Being a Feminist

Upon getting married this month, Frenchie and I were very fortunate to receive lots of cards, letters and drunken notes from family and friends wishing us all the best in our marriage for the years to come. One very special set of letters came from some ex students of mine, and one particularly apt message from a young man, clearly scarred by my teaching of feminist lit theory, read: 'what?  I thought you hated men?'  This, combined with a whole day of sitting still to have my hair and make up done, and then being physically given away by my father (a man) to Frenchie (another man), lead me to challenge my assumed 'raving feminist' status, and I sadly had to admit that I probably no longer promote my feminist rampage in neon lights, but rather wave a post-feminist bunting flag in Cath Kidston pattern that says, "It's my choice to stay in the kitchen!"  (Who wouldn't?  Cath does such pretty homeware stuff.)

This made me sad.  Where had the proud man hater of yesteryear disappeared to?  Who was this baby-obsessed maniac who had cuckolded my body?  What would GI Jane think?  Oh dear, oh dear.  It would seem that the only thing I still have in common with Simone de Beauvoir is that neither of us live in the same house as our significant others.  One has, indeed, become a woman, having been born an Afro-haired monkey thing of ambiguous gender. 

I mulled this over on yet another plane journey, my self-loathing growing, until - like a beam of light through stormy clouds - I heard a voice - a woman's voice - on a tannoy, like the voice of God or my subconscience, and it said:

"This is Mandy from the flight desk. We're currently cruising at an altitude of seven million feet over Limoges. The outside air temperature is currently -78 F and we've got some good south easterly winds making the journey easy for us at present."

Or something like that...

I was delighted!  A female pilot! A woman!  Surely something blog-worthy could come of this. 

So. Upon exiting the aircraft, I mustered up the courage to stop and talk to this pilotesse on my way out. I actually walked past her, embarrassed and eyes averted, up the gang plank and then told myself I was a coward and turned back. The conversation went thus:

Me: hello, I'm really sorry to ask, but I teach in a girl's school and we have a board where we post and talk about women in the work place and different careers that women can do. Like... inspiring role models.  That are women.  Um... We get a lot of creative, arty women, but not a lot of mathsy-sciencey type careers. Like pilots. Like you. Gosh. Would you mind if I took a photo with you for our board?

All a COMPLETE LIE but I couldn't think of any other way of saying, "IT IS AWESOME TO SEE A FEMALE PILOT!" so I went with it, and then... and then and then!  She invited me into the FLIGHT DESK, like the Star Ship Enterprise, and so I got a photo like this:

Doesn't she look smart and awesome?

Obviously, I felt bad that I lied, but I feel GOOD that I got to sit in a flight desk, and I feel EVEN BETTER to think that me and pilotesse Smith/Jones might help, somehow, to further the feminist movement of Women Doing Awesome Things somehow with this picture... Somehow...

So anywho, men are alright, but women are better. Hoorah for girls!

In other news, I drove all the way from Heathrow and back to Heathrow without dying, or killing anyone else, mostly because I sat on the inside lane on the M25 and drove at 55mph whilst making soothing noises to keep myself calm.  Driving a car on the motorway is definitely more stressful than driving a motorbike downtown in Saigon rush hour. 

Also, good friends are the best thing ever, so if you have a good friend living in, say, Vietnam, you should GO AND VISIT THEM and try to get married in the school holidays, and also have your babies during this time so that this good friend can attend, be a bridesmaid and squeeze fresh plump thighs and be a godmother. That is all.