‘That’s nice,’ I thought, because it’s always nice to have a new follower. I had a brief look at his profile and thought he looked fairly interesting, so I followed him back and thought nothing of it.

A few days later, in connection with my food blog, I posted this:

And a few minutes later, @Mr_Fitzgerald replied that the cheesecake looked ‘hypnotic’. Now there’s a good word. And to cut a long story short, it’s a year later, he’s my boyfriend, and we’re living together. And it’s kind of lovely.

People are always amazed when I tell them I met my boyfriend on Twitter. For those not on it, and those who doubt its worth, let me explain: it’s the biggest conversation in the world. You can have your own tiny little conversation with friends, you can interact with strangers, you can just sit and listen – but it really is one big global chat. You don’t have to follow the people that are just tweeting what they had for lunch – you can follow people that inspire you, people that make you laugh, people who you grow to know and befriend. It’s what you make of it – and you can make it really bloody good fun.

So when I got a tweet about a cheesecake from a boy I didn’t know, I replied. He tweeted me a picture of a cheesecake he’d eaten that day. And as he was on a catered residential course with work, he send me a picture of his pudding* every lunch time for two weeks. I started looking forward to it. And then, once his course was over, we continued chatting. A couple of weeks later, we decided it would be fun to meet up in real life and go for a drink. We ended up at a cake show, followed by wine, followed by dinner, followed by wine, followed by a hangover. Our second date was 3 days later.

The best thing of all about meeting someone on Twitter is that I wasn’t expecting to. I would never have predicted it. Neither of us had an agenda when we joined Twitter in 2009 – spookily, within 5 hours of each other on the exact same day. As far as I knew, I was having a nice chat with someone about cheesecake. There was never the awkwardness associated with online dating, or that slight weirdness of meeting a stranger in a bar. It was just two people who’d found something in common and were having a nice little pressure-free chat about it. And that conversation became another conversation, that became another conversation, that became a relationship. It was the most natural thing in the world.

So, 2 weeks away from our anniversary, I raise a toast to Twitter, to love, and to @Mr_Fitzgerald. He’s a good egg, and he has very nice arms. And honestly? I’ve never been happier.

*not a euphemism, behave!

This time two years ago, I started Peach Trees and Bumblebees. I didn’t start out to be a food blogger – in fact I wasn’t really aware that food blogging even existed. I bought the domain name so I could learn how to build a site on WordPress without any pressure. I was rebuilding my previous employer’s website at the time, and having another domain name to play with was just a way of practising new techniques and learning some WordPress magic.

Peach Trees became a food blog when I realised that I could use it as a place to plonk all my family recipes. I was forever ringing up my mum for her recipes, and it made sense to me to have somewhere I could access wherever I was. So Peach Trees was started for purely selfish reasons! Then, as I got more involved with food blogging, I saw an opportunity to create a community – a place where other people could post their recipes too. And if they had food blogs of their own, they could link them in the recipes and we could share the love and the foodie joy.

Two years later, Peach Trees has over 3,000 unique visitors a month, which, though it isn’t a huge figure, still blows my mind. It’s still my personal recipe database and I probably use it more than anyone, but it’s also a fantastic source of inspiration. I’m forever trying new recipes and fiddling with recipes so I’ve got something new to share. It’s safe to say my diet isn’t boring any more.

Being a food blogger has brought so much into my life – not just freebies (which are fabulous), but also new people, new experiences, and obviously new foods and cuisines. I’ve been lucky enough to try out some truly fantastic restaurants, and I get to go to all sorts of cool events. I’ve met so many amazing people and incredible cooks through blogging and I’ve learnt loads. I worked my arse off for the first 18 months and the last few months have been a bit calmer. Luckily I’ve done the hardest bit, so now I just enjoy keeping it up to date and full of new recipes.

I didn’t launch Peach Trees until July 2011, but I started building it in late March, so I say happy almost birthday to my little food blog. If you’re thinking about starting a blog (whatever the subject), I would really recommend it. Having a project that’s completely yours and separate from work etc can be very freeing and relaxing, and you never know what blogging will bring you.

Image from blogs.siuc.edu

Is the F word a dirty word? When I asked my now boyfriend on our first date if he was a feminist, he said no, he was an ‘equalist’. But shouldn’t that be the same thing? Isn’t feminism, at its heart, about equality? I am still surprised when people, especially women, tell me that they don’t identify as feminists. So I’ve written down some thoughts on why that might be… Feel free to add your own in the comments, or feel free to disagree!

1) Men and women are equal now – we don’t need feminists anymore

Despite the fact that we have come along way since the fight for women’s suffrage, there is still a lot to do in order to realise full equality between men and women. For one thing, the pay gap in the UK has been around 25% since 2000 – that’s 12 years with no improvement. And at the moment, women make up just over 15% of board members.

Looking at the disturbing idiocy of sites like unilad.com (this link goes to our posts related to unilad, not to the site itself), shows there is a lot to be done to get rid of misogyny and sexism. It is incredibly ignorant to assume that just because we have the vote and can drive in the western world, women and men are treated as equals. We still need feminism.

If you have a spare 15 minutes, DO check out this amazing video of Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard delivering the mother of all smackdowns to the leader of the opposition concerning his misogynistic and sexist hypocrisy.

2) Feminists hate men

This might be one of the biggest (and most disturbing?) misconceptions about feminists. Feminism at its most basic is about equality - not supremacy. Hating men would have absolutely no positive impact, as the only way we can achieve equality is through men and women working together. We need men to be on board with us if we are ever going to change things – so hating them will achieve absolutely nothing.

Besides, I like men. They can be really fun and sometimes they make you eggy crumpets when you’re hungover. And my dad makes the best pavlova in the world.

3) Feminists are militant fun sponges  

“Feminists do not know how to have fun. Every conversation is an angry rant from an uptight woman who’s probably just in need of a good shag.” Yes – that is actually an argument someone used in front of me during a discussion about feminism. I almost had to laugh. In the same conversation he used the word ‘feminazi’ and ‘man hating’. Au contraire, mon frere. Most of my female friends are feminists and they are some of the funniest, coolest, kinkiest people you will ever meet. And boy, do they get laid. I’m absolutely, passionately, and resolutely feminist in my views, but I don’t bring it up in every single conversation and I don’t shout down people who don’t agree with me.

Yes, some feminists are militant, but that’s a good thing. We need some of us to be the passionate ones, that march and scream and shout about it. But it’s also ok if you’re not that way inclined. No one wants to spend seven days a week angry. I like talking about feminism because I like to understand why people don’t identify as such (for me it is the default position – I am usually amazed that people don’t realise that it’s essentially about equal rights for women AND men). But I have never once yelled at someone for not agreeing with me.

4) You cannot be a feminist and a housewife

This is another popular myth – even among people who identify as feminists. Feminism is about equality, and part of equality is having the right to choose what you want to do. I believe as a modern woman that you have just as much right to choose to be a stay at home mum as you do to be a rocket scientist. Being a housewife used to be the default – it used to be the very symbol of female oppression. Well, I don’t think it is anymore. You should be able to choose what you do. See the movie Mona Lisa Smile for more on this.

It annoys me when people suggest that baking cupcakes or wearing aprons or going to sewing classes is a step backwards for women. It’s not. It’s not symptomatic of a mass regression into the days where women were expected to be at home all day – if anything I think reclaiming such hobbies is a positive thing. If no one is standing over you demanding that you darn socks and put dinner on the table by six, I say sew on. The current fashion for twee is harmless – it is not the first sign of the apocalypse, and it is not damaging to the feminist cause. You can absolutely enjoy knitting and baking while simultaneously campaigning for equality. To suggest cupcakes and feminism are mutually exclusive is to make women one dimensional. Equality should encompass the freedom to choose your hobbies.

5) Feminists are all hairy-legged bra-burners

Bra-burning has to be one of the most ridiculous myths. Bras are designed for support, not restriction. If you’re small-breasted, let your boobs fly free – but if you have rather larger breasts, bras are fairly essential for comfort. Besides, a quality bra is expensive – so bra-burning really isn’t a sustainable activity in this economy.

And the phrase ‘hairy-legged feminists’ is one that just seems to roll off the tongue, like ‘chocolate chip cookie’. Shaving and waxing are 100% personal choices that generally do not have a much of a bearing on your views on equality. Some women don’t shave in order to make a point about beauty standards, others just prefer to be au naturale – but the thing to remember is that women that do shave/wax and women who wear make up etc are just as likely to be feminists than those who don’t. Shaving your legs, waxing your bikini line, and having a minor addiction to Lancome does not make you a bad feminist – it’s a personal choice. The bullshit argument that says women wear make up and shave to please men is nonsense. I do not get up in the morning and think, ‘I reckon the patriarchy will be pleased by my freshly waxed eyebrows today’. (Though if you are thinking that at 7am then you might want to have a word with yourself.) It’s none of your damn business if someone, feminist or not, decides to let nature keep them cosy or not. It’s about the freedom to do what you want and not prevent others from doing their own thing.

So, what are your top myths about feminism?

Protestors against street harassment in Washington DC. Image from sarah-graham.co.uk

I don’t remember the first time I properly started to think about (street) harassment and how it affects me. It might have been this excellent post by @pleasedonteatjo, or this totally fabulous example of solidarity from @laurenbravo. Either way, until recently, I’d always just ignored it. Accepted it. Let it slide. But since we’ve been talking about it more, I’ve started to get annoyed. I’ve started to get really bloody angry. Because it’s not okay to treat a woman like she’s nothing more than the sum of her orifices. And nine times out of ten, that’s what street harassment is. It’s not a friendly man complimenting you on your fine choice of lipstick – it’s a bloke saying something creepy under his breath just as you walk past him; it’s a group of lads yelling ‘suck my cock’ from a passing car; it’s the nutter in a corner shop, telling you to bend over.

It’s not okay, and it’s scary as shit. I’ve finally gotten the confidence to actually start shouting back (though only in crowded places and/or broad daylight – it would be stupid to put yourself in actual danger by provoking the wrong person). Having witnessed @alice_emily in a spectacular moment where she told off two harassers on Charing Cross Road, I’m now in full support of reacting angrily.

But what about the times when you can’t really shout back? I was at a bit of a mental house party a couple of weeks ago. I only knew a handful of people, and I was having a good time catching up and snaffling a lovely G&T. As the night went on, the party got busier and the pupils of the people around me got wider. I was standing by the bathroom at one point, when an absolute scrotum of a man walked past me and full on brushed my left breast with his hand. Not an actual lengthy grope, but a distinctive, single stroke down the length of it. I jerked, stunned and did a sort of ‘what the fuck’ gesture with my arms, but he was already gone. I stood there for a second, wondering if anyone else had seen. They hadn’t. I felt indignant but sort of helpless. There was no chance for me to chase after him and berate him – after all, it could have been an accident (it wasn’t).

Later, that same man pushed past me again and this time, did the exact same stroke-as-he-walked-past right up my bum cheek. Again, I felt immediately very uncomfortable and I think I actually said ‘what the fuck’, but he was already off and away. I mentioned it to my boyfriend, who wanted to know who it was. I didn’t tell him, because picking an argument with someone who’s high off their ass on coke and already bug-eyed is never going to end well. I told myself if he did it again, I would crush him (drunk me may be a bit of a drama queen). Thankfully, we left shortly after. I continued to seethe.

I’ve talked about harassment a lot with my boyfriend, who is always horrified. He never sees it. We joke that he’s my talisman, because it does (obviously?) happen less when he’s with me. But the following day, we were walking down the escalator at a tube station, me with my maxi dress hitched up so I don’t get sucked in and vaporised, and it happens. Just as I walk past an older man in a suit, he says ‘lovely legs, sexy lady’ with a weird, hungry smile. I am instantly annoyed, throwing a ‘fuck off’ over my shoulder. As I get off, I turn to the boyfriend. “There! Did you see that?!” He didn’t. Because it was sneaky. It wasn’t a man in a hard hat yelling ‘tits’ while hanging off some scaffolding – it was a fairly ordinary looking businessman saying something quietly when I am less than a foot away from him. It’s not street harassment – it’s sneak harassment.

Last week, on the District line, I put my hand up to hold the rail above me. It wasn’t particularly crowded and there was lots of room. The man nearest me put his hand on the rail too, touching mine. I instinctively moved mine a few inches along. He moved his along so our hands touched again. I moved along again. He followed. Then put his foot against mine. Everytime I moved, he would follow. I became so uncomfortable, that I switched carriages. Should I have said something? What am I meant to accuse him of? Excuse me, strange man, but please stop harassing my phalanges with your sweaty palms? Please don’t put your hushpuppies near my pumps? Please don’t breathe on me when there is clearly several feet of empty space around both of us?

I have no problem at all with chatting to strangers, or a stranger complimenting someone on the way they look. I know a couple that met on a tube, another that met in a lift. It’s perfectly okay to speak to strike up a friendly chat with a perfect random. But it’s not cool when you’re subtly putting that person in an uncomfortable position. Deliberately pressing your crotch into someone on a crowded tube is not only unacceptable, it’s icky. Kind of like when your cat presents you with a dead mouse. But it’s hard to find the balance between telling someone you’re uncomfortable, and making things really bloody awkward. As Brits, awkwardness is just something we don’t do. I hate it. And when I can call out harassment, I do. But when it’s sneaky, you know the person’s getting off on the fact that you can’t say anything. They’re getting away with it in broad daylight, because you risk embarrassing everyone on the train if you actually say something, or wrongly accuse someone. It’s a social-political nightmare.

So what do you do? My boyfriend suggests staring them down, but honestly, if someone’s creeped me out, the last thing I want to do is look them in the eye for any length of time. I’ve thrown a few casual glares around, but is it enough? How can we fix a problem when it’s barely on the radar? Or do we just have to get on with it? I don’t want to have to accept that sneak harassment is something that just happens. I want a solution! So, any ideas?!

Screengrab from Blokely.com

A couple of days ago, I read a piece on Blokely* (a man-website which I am quite fond of), which left me feeling a little cold. ‘I can teach you how to get a woman into bed’ tells the story of Kezia Noble, a 28-year-old pick up artist (PUA), whose career is based around teaching men how to “have one night stands, bed strippers and blag threesomes”.

The phrasing is deliberately provocative – it begs you to jump up on a feminist soapbox and decry misogyny. Indeed the first line of the piece is “many women may hate the fact I teach men the tricks of getting women into bed but I don’t care”. Oh, sweetie.

She claims to be the only female PUA, a fact which she emphasises through her constant reiteration that women hate what she does. She’s inviting angry blogs from women. She wants the publicity for her business. Anyone will read a headline if it contains something juicy. It’s horribly deliberate. But I also imagine her own insecurities play a role in this over-confident peacocking – the constant reminder that she is the cool, edgy, sexy girl that will get you laid. By the time she brags that her book, 15 Steps to Becoming a Master Seducer (*snorts*) has been quoted as being “The book women do not want men to read and I know women will hate,” her whole act is just starting to feel… desperate.

But the funny thing is, I don’t hate Kezia for what she does for a living. I don’t care that she teaches men how to approach women. Let’s face it, some men (and indeed some women) really do need the help – even if it’s just to boost their confidence. I am not a prude – sex is great fun, whether it’s a fleeting one night stand, that amazing few weeks when you’ve just started seeing someone new, or with someone you’ve been married to for 20 years. I am definitely pro sex. And hey, if you want to go out and shag someone new every night of the week, that’s your prerogative. I will toast to your multiple orgasms and mad sexual adventures with gusto.

The thing that irritated me is that she’s put women in a box. Not only does she earmark strippers as a particular sexual target (more on that later), she seems to think that the key to getting women into bed is to trick them into it. The ‘push/pull’ method of being nice and then cold to a woman apparently has a very high success rate. She knows this because her sulky ex-boyfriend made her really horny with his moodiness. “If my ex tried it on and I said I wasn’t in the mood, instead of trying to convince me, he would freeze me out and just turn on the TV. I suddenly felt rejected and not sexy enough to keep him interested. Before I knew it I was climbing all over him, desperate to prove to him that I was hot and horny!” What a brilliant message.

I’m sure in this instance it was all very playful, and that the anecdote is something that shouldn’t be read into, but she finishes the story with this: “If a woman feels rejected, she’ll try her hardest to prove herself – and in this case, she’s very likely to jump into bed with the man in question.” The treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen routine is one of the oldest tricks in the book, but when taught as an actual step, it just seems a little… sinister. It’s essential that you jeopardise her self-esteem so she has to prove her self-worth by sleeping with you! Bravo, chaps. Tally ho!

Back to the stripper thing. There’s a whole paragraph about bedding strippers. Strippers, it seems, are not women. Not really. They are literally stripped of all other characteristics and are defined solely by their sexual characteristics. They are not mothers, or daughters, or sisters, or wives (more of this in our super  blog from earlier this year). Stripping has reduced them to a state of walking sex – the available yet unavailable conquest. So naturally, Kezia suggests “heightening their insecurities”. That way, you can “go home with the stripper of your choice”. Oh em gee. Who knew it was that simple! Had I known that, I would have picked up two strippers last week with my Tesco shop! I’ve known some strippers in my time, and most of them would eat you alive. Their business is horny men – do you really think the cheap backhand compliment is going to get you laid? Oh, Kezia. I almost want to hug you.

And the funniest thing of all is that sex is so much better than she makes out. She talks about getting laid and having one night stands, but she doesn’t seem to really get it. Through all her rules and tricks, she implies that women don’t actually want to have sex. They must be cajoled and persuaded and manipulated. God forbid a woman might actually want to get laid. Woman has no agenda – she is a passive barfly, waiting for you to insult her into bed with you.

Part of the fun of sex (in my opinion, anyway) is that there are no rules. We are all as weird as each other. Every single one of us has sexual hang ups, fantasies, fetishes, and skeletons under the bed (perhaps literally, if that’s what you’re into). Kezia reduces sex into a quick and dirty night with a stranger you’ve manipulated into bed. Is the woman who is sleeping with you to prove she’s sexy going to be the best shag of your life? Probably not. Is the stripper you’ve miraculously taken home going to rock your world? Not if she’s been straddling 15 other desperate wankers that night. Nope, sex should be a LOT more organic than that. It’s supposed to be fun. You can’t create that sort of spontaneity through a set of rules. And if you’re looking for something more long-term, you probably aren’t going to be creating solid foundations if you’ve had to make her cry first.

So, Kezia, I salute you. You are a lady pioneer in the field of pick up artistry. It is always good to see a woman making her way in a male-dominated environment. And good for you for running a successful business. But please keep your douchebag puppets out of my knickers. I don’t have anything to prove.

Image from someecards.com

Last week, I finally started to feel like a grown up. And it wasn’t because I’d moved out of home (9 months ago), it wasn’t because I started nine to five life (13 months ago) and it wasn’t because I’d finally figured out how to wear bronzer without looking like an orang-utan (2 weeks ago. Shh.). No, last week the big event that woke me up to being an actual functioning adult was this: my Nectar card arrived.

Ok, let me preface this post by saying that this blog has not been sponsored by Sainsbury’s, or the Nectar card people (though guys, do feel free to throw some dollah or some free brioche my way). Nope, I’m writing it because getting my Nectar card genuinely made me realise I am actually an adult. A useful(ish) member of society. A real, working person. An grown up, capable of earning her own moolah, running a business, and (one day, hopefully) making other mini adults.

Woah*. Woah. It only seems like yesterday that I was playing Stingray in a muddy backgarden** , when my biggest fear about growing up was that I wouldn’t know how to pay bills. I guess I never quite envisaged the having-a-job bit of adult life, but still. Now I pay about ten different bills every month. By direct debit. On time.

I suppose being an adult has been creeping up on me for a little while now. Everything I’ve done up till now has just felt like the next natural step. There was never a moment where I lept off the barge labelled ‘childhood’ and landed on the iceflow of ‘young adulthood’. I don’t know what I was expecting. We’re not the sort of culture that parties at your first period, so there’s never been an opportune moment to say oh hai, you’re an adult now.

So yes, the Nectar card. As someone that now shops at Sainsbury’s, I get asked on a weekly basis if I have a Nectar card. I have always said no, and waved it off casually. A couple of weeks ago, the same happened but I suddenly thought, NO. I don’t have a Nectar card, but I could have one. And I asked the man how to get one. It had never occurred to me that I could actually have my own, probably because none of my family has ever had one. And it was this moment that made me realise, WOAH. I am totes my own person. I am totes an adult with her own independent means and financials. I am totes capable of having my own Nectar card without first asking for the advice or permission of an elder. YE GADS, I am going to take this Nectar card and I am going to RULE THE WORLD.

Ok. Perhaps a slight exaggeration. I mean I coped just fine with my Boots card, obtained aged 14 (thank you Boots, for keeping me in Lancôme). I have coped just fine with debit cards, credit cards, railcards, library cards, that little card that tells me my NI number. But I think the Nectar card, being brand new Fryer territory, had just eluded me. Shrouded in mystery, it remained something I’d never really considered getting. And yet now, as a normal (!) functioning human, I have claimed my right to go where no Fryer has ever gone before.

So I’m finally starting to realise that I’m an adult now. An adult that enjoys Disney movies and owns High School Musical socks, but an adult nonetheless. And it’s kind of marvellous. I’m not ready to have a house and 2.4 children, but I’m ready to poke my nose into the real world. Who knows, I might get a pony or a Vespa next.

~

*’woah’ is actually a common mispelling of the exclamation ‘whoa’, but I think that looks funny, so I’m sticking with my version.
**not a euphemism. Behave.

It’s no secret that funny women have fairly poor representation in the mass media – but not so on Twitter. On Twitter funny women are queens. Twitter is a new world, a microcosm of society in which there are fewer rules, greater freedom and no oppressive history. The voices that are coming through, from the Caitlin Morans and India Knights to the @NotRollergirl’s and @peachesanscream’s, are the free thinking, intelligent (and often hilarious) voices that need to be heard – and Twitter is listening.

I don’t know what it is about women, but there’s definitely a wavelength, and most of us seem to be on it. We’re all wildly different, with our unique idiosyncrasies and whathaveyou; we’re not all friends, we don’t all believe in the same things, and we don’t all like each other, but it’s there. Women have a certain je ne sais quoi that makes being a woman something of a shared experience. Was it the centuries of oppression, inequality or second-class-citizenship? A shared sense of humour over the boatload of biological crap sent our way? Could it be a hormonal or evolutionary thing? Or is it something else? Whatever it is, throughout history women have categorically stuck together in a way that is quite different to men. The female relationship has been a core element of the human race since the dawn of time. And now it’s permeating the Twitterverse faster than the latest animal flu.

I sometimes wonder if Twitter is particularly great for women because for the first time, it doesn’t matter at all what you look like, what you sound like, or what do you. It’s a whole new generation of media, defined by the thoughts and opinions of those we choose to listen to. We don’t have to hear what Cameron has to say, we don’t have to follow The Sun, or Piers Morgan or Justin Bieber. We can select exactly which voices we want to hear. The women who are making noise on Twitter have something to say. We’re all talking to each other. We’re making each other laugh. The experience of womanhood (which, let’s face it, is no picnic) is no longer something you write about in your diary, by torchlight, under a duvet – it’s writ large in 140 character soundbites, offering humour, wisdom and real consideration. It’s sort of magic.

AWOT is living, breathing proof, that the female relationship, or at least the female dialogue, is alive and well. I, like most Twitter addicts, follow a few hundred people (both menfolk and ladies). But more often than not, it is the women who’ve provoked a reaction. It’s the women in my timeline that are having the interesting conversations (just google #presleepliedown) and it’s the women who are building actual relationships. That’s not to say I don’t love and respect the male presence on Twitter too – I do – but the female conversation on Twitter is just different. It feels more real.

Take for instance, this story from Lauren Bravo, who more or less rescued a fellow lady from a man harassing her on the street. Lauren acted out a whole charade of female friendship with a complete stranger to get rid of a creepy man, in an act of solidarity that goes above and beyond the usual call of duty. There’s a real message there, about women and (though I loathe to say it), the sisterhood. It exists, people. It always has. So it makes sense that the relationships that were once built over years of socialising and time-spending, are now built online in 140 characters or less. Twitter is enabling conversations and women are owning that shit.

No one IRL sends me pictures of ferrets in tuxedos, no one else writes the thought-provoking posts that stay with you all day, no one else can champion the hashtag  #cheesecoma with such joyful abandon. So this International Women’s Day, I raise a gin and tonic to the wonderful women of Twitter. It is OUR day.

I will see you gorgeous ladies this evening! Roll on the gin!

Yesterday, Jezebel posted a brilliant piece, titled, ‘Is pubic hair coming back into fashion?’ (NSFW). If you haven’t, go read it now. To summarise, this year has seen a handful of models pose with actual pubic hair. Which is apparently totally shocking, in an age where we watch programmes with (fictional) prime ministers, er, assaulting pigs.

The post naturally sparked some bush chatter on Twitter, with some expressing disgust and others welcoming the idea. There is, and has always been, something of a divide on the subject. But what irritates me is that we shouldn’t be shocked to see a neatly groomed lady garden. We shouldn’t be pointing and staring at something so natural. We should be totally unaffected. After all, a full bush is nature’s way of keeping your goodies warm.

But alas, mainstream culture and pornography have put the naked vagina on a pedestal and here we are: surprised at the sight of something ‘Other’, which 99% of adults naturally possess. Almost all modern pornography (I, er, imagine) depicts women (and in many cases men) with no public hair whatsoever, and the knock on effect (described wonderfully by Caitlin Moran in How to be a Woman) is that women are forced to buy back their sexuality with expensive and painful waxes. But how much of that is our fault?

This song makes a fantastic point and it’s totally brilliant. Watch.

It’s not a secret that women are particularly susceptible to body issues and insecurities. Both sexes are inundated with society’s picture perfect idea of beauty – the women are all ultra slim with disproportionately large breasts and the men all look like Ryan Reynolds. But is the pressure to wax away your love rug coming from men, or from society at large? Just who are we waxing for, and why?

When I tweeted about the magical muff yesterday, I was surprised to receive three DM’s from male friends, extolling the virtues of the vagina naturale. Had I been wrong all these years? Did men really not give a shit?

“If someone *likes* being completely bare, that’s fine (and despite the fact it doesn’t do it for me, no guy who’s not a dickhead will actually complain to you),” says one of my male Twitter amigos. “But the idea that it’s every man’s fantasy is just so, so wrong. From my perspective, a guy in his early 20s, I don’t care what you’ve done with your pubic hair. I don’t anything with mine, so why should I expect you to? If you want to then go ahead, but I’m not going to insist you do anything. That’s not out of some sense of chivalry; I just don’t care. I’ve never slept with anyone who’s been clean-shaven, and I don’t want to. It just looks pre-pubescent and creepy.”

As I mentally tallied up the precious pounds and hours I’d spent in waxing salons, I started to wonder if we’d been duped all along into thinking our vaginas are only attractive when they look like this. Why do we feel the pressure to be hairless if the people who actually see our ladyparts don’t give a shit?! [insert conspiracy theory about waxing salons and marketing campaigns]

Of course, the most important thing here is that it is a woman’s right to choose how she styles herself. Waxing is absolutely a personal choice. What I find irritating is that we’ve been sold the idea (thank you Carrie sodding Bradshaw et al) that our vaginas should be waxed. And now we’re getting our knickers in a twist over pictures of pubic hair in magazines. And yet clearly, not every man has been pre-programmed to expect vaginas to be hair-free, shiny and made of diamonds.

If the bush is back, I’m all for it. I really hope the fashion and porn industries can embrace a little lady fluff. Style your lady gardens however you want to – but remember – nine times out of ten it’s only you that cares.

Since posting Wednesday’s blog about the AWOT venue debacle, I’ve been inundated with messages and tweets asking me to name the venue in question. I’ve still not confirmed anything and have not made any public allegations regarding the matter via Twitter. And even though it’s extremely tempting, I’ve decided not to publicly name and shame them. Because really, what would that achieve?

AWOT was born out of a desire to celebrate something wonderful. I wanted a chance to meet and get to know the brilliant, smart and wickedly funny women who make up a huge part of my online life. AWOT has always been about celebration. And while I am shocked and disappointed by what happened with our first venue, it is not the venue that is the problem. It is the attitude. It’s not one woman’s ignorance about ‘feminism and women’s lib’ that upsets me – it’s that there continues to be a huge amount of misunderstanding over what feminism actually is. AWOT is not a feminist group. We do not have any sort of agenda (beyond cake and gin consumption). We are not a political group, we are not activists and we are not a cult. We are a fabulous and fizzy mix of brilliance. A completely undefinable group of individuals sharing something wonderful. The only thing we have in common so far is awesomeness and ladyparts.

What happened with the venue is more saddening than anything, because it shows a fundamental lack of understanding. Calling out the venue and publicly naming them might seem like the right thing to do, but what would it really achieve? I’ve written to the venue and asked for an apology, which they’ve more or less given me. What more is there to do? Naming them publicly could cause a huge backlash and the woman (who I honestly believe just doesn’t understand it all) could lose her job. AWOT is not about hate. This has never, ever been a witch hunt.

And look what we’ve achieved already. We got Twitter talking. We got people raging. We got people from far and wide who’d never heard of us to listen and share our anger. We had a lovely, beautifully written blog on the Huffington Post front page. We got people to sit up and take notice, and the message rang out all across Twitter that that was Not Right. You only have to look at the #AWOT hashtag to see the glory of it all. And if nothing else, we found a fantastic new venue (check out Liberty Lounge) to host us for the evening. They even waived the £250 deposit for us because they believe in what we’re doing. If you ask me, we’ve done pretty well.

So please understand why I’m sticking to my guns and refusing to make a statement naming the venue. This is a decision I’ve thought long and hard about. I am more than happy to discuss it off the record but I’m not interested in vendettas and I do not want AWOT to turn into anything other than a brilliant evening. If we name them, this whole thing becomes ABOUT them. And it’s not about them at all. It’s about us. Speaking of which, I’m EVEN MORE excited now. It is going to be one glorious, cakey, gintastic night.

Finally, I’d like to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who’s raged and shouted and retweeted and supported. The reaction to this has blown my mind. Thank you for safeguarding my faith in humanity, you beautiful creatures.

#AWOT