Social media cold turkey

A social media sabbatical?
The irony of the question is that I am writing about this to publish my thoughts on my blog. But a blog is different. It’s social literature, well at least that’s what I like to call it.
Social media is a breeding ground for monotonous, over personal, sometimes vomit inducing updates which are there often for self gratification and the need for mass approval.
Despite this scathing opinion I look at it daily, sometimes hourly, in short, far too much. Historically I was probably someone that irritated people with my updates as much as some do to me now. They call that Karma. 
But a while ago the penny dropped, I hit myself with a large wet smelly fish, came to my senses and reigned it in. I stopped being a nob, and ceased telling the world what quite frankly not even a corpse would want to listen to.
That said social media Voyeur status is not good either. There I was still looking avidly, reading, absorbing, occasionally even delving in to the lives of others with no intention at all of giving anything back. 
I just needed the big red chair and a Geordie accent to be big brother.
Worst still, I was fast becoming like a smug, high and mighty ex-smoker. As much as I was happy to remain mysterious and not over share, those that do, have become my judgement fodder. Call me Maggie. High Judge Maggie.
Friendships are seemingly formed as quick as our favourite Jamaican Usain runs the one hundred metres. It’s fickle at best. Would you let a stranger into your home? No so why let them in so easily online.
Being two faced is easy. Pack mentality is nurtured. Emotions comes from emojis. I mean come on?
Many are looking for an ego massage. We all like to feel popular – well a lot of us do. I do sometimes but then I come to my senses and realise it’s quality not quantity with friends. The school bully who flushed my head down a recently used and not flushed, I repeat NOT FLUSHED toilet should never be on any list with the word ‘friend’ in.
When did the opinion of acquaintances at best, or complete strangers at worst become so vital? Simply it should not be the case.
Then there are the ‘over sharers’. It’s like a tell all in The Sun newspaper without the juicy story. Tales of mild sniffles, food triumphs, large stools, their texture, traffic updates and other monotonous life chores should not be inflicted on anyone let alone those you call friends. 
Conversely. Cryptic commentators. Just bloody say what you mean, tell us the facts or don’t mention it. Please.
If I wanted to solve a mystery I would be tuning in to the ‘alibi’ channel. Furthermore it’s called social media not ‘give us a clue’. That said I am sure there is a smartphone app for it, if your heart so desires!
New mothers banging on about breastfeeding, bouts of diarrhoea filled nappies and the virtue of motherhood make me cringe. Yes we know motherhood is hard you do not need to remind, reassure or provide graphic detail and images to prove it!
All that said there are some moments of joy. The video of the guy with the biggest blackheads I have ever seen having them removed. It was unbelievable what came out from under his skin! Sigourney weaver faced nothing in Alien. Link details can be provided. 
No in all seriousness. There are positives. Pictures of friends and family in genuine happy times always bring a smile to my face. But sadly there is too little of this and too much of the above to keep me there. It’s time to take a sabbatical.
So off I go. It might be slightly like living on a desert island. I might hate it. I might go mad. My husband is warned. He must stop me talking to fruit (think Tom Hanks in Castaway) if the mood takes me or any other such inanimate objects. 
Furthermore if chores such as cleaning and in particular ironing become high on my daily agenda he must shake me and pass me a trashy gossip magazine as a form of distraction. Sorry some vices can remain. 
But here is the thing. I could love it. It could be exceptionally liberating. Conversation could return with muster. Blogging could become more frequent – bad news if you subscribe to my stories.
Only time will tell. So off I go. Deleting apps is next. I feel slightly like I am about to leave jail.
Lots of love 

Judge Maggie x


Writers block is a bit like being constipated. No matter how hard you try to push one out, squeeze your buttocks, prey, sit it out, drink fresh orange juice, olive oil or prune juice, wait patiently or swear nothing worth looking at appears.
It truly is f***ing annoying. Sadly, to make it all the worse, unlike the latter which has an easy solution -LAXATIVES – for writers block there is no equivalent!
So what can you do? I do not know. I am at my proverbial wits end. It’s the opposite of Tourette’s and verbal diarrhoea. Both of which I would gladly suffer from a mild dose of right now! Bring me the proverbial bum twitch, rush for the typewriter and constant flood of ideas and inspiration!
I have procrastinated for months now. I have written more half blogs than I have eaten cooked meals. 

Instantly deciding they were shit. Deleting them with the fury of a menopausal woman without her HRT patches. Walking off like a teenage girl in an astronomically sized, adolescent boyfriend induced PMT strop. 
I firmly believe my husband may well wonder if I am in fact his teenage daughter in disguise NOT his wife! Well in a freaky Friday kind of way! 
So what’s next?
Well so far this is a good start. I have not over thought it, just said exactly what I am thinking but with significantly less swear words. The other half will be happy!
The recipe for success? Simple. Short and sweet not war and peace. Light humour not Dalai Lama inspired deep discussions. And finally good, old fashioned, frank, to the point honesty.
Could this be the start of things to come? Who knows. 
But for today, final score:

blogging 1 – procrastination 0.

Let there be light…..


This is a short and sweet blog to mark a very happy occasion in my life. Well actually there have been several but these are the highlights.

One of my sticky, artery clogging, sweet treat recipes made it into my youngest stepdaughters school cook book and my culinary author pseudonym was not required.
I am taking my eldest stepdaughter to have her ear pierced on Tuesday and I have not had to sign and complete a CRB check for myself, or specify exact times of when stud will make said required hole in said upper left ear lobe to the nearest second.
Now you may be wondering what the hell I am so excited about. What is the big deal about an embarrassingly easy, cellulite inducing recipe going to print on a small scale, and a small metal stud piercing an ear lobe?
Simple I am finally being acknowledged. The Harry Potter style cape which made me invisible is no longer to be a part of my summer wardrobe. I am dare I say it, at long last accepted as a trustworthy adult when it comes to my step kids.
I have officially graduated from wicked stepmother status to stepmum.
These two incidents, along with a few more, resonate with me like the Berlin Wall coming down, for removing long standing barriers and ending a pseudo war which was not just cold, but BALTIC and very often sub zero in temperature.
The why we got to this point and how is beyond me. Well its not, but there is nothing to gain from raking up the past and frankly I no longer want to care. Past is past, hopefully like the trend for wearing crocs with socks, if it ever was in fact really on trend.
I am taking this new, improved, easy squeezy, possibly vomit inducing stepfamily scenario. I am not just running, but out sprinting Usain Bolt with it. I am going to enjoy this like I do a large glass of ice cold, highly expensive, happy haze inducing champagne whilst looking at Charlotte Olympia shoes online. (#shoeporn)
How long it will last who cares. Could it be a lull before a large storm? Quite possibly. Especially if the pierced ear lobe gets infected and too many kids body weights double over the summer from indulging in my recipe too much!
Well whatever it is and however long it lasts, I only hope it’s not like a holiday romance, short lived, intense and not very fulfilling in the long term.
I will keep you posted.

getting older, getting wiser?

They say that as you get older you get wiser. If you saw my dad with his mates on a Tuesday night at last orders you might question this theory.

Anyways, whatever they are, these life experiences whether good, bad, embarrassing, bum twitching, hair raising, hair and skin removing, cringe worthy, eyebrow destroying, terrifying or sad, shape, prepare and arm us for further down the line if similar scenarios happen. Some even like to call it hindsight.

With men you learn quickly to avoid those with commitment issues, itchy crotch areas – I will leave why to your imagination, bad teeth, severe body odour, bad footwear, egomaniac tendencies or an apparent white mark to the second index finger of the left hand.

When considering suitable friends, girls with reputations like yoyo drawers, lounge lizard (when referencing the use of their tongue), single white female, the omen or descriptions similar to any of the above are again to be avoided like a dose of the bubonic plague.

Work scenarios are perhaps the worst. It’s often a wall to wall idiot convention where everybody has ideas above their station and a desire to ‘climb the ladder’. The boss’s son. That annoying, male chauvinistic, rugby playing all round nobhead of a colleague. The short skirted girl who is over indulging on the Botox and wearing far too many hair extensions, shagging her way around the office. Heck even the bog cleaner. Basically anybody who is competing with you for the big boss’s attention and maybe a lucrative pay rise, will always take the credit for your hard work or alternatively not piss on you if you are on fire in the stationary cupboard.

When buying shoes, you learn to always go a size bigger as your feet will definitely swell when wearing shoes which are either ridiculous or uncomfortable in their design and price tag.

But what about death? What hind sight is applied here? It’s an interesting one.

I encountered death fairly early on, my mum died very suddenly when I was just 19 years of age. I was a first year student at University, ready to party, piss my student loan up the proverbial wall in Topshop, steal some road signs, traffic cones and other such useless items and frequently get comatose on cheap booze whilst simultaneously getting a good degree. Death was not in this already busy schedule.

So what did I do? Well I shelved it. Made it a little like my approach to shoe purchases, a no return policy despite what your common sense and lack of toe nails tells you. I said to myself she is dead, done, dust in the ground, FINITO. I do not know why I thought this was comforting as like the shoes which need to be a size bigger it is not a comfortable prospect in any way, shape, or horizontal form with your feet severely elevated.

But this is the interesting bit. Where active imagination meets a need to not feel over whelming loss. Where an adult realises that to think of her mother as truly being as extinct as a dodo, is just not something which is going to be bearable.

Where I once said she was dead and gone, a bit like my favourite shoes which recently went to the hell that was a large industrial sized wheelie bin due to a snapped heel. I now say she is actually still with me, watching me from above whilst drinking a large Cinzano and lemonade (her favourite tipple).

When my roses grow despite all my efforts to kill them off I say she is working her magic. When my husband and I were ‘courting’ I imagined she had somehow, and trust me she was very determined, made him fall in love with me. All a bit Paul McKenna. When I recently had to watch my father in law face death in front of me I comforted my mother in law with the beliefs, and I verbalised them accordingly, that my mum would be ready and waiting to show him the ropes.

Where they go I only like to consider as a bloody great place. Think the very best all-inclusive five star holiday resort. Necker Island has nothing on it. It is beautiful. It boasts free food and drink in the guise of whatever you really fancy on any given day. Great music plays continuously like a Sonos system is supposed to. Any tune, any time, just think of it! Sunshine is a given. And of course the occupants are all the wonderful people from your past who just left the party down here far too soon.

It’s like the ‘Cocoon’ movie series, but so much better and minus the alien intervention.

Is it a load of old soppy crap? Maybe. It’s almost childlike in what you want to believe. Hind sight is you could say complete bollocks in this scenario.

It could all be true and let’s hope it is. I mean what’s the alternative for happy thoughts and a life without them? Trust me there is none. This is the only way. So indulge and get happy, imagining your loved ones having a bloody good time somewhere up above.

So does age bring wisdom? Yes it does. The wisdom sometimes to ignore the facts and choose to believe what you want……..even if that does mean a loss of numerous toe nails in the process.

The wanderer returns.

Yes I have been AWOL, MIA and all the other terms you associate with someone dropping off the face of the earth where no contact has been made with them since they were last seen in a shoe shop, trying on enough shoes to comprise a pile of boxes the size of the leaning tower of Pisa.

Needless to say I am alive. I am well. I have not joined a cult. I have not yet started to consider life as a nun. Yes I own more shoes, grey hairs, cellulite and potential enemies due to my at times highly pragmatic personality. But overall all is well.

Why the blogging break? Simple I re-read some of my posts and they were not great. It was more ranting than blogging and to be honest it was not pretty, informative, enlightening, funny or any other description involving a positive adjective.

My first sabbatical didn’t really do the trick so I decided an extended one was required. You know the old expression – if at first you don’t succeed, try again. So I decided I would. Here’s hoping it has worked as a blog is coming your way very soon.




The school gate!

School gate mothers or should I say school playground mothers as the behaviour from some is far more like that of children of playground age rather than that of fully grown women.

Now you may wonder what I am doing at the school gate? Simple, my stepdaughter is in top juniors – retro description I know, year 6 for those of you modern types. So at least two days a week, sometimes more, I do the pick up. Or as I like to say, face the catwalk of silence.

A catwalk, yes, as that is what it’s like, a fashion catwalk. Now I like fashion more than most, fifty pairs of shoes and counting, a subscription to Elle and Grazia magazine, you get the picture! But what I see amazes me. This place where these women bearing the motherhood badge of honour unite to contest who is the biggest motherhood martyr of all, also appear to spend a lot of time and money on their overall ‘look’. Who knew the burning martyr shopped at Harvey Nichols, Selfridges and Topshop?

I describe it as the silent version, as it is, well for me at least. I do not utter a word or rather get the opportunity to. I am not deaf and dumb, or in possession of a highly trained golden retriever to guide me through life, hence maybe missing their advances for conversation. I get blanked, blatantly, often with no attempt to hide it. Some women acknowledge my stepdaughter by name and just look right through me. Who knew I was not only mute, but also invisible?

Others do acknowledge me with a stare or glare. I am a poet and did not know it! Again I am not being sensitive, they do. I think at present there is more chance of me meeting a talking dodo than there is that some of these women looking at me in a friendly manner despite my best efforts, I smile at them REGULARLY. DAILY. I am not rude.

Even my accidental attempt to conform by purchasing the trendy school gate mothers designer trainer of choice, aaaargh – what is happening to me???!!! – does not seem to be doing anything to get my foot in the door of the club if you know what I mean!

Still in reality am I bothered? No, and I really mean it. I listen to some of the conversations and cringe. Ailments, hygiene, educational analysis, sporting prowess. If these women were men you might say the discussions of their children resembled a big dick contest. It’s one upmanship at its peak. Pushy mothers. Shoot me now!

I just find it all so petty, to ignore someone like this. I mean I have not pulled a Myleene and dared to challenge them en mass in public. I stole nobody’s husband. It’s just plain bitchy, a clique resembling the masons where Delboy and I alike are blackballed and blocked from joining anytime soon.

What’s more I have done nothing to be treated like this. They do not know me or rather very little of me. I am younger than most but why would that cause it, I have friends of all ages. Are they all shy? Their behaviours suggest not. Nor do many of them lack confidence. So what is it? Do stepmothers who muck in and show they care intimidate them? It seems it might be the case.

Well it’s this or I have terrible body odour and bad breath and am completely clueless about both. But I very much doubt it. I shower. I brush my teeth. I spray a lot of deodorant and perfume on my person at regular intervals.

Also consider this. These women have stood and spoken to each other, morning and night, five days in seven, for over seven years. I thought someone new might be of interest to them I mean what do they find to talk about? I know we British women can chit chat complete bollocks with the best of them but this is pushing anyone’s limit for mindless chatter surely?

So here we are, nearly at the end of another term. A break from it all is looming, the Easter hols is not far off. Then the summer term beckons, which leaves me with maybe eight weeks of the catwalk to endure. I am literally counting down the days.

I admit defeat. I give up. I get it. I will never be in the gang and happy to be so. But one thing is for sure. My new trendy trainers are going nowhere I just love them too much and nothing comes between me and my shoes, NOT even the school gate mother social leper treatment.

Me, the wicked stepmother – what a load of rubbish!


You know they say you should never self-diagnose illnesses on the internet. Well, the same rule applies to tests which tell you the kind of stepmother you are. NEVER EVER DO THEM.

I learnt this too late. Too late, by exactly the time it took to take the test twice. Yes I did the test twice. Like doctors and medical conditions, it’s never a bad idea to get a second opinion. Well it was here. Prepare yourselves. Wait for it. Here we go. On both occasions I was described as a wicked stepmother. WTF??

What a load of bollocks I told myself after the first attempt, as I found, staring back at me from the small screen, the image of Snow White’s stepmother with the caption ‘Get therapy NOW’. Which is exactly why I re-did the test for the second time. I clearly did not care about the test results. WRONG. I cared a lot. Too much as bloody usual. I am frequently a complete idiot.

So what was so critical in the test which formed a realistic appraisal of my stepmother skills? Basically bugger all. It referenced my likes and dislikes on the following: fashion, make up, music, exercise/sport, how I express opinions, holidays and yes my favourite housework!

Based on the final question it was like the mother in law had written it all to catch me out and finally get me ironing everything from the little shits shirts to my very small under crackers.

I mean, what relevance are any of those things on my stepmother behaviour? Zero. Zip. Nada.

Yes I take care in my appearance, read a lot of gossip and fashion magazines and believe housework is not a priority but how does that make me a bad stepmother? It does not. How are any of those things applicable to step mothering skills for the good or bad? They are not.

I suppose if I was the Mother Theresa of stepmothers I might have chosen some more child friendly answers but in truth there were not many that I could see. Hence my second attempt.

For instance holidays I liked exotic locations, the other choices being camping in the woods, child free holidays or cultural city breaks. It was clear, the assumption was made that anything other than camping in the woods, the mother earth answer to holidays, meant without kids. I mean who wrote this test – a cynical bitter ex-wife who likes to analyse stepmother behaviour through anything but rose tinted glasses?

I love exotic locations. I love my stepchildren. I like the two together hence why we honeymooned in Barbados with the kids. ‘SO THERE’ with my tongue out in an aggressive fashion.

If I were the wicked stepmother would I treat my stepdaughters wart infested feet? No.

Would I brave the dreaded nit comb? So frequently may I add that I ended up infested myself? No.

Would I tackle conversations on the birds and the bees, worms – yes you know that lovely thing little kids get, sweaty feet, why you need to bathe regularly and basically anything else that is thrown at me? No.

And I could go on but I won’t as I do not want to look like an evil minded, ranting, mad woman. Well no more than usual.

I am a good stepmother. I know I sound confident and probably a little cocky but it’s true. Maybe this is not an attractive quality but it’s a necessity. Why? Simple. As any stepmother will vouch, the critiques come thick and fast and well if you do not believe in yourself and your own capabilities, there is no hope of survival without the need for a good therapist to recover from the frequent, overly critical and often highly personal character assassinations you seem to encounter.

But anyway onwards and upwards. I am putting the test to the back of my mind and only getting my stepdaughters to clean the kitchen floor once a week with their toothbrushes! Ha ha ha ha ha (wicked laugh).

In truth the only test I need to pass is a simple one. The test of whether my stepdaughters like me, thank me and most importantly what the little shit thinks. And so far, most of the time, so good and all seem happy.

Job done.

P.S. The bit about the kitchen floor and toothbrushes was a joke. No need to contact social services.

The invisible woman

invisible woman

It is often said in life if you are given lemons, to make lemonade.

This is a good analogy. It’s basically the idea to make the best of everything. Just if you really are going to make lemonade, follow a good recipe with plenty of sugar or you will resemble a bulldog chewing a wasp!

So recently I have at long last decided to do the same with my alter ego. To down a glass of it and embrace the afterglow!

So who is she, my alter ego, drum roll please…….she is ‘The invisible woman’. Why? Simple. I am to certain individuals to be seen, just not in public, no sorry I will amend that, anywhere, not even the front doorstep of my own home. My voice should never be heard. My name cannot be uttered, let alone put in a text message for necessary arrangements. My physical form is required only when there really is NO alternative for childcare.

It’s a FACT. A sad fact. It is not the ranting’s of one hysterical or bitter stepmother. These descriptions really do outline the treatment I receive. However, these actions are all a certain individuals choice not mine, might I add in any way, shape or invisible form. Everybody knows it. It is the proverbial big, glowing, pink elephant in the room.

It is unpleasant. It is unfair on the children. I have tried to improve things, but it’s like flogging a dead horse and well eventually even I, someone who rarely gives up on anything, has thrown in the towel. The little shit similarly. We play the game. We avoid pouring oil on the fire. We are not defeated. We are just being clever.

I can hear some mumblings now. Why do it that way? Why not put your foot down? Been there. Done that. The kids have worn the t-shirt and quite frankly that is the worst bit. It is the kids that suffer. Emotional upset. Forced choices. A guilty conscience. Resentment. Confusion. You get the picture. I will not be the cause of any of these emotions.

Besides if I really am the invisible woman, I may as well flaunt it. She was several people across a number of stories. My favourite. The super hero!

Therefore I will mostly be channelling my inner ‘Sue Storm’ of the ‘Fantastic Four’. She was sexy, Jessica Alba sexy to be more precise, rocked a near perfect body in a skin tight, blue, cat suit. A force for good, she was intelligent, well liked and loved by her family.

So maybe being invisible is not such a bad thing after all. There is like the lemons and lemonade many positives to be seen from my invisible status. And as a wise woman once said, it is not the opinion that matters but who holds it. Enough said.

Oh and of course, if you see a woman in a blue cat-suit on the school run you will know who I really am! #newuniform

I’m back!


It’s exactly five weeks, three days, 12 hours, 52 minutes and various seconds since I blogged. Crap or what? Well in a positive way it’s actually a ‘what’. As basically having set up my own business I have been too busy to blog.

I also think I peaked too soon – I blogged twice in one day at one point!

So what is the real reason for my extended writing holiday?

Well its simple. you see I no longer have hours to kill at a desk, in a communal office, where I need to look like I am actually working as opposed to surfing the internet like a cyber-loafing, free loading, idle idiot.

As they say every cloud has a silver lining. The cloud being the lack of blogging, not the successful business bit.

I also have to be honest, I have struggled to know what to write about. A lot of things have gone on. Some mundane, some not so. Some firsts but definitely not lasts in terms of various scenarios. And well some things have very much remained the same but in a heightened, more reoccurring fashion.

At times gin seemed the only way forward. The shame being it was 10am on a Monday morning and well drinking behaviour like that is a slippery slope. And besides with my work load I did not have time to give it real decision making time and energy, i.e. making a list of pros and cons and therefore how to write about it.

Yes I am well and truly cryptic blogging. So let’s cut to the chase.

My blogging sabbatical is over. All change from here on in. I will be blogging again regularly with gusto. So watch this space.

Is there a ‘I love page three’ t-shirt I can buy?


Page three, on and off like a light switch. Firstly there was a no-show then a, true to form, chest first reappearance. The tits did the talking so to speak back to their rightful place, on page three. I still in truth cannot believe that it causes such horror, annoyance and bad press. Whatever you want to call it I just cannot get excited or rather offended by it and the silly protest against it.

I mean really, let’s look at this in the bigger picture of life, the world, and the lives of women. Page three apparently objectifies us. Rubbish. We as women are objectified 24/7. You walk down the street, the hairy bottomed builders whistle and taunt. You are at the gym, the meat head muscle bound numpty’s are looking or shall I say leering. Heck even your fellow kind objectify you. Women are each other’s worst critic.

Women are objectified. Always. It’s a fact. It’s part of being a woman. Page three is a very public example of it. But like the builders wolf whistling, it’s actually harmless. There are no seedy pimps bullying and controlling anyone, these booby blessed girls choose to do it. Topless modelling is a career they embrace, love and make lucrative earnings from.  I mean isn’t that what feminism is all about, freedom of choice? Doing what we choose not what society dictates we should? Earning our own crust?

Besides men are portrayed in a similar vain to that of page three on occasion. Heat magazine has ‘torso of the week’. Beckham and those underwear adverts. The Chippendales and of course, the movie ‘The Full Monty’. Are men offended? No.

In a week where two qualified medical professionals, doctors to be exact, faced court after carrying out genital mutilation on a female patient, should we not be focussing on the bigger picture of matters such as these which are quite frankly appalling and should not be happening in any way shape or form? Surely this is slightly more important or am I going mad?

And there are bigger, pressing matters yet. Domestic violence. Human trafficking. Vulnerable girls being groomed for sex by large groups of predatory men. There is a massive and ever increasing amount of child porn material available on line. And speaking of porn. If page three objectifies us what does all that readily available porn that many teenage boys view nightly do to us? The violent kind. The completely degrading kind. I wonder.

Why are we not campaigning on these matters? Why are the brave bunch who took on The Sun not channelling their energies into these far more important matters? It appears that modern feminism is about equal choice for women in everything even if it’s not really relevant. If it’s not page three, it’s top jobs in certain industries. Maybe women choose not to work in said ‘anti-female’ industries, or dare I say it, maybe our strengths lie elsewhere. It’s not a bad thing. It’s not anti-feminism. It’s just life.

I ask you, are male doctors offended when we specify a female doctor to talk about our lady troubles. How many male midwives are there and if you got one when your vagina was about to double in size would you feel comfortable about it? Let’s be honest probably not. Are the men complaining? Well we know the answer.

Remember the book, ‘Men are from mars, women are from Venus’ well it was written and titled as such for a good reason. We are opposites and for the good of jobs, life choices and everything else sometimes despite all this new equality for women stuff we need to stick to it. Accept it. Maybe even embrace it. It’s a good thing.

And finally on the notion of being topless, and it being banned. Does this apply on the beach? I am starting to worry about my tan lines. Should big movies be banned if they feature a topless shot? I think of Jamie Lee Curtis in ‘Trading Places’ to name but one. Female icons who strip off, are they to be bullied? Madonna and Nikki Minaj to name a few are well published example of celebs doing boobies. Are we going to apply the no topless rule to these and countless other scenarios?

This proves how ridiculous this whole campaign is. Women actually campaigned for freedom of speech and here we are actually campaigning for examples of this to cease.

I will leave it there. The Sun and its page three is harmless. I applaud people who campaign, the time, the energy, you are amazing. But I will say one thing. In the anti-female world, there are bigger fish which need to be fried. So let’s go swim with the sharks and really make a difference where it is actually needed. (And yes I checked that sharks are actually types of fish.)