Firelighting and Feminism

Tuesday: one banana (I didn't eat the (s)elf-therapy notepad);
Wednesday: smoothie that may have contained pomegranate,
along with other bourgeois fruits, & grapes; Thursday: same again

I am an excellent fire lighter. Excellent. The fires I light burn bright and hot in an almost mundanely dependable fashion. I think my mother taught me the basics; my father threw in tips here and there. I have a method, and I stick to it, and it works.

This skill has – almost more than any other thing in life – been the deftest revealer of male chauvinism to me. Rarely, in a context where there are men and women about and fires to be lit, can I persuade the y-chromosome possessing company that I may -- in fact -- be the best man for the job.

For a person prone to poor circulation and occasional episodes of Germaine Greer-rivalling bra-burning zeal, this fire-lighting issue is something of a challenge. On the one hand, I don't wish to be an emasculating harpy; on the other hand, just bloody let me light the fire because even though I have ovaries I'm better at it than you, you patronising sod! (But please, do feel free to heave the log basket in, I'm not He-Man.)

Many's the night, I have sat cold, and slowly kippered as some fellow's paltry effort smoldered hopelessly in the grate, and I wished I'd been a little bit more Emmeline Pankhurst and a little bit less "Em, oh, um, can I help…"

P.S. Apologies for poor posting record lately – hen weekending followed by horrid lurgy scuppered my good intentions...