and unpredictable for them, and I always take the weekend off to make lots of time to play with them.

Yes, I like a drink, but like is as far as it goes, and yes, I like an occasional smoke, but again it’s a once in a while thing. I don’t do drugs. Professionally, I had a very good business career, primarily I think because if you make fair deals with people, and stick to them, word gets around that you’re a person whose word can be trusted, you’re someone they can do business with.

Now, most people around this table have known me for years and know that’s a fairly accurate thumbnail sketch of me. Do you want my analysis in return of you, or are you scared of that?

After a pause – I can take it.

I sat through your offensive and inaccurate profile of me as a person without once interrupting or talking over what you were saying to drown it out. You won’t get my analysis of you unless you extend the reciprocal courtesy. You interrupt me once and it’s end of conversation, do you agree to that condition?

Since by now we’d the whole table’s attention, she looked around before giving a nod. Social pressure cuts both ways. Hopefully, I’d nailed her mouth shut, and she’d be listening rather than talking, which is the start of civilised discourse. It wasn’t a trap I was setting, rather more just establishing some ground rules for a measured conversation.

Fine, let’s go. Either there’s something fundamentally wrong with all the men in the world, or you’re the one with a problem. Given that proposition, I’d be inclined to think the latter. You’ve never had a relationship with a man that’s lasted longer than six months or in your case I’d say even three.

She glanced down the table at the wretch she’d brought along to the dinner, but resisted gainsaying me.

Yes, I know you’ve dragged your boyfriend du jour along, but five minutes watching you two interact, it’s obvious you’ve totally emasculated him, and to be blunt, the average woman wouldn’t take a second glance at him because he’s tatty, weak, superficial, boring and whiney. He’s basically a whipped cur on your leash, probably the nearest thing to a relationship you can maintain with a man, so he doesn’t count. Let’s face it, in your heart of hearts, you even despise him yourself.

The whipped cur instead of telling me to fuck off, looked at her to defend him. She stayed silent, because I’d maneuvered her into the no interrupt rule.

The way you’re going, you’ll never have a simple family life with husband and kids you find such joy in, sunburned days playing at the beach with them, involving them in decorating the Christmas tree, watching them finally learning to use a swing for themselves rather than you or your wife always having to push them back and forth and seeing that flash of independence in their faces, of holding on to the saddle of a bicycle you’ve just taken the stabilisers off at their insistence and then after evening after evening, them finally getting the hang of it, negotiating them down from a Maserati or pony for their birthday, of celebrating with a massively relieved kid that they’d got through some bloody exam that was the whole world to them and had totally stressed them out for months.

What you also won’t have is trying to jolly your wife along when she’s in labour and not showing your secret worry about whether your baby will have the right number of fingers and toes because of the effect it might have on her whom you know wants her own perfect baby, of feeling that totally out of control in that situation, of sharing the heartbreak of comforting your teenagers in the aftermath of a teenage romance break up they’re simply too young emotionally to handle, of worrying about them when they go out Saturday night on the piss with all their mates and they’re not home at a reasonable hour, of being a parent and looking at a surgical permission slip and absolutely refusing to sign it until you’ve met the surgical fucker who’s going to cut into your boy because you’re shit scared and want to look into his eyes because that’s somehow a way to judge his competency, of a shadow on your wife’s lung x-ray, of a myriad of worries you’d have never had if you hadn’t made a commitment and stuck to it.

You’ll never have any of these things because you’re a coward.

Look around the table, the only thing all us couples here have in common is that our marriages have all been of thirty years plus duration and apart from the inevitable ups and downs, have lasted. The only thing we seriously have in common was we all looked at our spouse in our younger years and liked them, and the risk we took was that it’d work out. There is no way on God’s good green Earth anyone knows for sure whether such a long term relationship will survive misfortune, unemployment, infidelity, losing a child or simply just falling out of love. So many don’t, and that’s another heartbreak you’ll never have.

You’re now entering your middle thirties, and unless you have a fundamental and honest rethink about your attitude and relationship to men, nothing will ever change for you. Take a chance, or otherwise you’ll end up in thirty years time as a pensioner somewhere on the south coast as a spinster biddy of the parish in some fucking animal shelter pretending to be a retirement home. No visitors, no friends, except perhaps the occasional email from one of that shrinking coterie of sisters in the sisterhood who absolutely know they were right all along, but who’ve ended up like you in the same desolate end of a life situation and are now just sitting in God’s waiting room keeping each other company.

I won’t speculate about how you arrived at your nihilistic view of men, because I despise excuses for being a life-long coward and cowards always have a fine array of excuses for not trying, but what I do know is that it’s up to you to make a serious life decision, and soon, or nothing will ever change for you. You’re a grown up woman now. You can’t let childhood or adolescent experiences or most especially fashionable viewpoints which do nothing more than legitimise your coward’s claim to victimhood because you’re a woman dictate the prospects for the rest of your life.

I let it trail off there.

She looked at me and didn’t reply, so normal conversation slowly resumed around the table. For the rest of the dinner, our conversation was polite but subdued. From the occasional glances I got from her, I could tell she was thinking about what I’d said, and I think she realised I hadn’t stamped on her feelings quite as hard as I could have. Even with the subtle permission of the hostess, I wasn’t going to do that, and anyway, most feminists like to have it both ways. As a man, you either stand and take the abuse saying nothing in return, or if you fight back, it’s a flood of girlie tears and poor little me being bullied by a big bad brute of a man. To be fair to her, she hadn’t done that.

At the end of the dessert course, I made my way out the back door with a brandy in one hand to have my second cigarette of the evening. She appeared at my elbow but said nothing. I finished the smoke and the butt went into the small ceramic pot. I had criticised her but not too harshly and had been careful to point out that her future was hers to shape. Sensing she wanted to say something, I broke a personal rule and lit another cigarette and waited for whatever it was that she was going to say to come out.

Am I really that bad?

If you didn’t think there was a lot of truth in what I said, you wouldn’t be out here. You’re bored and frustrated with being you because you know every day, and more and more, it’s just going nowhere.

Can I have that cigarette you offered me earlier?

We smoked together under a full moon, she in that awkward clumsy fashion of the amateur smoker, without saying anything more to each other, and I thought there’s hope for you yet, because she’d listened to what I’d said and was thinking it over.


Related articles.

Not the one.


It’s 2.45 in the am and I’m reflecting on a long night’s journey into day.


The incurable condition of parenthood.

Click for a list of other articles by Pointman.

10 Responses to “Feminism is a dead end for women.”
  1. rapscallion says:

    In a slightly perverse and convoluted way, you’ve probably saved her bacon (She’s not a vegan as well is she?), and prevented her from being Miss wrinkled cat lady reeking of urine in Bognor Regis or something.

    You could have totally eviscerated her, but didn’t, and perhaps she recognised that. Perhaps she also recognised the truth in your words, and that even feminists recognise the truth about themselves eventually no matter how hard they try to deny it, and with whipped cur as a “partner” she definitely got your point, and recognised him for what he is – and she’d made him that way, to a degree.

    The real result in all that is that you didn’t get any blowback from anybody else around the table, though I would be interested to know what your wife thought.


  2. Retired Dave says:

    Well I am old man now, but I have always thought that the female of the species was the best thing on the planet and far better than us blokes. I think I was about 11 years old when I realised I liked them a lot.

    I totally agree with your statement Pointy about how a proper man behaves towards women – “Respect them, love them, cherish them and look out for them, and a natural male protectiveness “. I have never seen it in anyway as patronising. They are on average better than us and deserve our respect.

    Just as the social justice warriors have magnified ethnic differences, and not reduced them – feminists of the variety you describe have ruined the relationships of many of the younger generation. The Left (and it is mostly The Left, and their dogma) have brought discord where little existed in many areas of life as you have discussed before.

    Will we, as a society, eventually pushback against the extremes of made up political correctness?? I do hope so.


  3. Blackswan says:


    Women such as you describe are their own worst enemies, and I must confess to feeling a bit sorry for them but, like you, would only retaliate in kind after they’d opened their mouths to denigrate men or other women who refuse to join their ranks of grievance.

    The fact is, while feminists trumpet their ability for self-determination and demand ‘equality’ and independence, they remain oblivious to the endless concessions they demand to achieve that ‘equality’ and blind to the fact that they are the perfect example of ‘group-think’ who generally run with the herd, willing to cut each other’s throats to be ahead of the mob. The ‘sisterhood’ is a myth.

    Over a hundred years ago, Edward Bernays, an Austrian immigrant to the US, graduated from Cornell and proceeded to establish a highly successful career based on proving his uncle Sigmund Freud’s findings on the herd mentality. Thus consumerism and the Century of Self was born. Women of that era who were considered to be the ‘property’ of their fathers or husbands and had few ways to determine their own course, eager to be heard and most easily manipulated, were his prime target in advertising, and later in political campaigns.

    In 1929, while working to promote Lucky Strike cigarettes, smoking by women was still frowned upon and certainly not in public. Bernays organised for women to join the NYC Easter Parade while puffing away on Lucky Strikes which he dubbed “torches of freedom”. He invented the concept of ’focus groups’ which told him the green of the cigarette pack was an unpopular colour so he launched a Green Ball at the ritzy Waldorf Astoria where all the socialites and film stars would wear green gowns and suddenly Lucky Strike cigarettes sold to women in their tens of thousands.

    ///”Bernays pioneered the public relations industry’s use of psychology and other social sciences to design its public persuasion campaigns: “If we understand the mechanism and motives of the group mind, is it not possible to control and regiment the masses according to our will without their knowing about it? The recent practice of propaganda has proved that it is possible, at least up to a certain point and within certain limits.” He later called this scientific technique of opinion-molding the Engineering of Consent.”///

    In the 21st century there ARE no “certain points” and certainly no “limits”.

    Such examples of Bernays’ success are legion and inevitably gained the attention of the US Government in policy matters, and also in the political campaigns of candidates. His 1928 book ‘Propaganda’ certainly gained the avid attention of one Josef Goebbels and with it he changed the course of the world. Marxists took note and thus began the Long March through Western institutions, their prime goal being Education and breakdown of the family unit which bore ripe fruit by the 1960s/70s. Don’t worry, the Nanny State will look after you.

    ///”The words of Paul Mazur, a leading Wall Street banker working for Lehman Brothers in 1927, are cited: “We must shift America from a needs- to a desires-culture. People must be trained to desire, to want new things, even before the old have been entirely consumed. Man’s desires must overshadow his needs.”/// And women’s too. Readily available contraception clinched the deal.

    Thus have women (and men) who label themselves Feminists and raised their sons and daughters accordingly, succeeded in shredding the social fabric that once bound us so cohesively into Nation States and patriots who would fight to the death to preserve our families, our freedom and individual autonomy.

    Women have always had a unique power. Problem being that society has been taught that something is only of value according to its monetary worth. Because much of traditional women’s contribution to society was unpaid it was considered to be unworthy of respect; for feminists, to be a wife, mother and homemaker is a pointless drudge to which no ‘thinking’ woman could possibly aspire … a dead-end occupation. For some, who lack imagination and foresight, it is just that. Such women, who’ve outsourced much of their domestic and parental obligations, are now in the paid workforce and it’s they who bitch and moan and blame their bosses and colleagues for their own failures and inadequacies.

    It was always the Matriarchy who loved and supported the Patriarchy and raised their sons accordingly … but we rarely hear about that. The #MeToo generation, so busy clambering up the greasy pole of ‘victimhood’ have simply been too blinded by their own arrogant and capricious nature to see it.

    Respect isn’t an ‘entitlement’ – it must be earned – by men and women alike. Now THAT is equality in a nutshell!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Margaret Smith says:

    As a woman in her seventies I agree with every word you said. As a child I was what is called a tomboy: I loved boys toys, played football with the boys and generally behaved like a boy. But…I was not a boy, a fact that became clear one Halloween evening when I was very young. I was out playing with fireworks (I know, very dangerous) with the boys and we were in two gangs mounting assaults on each other. Great fun!
    We saw an elderly woman coming up the road where we were standing, in the middle of the road. Immediately one of the boys said “Let’s throw fireworks at at her!” Others were happily agreeing. I empathised with her at once and my explosive “No!!” stopped them all. I said, forcefully, “Absolutely not! If she was your grandmother would you do that? She could have a heart attack.” Nobody moved – I could be very commanding. As she got closer I thought she looked nervous which was understandable so I called out “Good evening” and she was immediately relieved that there was a girl there and she was polite. She replied and walked on.
    None of us moved until I said “Right. Let’s go” (I could be so strong), they didn’t dare. Young boys tend not to think of consequences but girls do. When I was young, an adult woman needed a male guarantor for any financial loan or agreement so I was a feminist.

    However, I have watched in horror these modern ‘feminists’ going full stupid, egged-on by the left for their own purposes, and I would have been laughing at your fellow guest’s foolishness. An argument with another guest on a range of subjects which never gets heated and is enjoyed by both, is a great pleasure for me.

    That woman did not deserve the attention and will not change her mind because she probably doesn’t have one.

    Good fun essay, thank you.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. JohnTyler says:

    The ONLY feminist worth listening to is Camille Paglia. I don’t agree with everything she says (but what thinking individual agrees with everything somebody else says?) but her critique of modern feminism (i.e., a leftist cult for self hating, man hating female losers) is dead on.

    And what has feminism wrought?
    Well, now that gender is a social construct, we have “males” competing in women’s sports – a very bad idea. And far worse we now see “boys” competing in girl’s sports – a very, very very bad idea.
    Unfortunately for women and girls, the only way around this sick joke is for them to refuse to compete in any sporting event in which individuals who lack ovaries and other pertinent female parts are allowed to participate.

    Feminism has transmogrified from equal rights for women – in which the individual woman chooses her path in life, whatever she wishes it to be – to a leftist pseudo-religious cult of spoiled brat junior high school “mean girls.”
    Unfortunately, this cult has embedded itself into the American university system and allowed those students stupid enough to embrace it, the ability to graduate with a degree in a “hate” concentration; e.g., women/feminist studies (or their first cousins, black, hispanic, LGBT or gender studies).

    Frankly, if some feminist bit*h unloaded on me in the manner to which Mr. Pointman was subjected, I would have responded with a stream of invective’s.
    I guess I don’t have the social manners, restraint or decorum exhibited by Pointman.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Power Grab says:

    I have never proclaimed myself to be a feminist. Not in the early days of women’s liberation, and not now.

    I think women have done themselves a disservice and led their men to be slackers and allow their women to support them…even though overall women make significantly less than men. I went to a lecture one time where they asserted that women make 66% of what men do in comparable jobs. What able-bodied, self-respecting guy would deign to live on less than half of what you could make if both spouses were gainfully employed?

    One day our departmental director and I were chatting. I sensed that the conversation was tending toward the question of what I think of men. I threw out the comment that I like men, but I don’t trust them.

    After I said it, I wondered if I should back-pedal it, but every time I consider taking it back, I decide it was valid.

    That comes from spending 19 years in a miserable marriage, having my inheritance squandered, and his driving me into bankruptcy. Even though I made 1/5 to 1/6 the amount he did (when he was working), he never would help pay for anything. I ended up supporting our little family of 3 and 100 cows on less than $20,000 a year. And he had the gall to say he wanted me to buy him a home to retire in. /eyeroll/

    The only man I have trusted implicitly was my father. The only way he ever let me down was by dying. There have been many other men who were not disappointing in the setting in which I interacted with them (opening doors for me, helping me move houses, helping me with a car that decided to quit working on the highway, etc.), but those are temporary occasions. I said, “Thank you,” and we went on our ways. (It would be improper to fail to express gratitude. I despise women who silently or verbally insult men who open a door for them!)

    But my husband of 19 years made me feel like those years with him were a waste of time, energy, treasure, etc. The only good thing that came from my marriage was our child. Born after 8 years of marriage, that blessed bundle of joy graduated from college in May and is working full time. I know a degree isn’t necessarily the key to a perfect future, but I knew this kid could do it, and they did. My kid’s best friends haven’t finished college yet. I hope they will eventually finish because where we live, their opportunities are limited without the sheepskin.

    Pointy, I admire your way with words. I admire your ability to think on your feet and nail the message to the wall in the face of possible public censure. I don’t disagree with anything you said. Did the people at the table applaud? I would have!


  7. hoppers says:

    Whenever my Feminist Sister lays this bullshit on me I simply remind her that Abby Rockefeller got a wadload of cash from her dad to promote this crap and that Gloria Steinem was CIA.

    Tends to shut her up.


  8. oldmarine says:

    I admire your restraint. People like mad cow are like a bull in a china shop, lots of destruction around them and nothing going on in their life. Like others I’d be interested in how your wife and the company reacted.


  9. Another Ian says:


    Way O/T but fyi


    Part 2 is now up, Part 3 coming (IIRC)


  10. Pointman says:

    I don’t usually comment on my own pieces, because I like to see the conversation developing in the comments without me being seen to be steering them. Having said that and since the quality of the comments under the piece have uniformally fallen well inside the moderation guidelines of being lucid, polite and honest, especially the latter in this case, I do feel

    In answer to several people who wondered what my wife thought of it, that was tricky. The part of mad cow’s deconstruction of me I left out was, to put it bluntly, I’d burnt my way through three marriages and was probably now living with some pliant slag. In the ordinary way of things, my wife is a considered person, not prone to losing control, but mess with her family and all bets are off. The only time I ever saw the tigress in her come out was in a toddler playground incident when another mother took it upon herself to slap one of our kids. She came off the blocks at her straight away like an Exocet missile. In the face of seven and a half stone of diminutive enraged Ulster woman running straight at her with bared teeth, the other mum took one look and ran for her life. I’ll confess, I was a bit stunned myself.

    Mad cow, not knowing the form, was labouring under a couple of misapprehensions, I think. The first was I’d guess that she didn’t know that it’s usual practice for husbands and wives to be split up around the table at these doos. Perhaps, being sat opposite me she mistook for some sort of cack-handed attempt at matchmaking by the hostess, hence my feminist credentials being put to the question. Looking at the whipped cur she’d dragged along to dinner, I’m sure she was looking to trade up from him, but not with me.

    The second was not realising my wife was at the table. One glance at her, and I knew the tigress was within seconds of coming out and mad cow had one Cuban heel half way into the local A&E department. Heading off that berserker charge, not spoiling the evening for everyone, but still putting mad cow in her place was the tricky bit. Making my points calmly and finishing on a rather sad note quietened down mad cow, just about pacified the tigress and the evening wasn’t ruined for everybody else by a screaming match.

    We have all gone through silly stages in our life and either outgrew them, or got some sort of wake up call. It’s a bit like those tall spiral slides you see in amusement parks. Walking up five flights of stairs is tiring, especially for just twenty seconds of pleasure. People do it once or twice, but soon realise that long climb up the stairs isn’t worth whatever you’re getting out of it.



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