As we walked along the riverbank, my lovely chums and I, we talked a bit about gender stereotyping: one had been expected by her sons to leave the home she loved abroad to spend more time with their children in UK, another provides a home for her grandson who never once in his life lived with a male role-model yet still expects his granny to be his skivvy, and I related tales from my own experience about the ridiculosity of it all. And we laughed. Roaring great belly-laughs about silly people who might imagine that anatomy or hormones are some kind of ticket to a higher level. We gave a traditional salute to a driver who tried to honk us off the footpath. All in all, a great girls day out.
And then I saw these and we all laughed so much we almost fell over.
We also watched Gandalf flying kites on his holibobs, a pretty stone bridge and the ruins of a linseed oil mill which is described as “decaying romantically”
We all thought that was a delightful status option when offered “Other” in forms wanting to know about sexual orientation, yet only last week I was imagining that “post” was closest to my truth.