What shall we drink to?

My previously mentioned plans to set up my own "wine cellar" have finally come together!

The bottles between the two red crates at the bottom are shop bought wine that I've acquired from various sources, one bottle was a present from some guy after I did some work on his house during my handyperson stint and the other two are from when I've done the "M&S dine in for £10" deal which you get a bottle of wine with. I haven't paid for wine in a long time, not since I was trying to impress a girl who asked me round for dinner and asked me to bring a bottle of wine "but not that homemade stuff". What I should have said is "If you want me, and you want me to bring wine, you can have a bottle of the wine I make with love and enthusiasm. Now please give me my heart back." With the exception of those three bottles, all the wine in my cellar in homemade.

The bottom four shelves of wine are for special occasions, as ever since I started making wine I've always tried to keep a bottle from each batch back. I don't want to get *too* precious about it, and I have drunk bottles from this category in the past to celebrate events. The first bottle in my collection is an elderflower made in Summer 2008. Two years of wine making!

After that, I have sorted the everyday wine into the following three categories:

• Wine made from flowers (red clover blossom, rose petal and elderflower)
• Wine made from fruit (date, strawberry jam, tangerine and raisin, peach-pear-and-pineapple, banana, plum mead, pear mead, elderberry)
• Wine made from tea (lapsang souchong, single estate ceylon infused with lemon, earl grey, peppermint)   

I'm enjoying some peach, pear and pinapple wine this evening. When I first tried it in last september as it came out the demi-john I was really disappointed, but it's definitely improved. And keeping it in the cellar means it's still nicely chilled without having to put it in the fridge.

I am completely over-excited at the thought of having people round to dinner and being able to go down into the cellar to choose the right bottle of wine to go with the meal. Hell, I'm even excited about scavenging more planks of wood and bricks to build more shelves to accomodate the wine I'm gonna make this year! I think it would be fair to say that I am very excited about the whole homemade wine situation in general.

Two steep streets, two sets of steps and two staircases up to my bed

Allowing myself one last look over my shoulder, this is the cherry blossom tree in the front garden of my old house. I collected enough blossom to make two gallons of wine, which is fermenting in a bucket in my new house.
It was a long, tiring weekend of moving that started first thing on Saturday and ended about 8pm on Sunday, but I had my sister and two of my best friends helping me move each and every item. I am now safely installed in my new home, on a surprisingly comfy sofa, with my cat purring away next to me. I made it.

To get to our new house, you have to climb up two of the steepest streets I have come across in Leeds (and that's not me exaggerating for dramatic effect), then from our street into our garden there are a couple of steps, and then at the end of the path two more steps up for good measure, before you are finally at the front door. And then my bedroom is in the attic. Both flights of stairs up there are pretty steep too...

I have done this journey with all my possessions by car and van, and after that I have pushed my bike up carrying groceries, and in today's case, a vacuum cleaner strapped to the pannier rack. I just hope my legs get strong soon, I'm still finding it pretty tiring.

I haven't finished unpacking yet, and the kitchen is full of crates of homemade wine stacked up all over the place so I have been eating a lot of pasta, as this requires minimal cooking preparation. I'm hoping to carry all the wine down to the cellar over the weekend and set up some makeshift shelves out of bricks and planks, not least so I can start cooking meals involving vegetables and more that one pan, which is all I have access to at the moment.

But I love the house. I love the wooden floors, and the alcoves for my bookcases, and the fact that I live in the attic bedroom, and the fact that we can have our own wine cellar. I love having a window in the bathroom, and a gas cooker in the kitchen. I love having a mantelpiece to put my toy canal boat on. I love being so close to woodhouse ridge that I can take an alternative route home through the trees without making a detour.

I think I'm going to be very happy here.

My favourite book(case)

This evening, I finally packed away this bookcase full of books into seven boxes, one for each shelf.

I reorganised my books into colour order a few months back, after struggling for years to find an organisational system that satisfied me. Alphabetical by author was too simplistic, and grouping by subject matter (feminist theory, fairytales, craft etc) was fine until I found something that didn't fit neatly into any of them, or straddled several subjects. I tried organising the short stories, fiction and non-fiction separately, but then what of writers who have written books that fit in each category? I didn't like the way that a writer who wrote mostly novels would suddenly have one of their books stranded several shelves away, when I had previously grouped them all together.

In the end, I decided to order my main bookcase by colour. All my previous attempts at classification have been abandoned and it's actually quite liberating. Fiction and non fiction nestle up together, united by the fact that they both have a cornflower blue spine. The only problem I have had is that if I can't remember what colour spine a book has, it takes me a little longer to find it than if I had ordered them more conventionally. But ordering my books in this way has made me look on them with fresh eyes, as I search for a particular title I come across other books to read that I might have looked over before when they were grouped by author, or genre.

(I do also have a smaller bookcase that contains a lot of books with either black, white or multicoloured spines - the ones that didn't lend themselves to this system!)

One of my favourite books about books, Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader, has an essay in which a house is rented to an interior designer for a few months, and on their return the owner finds he has completely re-ordered their books by colour. They are upset that their organisational system has been disrupted, that precious books have been reduced to mere blocks of colour.

Perhaps if I had previously struck upon an organisational system that made complete sense in terms of author, subject matter, style and genre then I wouldn't want to let it go (or have it taken away from me!) but as it is, I've always loved arranging things in colour order, and I've always loved books, so for me this is perfect.

(I've left the image size large so that when you click on it, you can see the image up close and see the spines of the books and read the titles, if you want. I'm always checking out other people's bookcases, although I believe looking at your bookcases will tell me what books you have, not what sort of person you are.)

Why I *still* worry about showing my body hair

I think about my own body hair a lot. In fact, it's one of those things where if I were to take all the time and energy I spent thinking about it, and save it up, I could do something pretty awesome and incredible. But instead I spend that time and energy thinking about what other people might think. (I'm working on that.)

I don't currently shave my legs or my armpits. I haven't done since about November, which was when my last disposable razor became blunt. Before that, I shaved intermittently, depending on my relationship status, the weather, and if I was going swimming much.
It's something I've been thinking about more lately, as it's getting to be the time of year when, if it's there, body hair will be on display. I've already braved hairy armpits in both social and work contexts with no comment, but hairy legs sticking out the edge of rolled up jeans have prompted comments ranging from piss-taking (being told by a man that they are almost as hairy as his) to surprise and disgust (being told, by an acquaintance who I do youth work with, that they were gross. I think she was more shocked than genuinely disgusted. Although none of the young people commented on the hair, which I was pleasantly surprised by.)

My last significant other made a point of saying that he didn't have an issue with my body hair, which I think is pretty sound. I felt comfortable having hairy legs and armpits around him, because it just wasn't an issue. Which it shouldn't be, to be honest.

But the person I was with before then didn't make me quite as comfortable. She didn't actively comment on my body hair, but she would frequently say (in all seriousness) "oh, I haven't shaved my legs, I'm sorry, they're disgusting..." to which I would always reply that they were fine, and really not disgusting. Her hair was a lot fairer than mine, so any growth was barely noticable, but that really wasn't the issue, I wouldn't have been bothered if she did have visible body hair! But her comments hardly made me feel that my body hair was something she would be accepting of, given the disgust she had for it on her own body.

I'm not currently in a relationship, so any decision I now make about my body hair doesn't take into account a girlfriend or boyfriend's preference or opinion. All I have to think about now is what I want. Well, what I want and also how much hassle I want to put up with when I go out in public.

I wish that I could go to work in a skirt without tights, without risking colleagues looking at my legs distastefully. I feel uncomfortable enough going swimming, without attracting scornful glances for not having shaved off any hair that might cause offense. I get enough street harassment for cycling through the city centre, without people being able to see when I stop at the traffic lights that my legs are hairy...

But then I admit, I don't know how colleagues would respond to my bare hairy legs, because I've never tried it. Each time it gets to be warm enough to wear a skirt without tights, I cave in and shave them. And then I keep shaving them. Until it's no longer leg-baring weather. We have a reasonably relaxed dress code in my office, but the only hair I have ever seen is above the shoulders. I can dress as smartly as I like, but if I walked into a meeting with hairy legs I would feel less confident than if they were either shaved or covered up. Maybe I'm worrying too much? Maybe a lot of people just won't care. But the people who have commented in the past, perhaps unthinkingly, made me feel incredibly self-conscious.

My hair is naturally dark and reasonably thick. If I have bare legs, you can see the hair on them. I'm slightly envious of female friends of mine with fairer body hair, who don't shave but also pass more easily in the world of smooth-legged women. Sometimes I get exasperated at myself for spending so much time thinking about society's response to my body hair, because I should be thinking about much more important things. But then I remember that it's ok to get upset about the small things too. And street harassment on the basis of my physical appearance is indicative of the wider problem that women's bodies are considered public domain.

Then this campaign caught my eye: Hairy Awarey Campaign. Running from 1st June - 31st July, it encourages women to grow and show their body hair during this period. The rationale is that many women remove or hide their body hair because of fears of a negative response from society, but if women all began showing their hair, then the taboo could be lifted. I've seen this work on a smaller scale - a lot of my ace feminist friends don't shave and that means that when we're out together, I don't feel self conscious about my body hair because I'm not the only one. To have that feeling of security on a larger scale would be incredible, and I like the idea enough to join the campaign. I had been thinking about shaving my legs and armpits this spring/summer, for an easier life, but I'm going to try and hold off. Sometimes just knowing that I have the support of other women is enough to make me feel strong.

Is there anything else I can help you with?

In lighter, brighter news; I've been notifying all the utility companies and service providers to let them know my new address, and when I rang 3 mobile, I gave my name and address to identify myself and the person I was speaking to said straight up:

"Hello, and can I just say, you have a *wonderful* voice!"

Which was nice to hear. I do have a very clear telephone voice. Maybe I should start using it in everyday conversation.

I've also been particularly enjoying the interaction I've had with British Gas over the past few weeks, the staff are always very patient and helpful, and at the end of the call they always check if there is anything else they can help me with. (I don't know, do you wanna help me bring down the kyriarchy?!) When you are on hold they play you an instrumental version of "The Universal" by Blur, which I find very soothing. So much so, that I have taken to playing it to myself when I need to calm down. I liked this song as a young teen, so it's got pleasant associations for me there too. Although an acquaintance who works at a call centre with a British Gas contract said she used to love this song until she had to listen to it everyday. Too much of a good thing perhaps.

Blur – The Universal (via spotify)

From bad to worse: trigger warning for rape-excusing bullshit

Last weekend, I was discussing with my parents and brother the reasons I find it hard to get along with him. A mediated discussion, if you will, to try and make our last fortnight of living together as smooth as possible.

I highlighted the difference between my values and his, and how these play out when he makes jokes about rape (along the lines of "well, she was asking for it, hur hur hur"). I don't think he actually *believes* that a woman wearing a short skirt is asking to be raped. The problem is that he thinks it's funny to joke about it. As I see it, the difference between me and my brother is that he thinks rape is an issue to be joked about, whereas I will fiercely, but calmly, challenge rape humour whenever I hear it. I would hope, on a basic level, he would agree with me that women never deserve to be raped.

BUT the gap between my dad's views and mine seems to be a lot wider. When I was giving the example of my brother joking about women "asking for it (rape)" my dad's response was along the lines of...

"Well to be honest when you have these young women who dress provocatively and go out and get completely drunk and then lead these young men on and get them all fired up, and then have a moment of clarity and decide they don't want to sleep with them, well I think those women need to take responsibity!"

WOAH.

To me, that sounds a lot like a reworking of the "she was asking for it". It sounds like in this imagined situation, if a woman was drunk, and wearing clothes that a man deemed to be worn to encourage him, if she had behaved in a way that he believed was leading her on, and he had then tried to have sex with her, he wouldn't need her consent because she has been behaving in a way that effectively gives consent. If he has sex with her against her will, that is, *if he rapes her*, she needs to take responsibility for that.

NO! If a man has sex with a woman against her will, he needs to take responsibility for the fact that he is a rapist. Anything else is victim-blaming, rape-excusing rubbish. And I can't believe I am having to have this argument with my father!

There are so many things wrong here.

• The idea that women who are drunk are at fault for letting their guard down (not the fact that after a certain point of drunkeness, a person can't legally consent to sex).
  
• That if women dress a certain way it automatically suggests sexual availability (rather than a woman wearing clothes she wants to wear for any number of other reasons. Those reasons may include attracting the opposite sex, but they are not an invitation to sex).
  
• That if a woman 'leads a man on' she has to expect to have sex with him. (This one really makes me angry. The idea that if you cross a particular threshold - flirting, dancing with, accepting a drink, kissing, getting naked with... that once that threshold has been crossed you lose the right to say no to sex.)

The most terrifying thing was that this wasn't someone joking about rape culture, dragging out the tired "she was asking for it, hur hur hur" formula. This was an adult, trying to to explain to me that in certain situations, women are responsible for being raped.
I raised the concern that my brother makes jokes about women being responsible for being raped, in the hope that my parents would back me up and agree that rape isn't an issue to joke about, but instead my dad went off on a tangent to explain how sometimes, he thinks it *is* a woman's responsibility that she was raped.

I was so completely floored by this comment that I could hardly respond.

I told him I completely disagreed about that hypothetical scenario, that I felt that two people could even be in bed naked together and a woman could still say she didn't want to have sex, and if the man forced sex upon her that would be rape.
But that also, we weren't talking about if it was a woman's responsibility that she was raped in any given hypothetical situation, we were talking about whether it was ok to joke about it!

I was shocked that my father held these views. Shocked and upset. What if I had been the woman in his hypothetical scenario? If I had had (what he deemed to be) too much to drink, if I was wearing (what he deemed to be) provocative clothing, if I had been behaving in way that (he deemed) was leading a man on, if I ended up in a situation where a man tried and/or succeeded to have sex without my consent, then would I be the one needing to take responsibility?

I didn't ask him if his point of view would still be the same if I was the woman in his story. Because it was bad enough hearing him blame this hypothetical woman for being raped. I didn't want to hear him saying he would feel the same if it was me.

To her credit, my mum did state that she didn't share my dad's views. But my brother said nothing.

I know that my father and I have different views on many things. I suspect I come across to him as a progressive who is so open-minded her brain is about to fall out. A woolly-minded guardian-reading liberal. We disagree about a lot of things, and I can usually cope with that. I put it down to the fact that we are from different generations, that we have very different life experiences. We generally have a good relationship, and I'm not holding up this one interchange as a representative snapshot of what he is like. I don't think he is a bad person.

I just thought he would share my view that women are never asking to be raped. I thought that was one of my less radical, progressive views. It would appear I was mistaken.

We're grown-ups now, and it's our turn to decide what that means.

When I dyed my hair red last weekend, my brother commented, in front of his girlfriend, that "I never dyed my hair because I didn't feel the need to rebel against Mum and Dad."
The unspoken flipside of this is that I must have dyed my hair as an act of rebellion.

When I first dyed my hair (bright pink) it was after watching "All Over Me" with my first girlfriend. It's a film about growing up, coming out and loss of innocence, with a riot grrrl soundtrack. One of the characters (played by Leisha Hailey, from the band The Murmurs, and later the L Word) has the most adorable candyfloss pink hair. And we wanted hair like her. And we wanted hair like each other. So we bleached our hair, and dyed it pink. We were 16. I'm perhaps giving my teenage self more credit than she deserves, but I really don't remember it as an act of rebellion, any more than having a girlfriend was an act of rebellion. It wasn't the expected thing I would do, but that doesn't mean I did it for rebellion's sake.

I dyed my hair red again in my early twenties, again because I wanted to. I think I must have had a shop job at the time, either in a second hair record shop, or a fairtrade shop, I can't when it was exactly. But it wasn't a big deal. I was the same person as before, but with red hair.

And this time, almost ten years after first dyeing my hair, it is still not an act of rebellion. My parents may not approve of some of my lifestyle choices (my weight and nose piercings being the two big ones), but I hope they recognise that I didn't make them because they wouldn't approve.
I am holding down a full-time job in the public sector, with both my immediate line manager and overall manager telling me how fantastic my hair looks. They are not telling me that my "act of rebellion" isn't appreciated, or that it is inappropriate. I am good at my job. I have red hair. I am not rebelling against my parents, nor against "the establishment". I just like having red hair. And the colour of my hair is not affecting my ability to do my job. I know, incredible huh?

I do not fit the conventional ideal of "what is attractive" or "how people should live". I am overweight. I do not have shaved legs or armpits. I have two nose rings. And I now have red hair. I have relationships with men and women, sometimes (shock horror) at the same time. I don't watch tv. I have vegan aspirations. I can't drive yet but that doesn't bother me because I ride my bike everywhere.

My brother is, in my opinion, fairly conventional. He is conventionally attractive, slim, dresses in smart-to-trendy clothes. He has had a string of what appear to me to be fairly conventional heterosexual relationships. He is training to be a primary school teacher.

Sometimes I wonder if his comments and criticisms about my "rebellious lifestyle" are perhaps an expression of ennui at the path he has mapped out for himself. Are the people who criticise us for not conforming to the way they feel adults should live, are they secretly jealous that we are making our own rules whilst they feel trapped by having to do what society expects of them?

This is me, as an adult. I am not rebelling. I may do things that other adults wouldn't do, that don't fit their vision of what adults are supposed to do, but that doesn't matter. I am confident that I am living a life of which I can be proud.

This xkcd comic hits the nail on the head: We're grown-ups now, and it's our turn to decide what that means

I find the idea that I can create my own version of adulthood an intoxicating concept. I get to choose where I work, where I live, who I spend time with. I get to choose what I eat, what I spend my money on, and what I do with my free time. I can make all these choices whilst still playing by the rules of society's prescribed living, even if I am bending them slightly at times.

And if I start breaking the rules, there's an even wider world out there...