In The Name of National Security, Please Can I Touch Your Wobbly Bits

My purse is constantly weighted down with change. I list slightly to the right at all times because of the excessive strain my handbag puts on my shoulder. This is because I cannot handle holding up queues at the Tesco self-service machine by counting out the correct change. The tutting, foot stamping and impatient shifting-of-items-in-arms-to-signify-you-are-getting-tired-of-holding-them cause me to get flustered, embarrassed, and invariably leave at least two items of shopping behind in my haste to be gone from unfairly accusing glares. Thus, I faithfully feed £10 notes into the bowels of the machine for a 67p purchase, and spend the rest of the day waiting for my arm to pop out of its socket.

In a similar vain, it was with polite efficiency that I bagged my 25ml tube of Colgate and 50ml mascara wand for inspection at Stansted airport, removed my jacket and scarf and placed all electronic items securely in my hand-luggage, all in readiness for a speedy transition through to Departures. I comfortably joined in the ranks of silent admonition as people held up the lengthy queue by failing to have done any of the above despite seventeen-thousand written notices and tannoy announcements in every European language. I answered the security questions concisely, and with the demure, 'I Am Not A Terrorist' look everyone adopts at airport security, walked briskly through the metal detector toward WH Smith and half-price chocolate.

It was a rather sinking feeling that then accompanied the angry bleeping of the machine which roughly translates as 'Stop her! STOP HEEEERRRR!' I looked sheepishly at the friendly young pair manning the machine. The girl smiled and asked if I was wearing a bracelet. I dutifully removed all my jewellery, and turned to go back through the machine. 'Sorry Miss, I'm just going to have to give you a quick search first'. Are there any more embarrassing words to hear from a very pretty girl in front of fifty impatient travellers who just want to prove their deodorant isn't an incendiary device, goddammit? I grimaced. I raise my arms. I parted my legs ever so slightly. And instead of thinking, 'What if they think I'm actually a terrorist? What if she finds that little nugget of C4 I forgot I'd tucked into the waistline of my underwear this morning? WHAT IF THEY TAKE ME INTO A PRIVATE ROOM WHERE SOMEONE IS ALREADY WEARING LATEX GLOVES?', I thought, 'God, this girl is going to think I'm so fat'. When she reached the tights-waistband double-stomach area, the burden we British women must bear to sport a Nice Dress in the winter, I really wished I hadn't just eaten bread. As if by abstaining from a small amount of carbohydrates within the last hour would have naturally made me as lithe as this smiley lady. And whilst she was probably my age, I stopped being twenty-one and became instead the fifteen-year-old with a puppy-fat face and an inability to look pretty ladies in the eyes in case they, I don't know, faint in horror.  I silently cursed the copy of 'How To Be A Woman' at the top of my handluggage, the emo-trainers and the man's plaid shirt I had thrown on with my Nice Dress for travel-pragmatism. She no doubt expected to find a small travel-surgery kit for performing emergency castrations with the message 'If Found, Please Return To The Nearest Militant Feminist'. But she did not, and sent me back through the machine with an almost-disappointed 'I can't believe that little bracelet made all that noise - I really thought I was going to find something else!'

And so, metal-free and released from my humiliation (the foot-tapping from the queue now so rhythmically in sync I expected a West Side Story style dance-off between travellers and security staff), I skipped back through the machine. BLEEPBLEEPBLEEPBLEEPBLEEP.

You have got to be kidding.

When the male announced that I would have to be searched again, I almost ran for the vague direction of London to live out a life as a poor street-performer named Arabella rather than be frisked in front of by-now around eighty people by a young man. 'Don't worry, the first time was for a reason, it's just a random search now' the smiley lady said. Oh, good. Now I just LOOK like a terrorist. Yet again, her slender little hands zipped around my mid-riff, and the voice of reason in my head which I normally like to keep quiet because she's a bit boring said 'Isn't it ridiculous that you're worried this woman thinks you could do with going to the gym, when she must frisk hundreds of women a day and does not care in the slightest where you carry your weight, as long as it's not also where you carry a detonator?' And the much louder voice which likes to make a drama out of everything said 'OH MY GOD? Do you know what? You are SO right, Miss Reasonable. This is NOT about body-shape, this is about aviation'.

A lesson I think we should all apply to every aspect of our lives. Regardless of whether or not wings are involved. I bet that lovely girl would have been horrified to know I'd been expecting her to have uncharitable thoughts about my waistline. And I bet she would have been delighted if I'd offered her some of the 'share bar' of Galaxy I did purchase in WH Smith. But I ate it.

MY Lovely Lady Lumps, OK?

            It has often been the recourse of COSMOPOLITAN and its associates to counter ‘Beach Body Now! Step 1: Stop Eating’ type features with articles on how much men love ‘real women’ (also, sorry, what is the antithesis? Are there life-sized female Morphs wandering around out there?). Big thighs? Men love them! Spare tyres? Men love them! Feeling invalidated? GET A MAN. Now, where my initial objection lies with the suggestion that if you are seriously refusing to go on a diet then you better hurry the hell up and get a boyfriend because you sure don’t deserve to love yourself, I will save that argument for another day. Allowing your self-worth to be dependent on some else’s opinion of you is deeply unhealthy; but so is this pervasive idea that men should be allowed to judge us, for better or worse. Basically, men might love ‘real women’, but kindly stop loving me if I haven’t invited you to.

I don’t know how naturally thin girls feel about this, having only been skinny pre-puberty and thus blissfully unaware, and I went to Uni where every man was either gay or posh. But in the Real World I have increasingly come to notice that men sparsely furnished in the cranial department assume that a woman possessed of breasts/ass/hips/thighs is naturally inviting stares/comments/gropes, the coy tart. Men: the bits sticking out are not invading your personal space, though you are most certainly invading mine when you ‘accidentally’ brush past. This degrading presumption that ‘if I can see it, I can touch it’ was quite abruptly presented to me a few weeks ago in a club. Whilst waiting at the bar, someone grabbed my ass. Unused to this sort of behaviour, I couldn’t actually believe anyone would be a) that much of a pig, or b) delusional enough to think it was a winning seduction technique. And yet, next time I made my way to the bar, he appeared again, hand at the ready for some alluring pinching action. Even more gallingly, he took my ‘Don’t do that, it’s not cute and I don’t appreciate it’ as a challenge, and just left his hand on my backside. As if it had squatters’ rights. The pint over the head, slap in the face and decidedly less diplomatic ‘F*** OFF’ eventually encouraged him to slope off and wash Tennants out of his hair. Hooray, it only took mild assault to decisively explain an ass is not for grabbing just because it’s there.  HOWEVER. Next day he had tracked me down on facebook and sent me a message explaining that he wouldn’t apologise for the ‘gratuitous ass-grabbing’ because it was a ‘fine derriere’. Now, I was feeling tender from the previous night, and I’m sure you won’t mind me telling you that message overcame my strenuous attempts to not throw up.

I am still astounded. He felt no compulsion to apologise for being a disgusting chauvinist pig, because any girl with the temerity to have curvy bits is asking for a groping. In what world is this ok? I’m pretty sure tall-drink-of-water girls don’t get this treatment. Statuesque beauties are given a wide berth by the walking results of contraceptive failure. I reckon it’s because those Neanderthal men who see breasts and immediately salivate think curvy girls are homely – we look evolutionarily sound, childbirth won’t kill us, and our mammary glands…sorry, I lost my train of thought, something about breasts? I like to think of myself as a great proponent of women’s rights. But as a male friend said to me recently ‘If you want to be treated the same as men, don’t expect me to give up my seat for you’. Well, I don’t want to be treated the same as men, I just don’t want to be treated like I’m inferior because I’m not one. So don’t grope me; don’t leer down my shirt; and most certainly don’t make comments about me. Not being skinny doesn’t make me fair game; it just means there’s a lot more weight behind my right hook.

Once More Unto The Gym, Dear Fatty

To the smattering of my facebook friends who politely chortled at my blogging efforts in July, I can only apologise for leaving you in three month's worth of suspense. Things happened and life occurred, but it has generously decided to go on hiatus for the foreseeable future and so I have little better to do than go to the gym and then tell you all about it. One day I'll stop spoiling you.

But, in all seriousness, I did in fact join a gym. So far, I have been once. To be fair, I did only join three days ago, but it is mustering up the motivation for self-flagellation that I find so difficult. Being skinny must HURT. For years, I have been a sporadic 'jogger', by which I mean I lifted my feet at a slightly increased pace to my usual shuffle for thirty minutes before eating some cake because, hey, I'd earned it. Unfortunately, for a four month period each year, Scotland maliciously thwarts my half-hearted cardiovascular endeavours with its frankly ill-chosen geographical position. The thought of swallowing thousands of tiny knives every time you gasp for air on a frozen December evening is off-putting, to say the least. Gyms are indoors and centrally heated by the bodies of a hundred sweaty self-loathers. It takes living in a bloody cold climate to make that an appealing prospect.

It's important to note that I never really considered my jogs to be physically beneficial. But my exercise-placebo let me sleep well at night in the Government's assurances I had staved off death by at least another twenty minutes, and in the reckless abandon with which I was playing fast and loose with my knee joints. May we all live to a ripe old osteoporosis-plagued age. And so it was with a veritable vat of trepidation that I approached the gym. Needless to say, the young gentleman staffing reception must have caused several less muscularly endowed males to give up before they'd even made it through the turnstile; even I almost fell victim to the aura of 'Do you really think you'll ever have arms like these? Really? Maybe you should just go home now and sit quietly in your room'. But the moment passed, I regrouped, and I followed him around the warehouse of bodily perfection, repeating the mantra 'Just because I'm not wearing make-up does not mean I am not a valuable member of society, just because I'm not wearing make-up does not mean I am not a valuable member of society'. And do you know what? Everyone was lovely. And healthy looking, not the six-foot, size 4 fitness fanatics I had been dreading. Just some regular folks, keeping that heart healthy. Nobody looked me up and down and smirked at my baggy T-shirt; nobody tapped their foot impatiently whilst I jogged at a modest speed on the treadmill. I may have to invest in some better gym attire, though - scabby old joggers are fine when you are running in the great outdoors, whizzing past possible detractors in a wheezing, underwhelming whirlwind, but I fear gym staff might suspect my direct debit will fail if I continue to turn up in a tramp's approximation of fitness gear.

This positivity does not detract from the fact that my arms still hurt from doing the lightest weights for a length of time notable only for its brevity. However. I will go back. Today. I will go back today. Not to become a size 8, but to convert the fat from the bag of chips and gluttonous slab of home-made chocolate cake that constituted last night's dinner (what, I'm Scottish) into banging size 12 hips. It's a reckless cycle of endangering my heart; rescuing my heart; endangering my heart; rescuing my heart; but as long as I can maintain that healthy midway point between obesity and dead, I think I'm on to a winning formula.

Every Girl's A Little Big Gay For Adele

I just want to jump firmly on the 'OMFG ADELE IS THE BEST THING TO HAPPEN TO POP MUSIC EVER' bandwagon which has been growing in speed since her performance of 'Someone Like You' on Jools Holland in January. One amazing voice and a piano had almost everyone I know in tears and deleting their ex's facebook friendship/mobile number before they did something silly.


I have been listening to 21 on repeat for about three weeks now. I have been watching videos of her on YouTube religiously. I have ranged from finger-snapping 'you-go-girl' outrage at her ex-boyfriend, to weeping inconsolably because, let's face it, if the feisty Cockney singer can have her heart-broken, we're all doomed. As far as I'm concerned, she is not only single-handedly rescuing popular music from the mind-numbing synths and dance-beats filling the Top 40; she is also one of the best female role models to have been overwhelmingly lauded by the public in quite some time. My girl friends love her; my straight male friends fancy her; my gay male friends want to be her best friend. Everything about her is beautiful and real; her sultry voice, which is without fail even better live than recorded; her figure, which is so perfectly womanly; and her shining personality, where she can have an audience in stitches seconds after breaking their hearts with Turning Tables. If Adele has ever been asked to lose weight, I can only assume she belted Chasing Pavements in her accuser's face and they scurried off to a corner to curl up with only their tepid mediocrity to keep them warm at night.


A few months ago, she was the cover girl for Glamour. In her interview, she thanked the editor, Jo Elvin, for being brave enough to put a bigger girl on the cover of Britain's biggest-selling female magazine. What a sad pass to have come to, that such an undeniably talented woman who got where she is through her own entirely natural merits, should have to feel gratitude for being not only accepted as she is, but for being celebrated for it too. Adele does not conform to the media's ideal of a perfect figure, and neither is she attempting to lead a revolution against it. Instead, she is who she is, and we should all follow her example by being happy in ourselves. She is the most prevalent example today that beauty does not have to be skinny; it has to be genuine.


So, next time I catch myself envying a slender figure that I will never naturally attain, I'm going to sing Rolling in the Deep at the top of my lungs. And to anyone who ever tries to make me feel bad: 'you're gonna wish you never had met me.'

Small, Medium or Large: You're Not What You Eat

A few weeks ago I was doing my bi-monthly charity shop scavenge, looking for pretty things expensive people don’t want anymore. Imagine my delight when I happened across a rather sexy little strapless number from Mango, nestled amidst the flowery skirts and baggy cardigans, for the obscene price of £6. I probably took out about four old ladies in my haste to get to the fitting room. Now, this it-would-be-rude-not-to-buy-it dress had been making friends with the size 10 flowery skirts. It said ‘10’ on the hanger. I was already mentally breathing in in preparation for attempting to wriggle into it. To even the most clueless, unfashionable male in the world, it was blatantly made for size 10-12s.

So I was pretty pissed off that some volunteer had scribbled ‘Large’ on the charity-shop label. ‘Grumble grumble 12 isn’t large grumble grumble how dare they etc etc’ I muttered as I yanked it over my hips and tensed every muscle in my stomach. But it wasn’t a confused elderly shop lady who’d had the audacity to deem anyone wearing this dress as Large – it was flipping Mango. And do you know what? The sodding thing was too small.

On what planet is a dress which is too tight for a size 12 a Large? Obviously one where the magazine industry and the clothing industry go hand-in-hand. When we’re all supposed to applaud Cosmo’s bravery for using a size 14 model, as if such a lady is an abnormal sight, it’s no surprise the not-tiny amongst us are made to feel like lepers. Also, let me explain the dimensions of this dress – it was nipped in like piano-wire at the waist, then ballooned out in Barbie-esque proportions at the chest. If I had the mammaries required to sufficiently fill it out, I’d have a hunchback that would make Quasimodo look like a steel pole. Unless Katie Price bought every single one, I don’t quite know who Mango thought their target audience was. The only person I can imagine designing a dress that way would presumably have had his most intimate female experiences with a blow-up doll, but I’m sure Mango has a ‘no-creep’ policy as stringent as their ‘no-carrying-a-little-bit-of-weight-girls’.

Madness. And it’s the same in so many high-street stores. The day I find something in Zara that’s made for women who don’t go straight up-and-down will be the day cellulite makes it onto the front cover of Cosmopolitan. Only good old Marks and Spencer is doing its bit for the self-confidence of the women of Britain – I’m quite a comfortable size 10 in my crisp Markies shirt. So if every other high street store could stop silently reproaching me with passive-aggressive sizing, that would be fine. I'll start holding my breath...now.

There Are No 'Curvy' Women, And No 'Skinny' Women...

...but there are women.

My relationship with Cosmopolitan is how I imagine most women feel about their mothers. You love them and their readily available font of wisdom earned through years of experience; occasionally you value their honest opinion which no one else could offer and survive. Quite often, however, you wish that instead of tactlessly delivering 'constructive criticism', they would just stop talking and let you wear what you want. Today I had a small apoplectic fit. Unfortunately, I was home alone and had no one to share my outrage with. Hurrah for the internet.

I am an incongruously avid Cosmo reader. My loathing for 'fashion' (ponchos were the worst. Thank god that trend went and died quietly in a corner) and the student bank balance which forbids me from even entertaining the thought of buying the shiny things within its hallowed pages make it a thoroughly redundant read. But I'm a visual magpie, and I want to look at pretty things. What I do not want, and I'd say it's on a par with how much I don't want, say, AIDs, is to be told that I'm not a size 8 and should therefore feel a bit cheeky thumbing through the Beauty Bible For Fun Fearless Females with my size 12 sausage fingers.

Let me direct you to the source of my current indignation; nay, ire; nay, extreme irrational anger. August 2011. Rihanna's on the front, looking all sexy. Good for her. To the left of her toned stomach is the headline:

'Shakin' that ass! Hot pants, minis and skinny jeans curvy girls were born to wear'.

Heaven forfend - could it be?! A whole NINE pages of a 230 page magazine entirely dedicated to the vast majority of Cosmo's British readership. Nine! Good gracious, do stop spoiling us. The photoshoot is entitled ' YES YOU CAN: Sexy size 14 and first-time model, Lily shows you how to work your curves in this season's staples...' It's quite the relief, as I for one was getting worried I wouldn't be able to suit my hips to my summer wardrobe. Helpfully, Cosmo begins each tagline for Lily's various outfits with 'YES YOU CAN...wear a...'.
Example: 'YES YOU CAN...wear a strapless jumpsuit. Look for built-in support, and add a contrasting, waist-cinching belt.' CINCH that waist, ladies, and cinch it hard. (For the record, no one looks good in a jumpsuit. If you're not in nursery, please stop wearing it. Now.) My personal favourite, however, is 'YES YOU CAN...rock a pair of hot pants'. Gee, really?? Thank goodness I can throw out that ankle-length woollen skirt I've been wearing since May and crack out my legs with Cosmo's permission. And who knew that I CAN wear '...sheer off-the-shoulder smocks. Just add in a fantastic shapewear bandeau body dress to keep you in control'. Well, my breasts are wont to get drunk and dance on tables when I take them out in off-the-shoulder smocks and don't tell them to behave.





Perhaps the most tactless part of the article (and there were many points competing for the Number One spot) is its situation within the magazine. Spokeswoman for The Curvy Women of Britain, Lily with her hips, is juxta-posed with whippet-thin Jessica Lowndes, star of the next photo-spread. Not for Jessica the patronising reassurance that she can pull off the outfits she's pictured in, oh no. Jessica's taglines include 'Taking a stroll down Portobello Road in ASOS', and 'Chatting with a busker in French Connection'. Moral of the story; naturally (and fashionably) skinny girls get to look cool in London, whilst I get to give my wobbly bits a severe talking to when they get out of hand under my smock.


Don't misunderstand me - Jessica Lowndes is beautiful, and she looks gorgeous in all the pictures. But we shouldn't be expected to express surprise that size 14 Lily looks just as beautiful. And no, I will never look good in a floral maxi-dress  like Miss Lowndes, because I'm 5'4" and would look like I'd gotten confused about the function of a camping tent. But I'm willing to bet my size 12 ass I could give her a run for her money in my denim hot pants.