Gender matters

The media image is a Teflon-coated bitch who wants to buy a baby like a Marc Jacobs bag Published: 07 June 2007 I was "lucky" enough to have a baby after the age of 40 - albeit by Caesarian. So I can thoroughly understand the 40-plus women's desperate urge to surge towards fertility clinics for IVF treatment that has been reported this week. Although I didn't get as far as IVF, because I was fortunate enough to conceive "naturally", I can recognise the drive to put oneself through enormous expense and discomfort in the hope of "getting one in before closing time". The media image of the older mother is a Teflon-coated Apprentice-style bitch who wants it all on her own terms, and who would like to buy a baby like a Marc Jacobs handbag and then strap it into her Chelsea tractor and whoosh off to Harvey Nicks. In my experience, the women who try for babies late, and who go through the gruelling IVF hoops, are those who realise that their lives will probably feel incomplete if they don't at least try to have a baby. One woman I interviewed for my book on late motherhood had spent years doubled up with endometriosis. After being told that she would never conceive, her first and only round of IVF failed, leaving her broke and hopeless at 41. She'd married late and knew that having a baby was a distant dream. But the stimulation of her ovaries led to her conceiving naturally and having a healthy child at 42. Taking the risk totally turned her own, and her new husband's, life around. Let's get one thing straight: women over 40 don't "forget" to have children (as per the famous postcard "I can't believe I forgot to have children"); nor are they so career-obsessed that they blot babies out completely. The issues are more complex. Few women find the right parental partner straight away. Mr Right is as elusive as Bridget Jones in a thong. Most of us kiss a helluva lot of frogs only to find they fail to turn into princes. Late babies can often be the deliberate product of furtive one-night stands, sex with an ex, or a mercy shag with a willing friend. Also, as we've become more picky about partners, and as emotionally literate single men are as rare as purple pears, parenthood may well only be possible once an emotionally healthy relationship develops - after 40. The longed-for baby becomes the icing on the late wedding cake, perhaps with a partner who has children in tow from a first, even second, relationship. Or, as gay and lesbian marriages are now possible, it might be a baby is sought by a homosexual couple to seal their relationship. IVF might well replace the turkey baster for many lesbians who have, in the past, had to conceive furtively through the generosity of male friends. Delaying babies until later in life is psychologically sound for many of us who simply weren't "ready" before. We have a notion of being psychologically prepared for parenthood, by which we mean not as crazy or selfish as we were in our twenties, even thirties. Our parents and grandparents had kids as a matter of course. For us, it's a definite decision - maybe made after years on the couch. We ask ourselves: "Am I ready for parenthood?" It means, can I make the necessary emotional (and financial) sacrifices needed to have a child? Can I put them first? By 40, most of us are partied out. Not all, but most. Older parents make good parents. Research by Dr Julia Berryman of the University of Leicester Parenthood Research Group, and others, show that late parents are often more tolerant, patient, kind and, most important, loving. Simply, a late child is often a very, very wanted child. So how is it for the children? Are older parents an embarrassment? Or do children of late parents get a good deal? Again, research shows these children score well in comprehension and reading tests, and are generally more emotionally secure and confident. The early demise of late parents is not all bad, either, especially if a child of 40-plus parents has had a good 40 years of solid, loving input. Plus, they won't have to look after their own Aged Ps well into their own old age and should reap the benefits of any inheritance in their sprightly middle age. The notion that droves of career women are frivolously delaying pregnancy until 40 and then hoping to drain the NHS of vital resources for a designer baby is a misogynistic myth. Most women worth their Top Shop wedges know that leaving it late holds serious risks. After all, only around 2 per cent of first births are to women fortyplus. The biggest problem is the pernicious influence of the cult of celebrity which makes lesser mortals want to emulate the likes of Madonna or Angelina. These role models make young women think fame and money will buy anything - including children. However, for real women, with real lives, and real limits on budget, energy and resources, having a late baby via IVF is not simply a fashionistic whim. It's a calculated risk, taken under the din of the ruthless biological clock, usually after a great deal of life-planning, soul-searching - and a fatalistic sense of better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all. Corinne Sweet is a writer, broadcaster and psychologist, and the author of 'Birth Begins at Forty'

Monday, 4 June 2007

Forget that handbag and set yourself free

Canny businesses tap ordinary people's insecurity. Women are image victims once again

by Yasmin Alibhai Brown

Published: 04 June 2007

Today I take you into the tricky world of handbags. Most men who arenot thieves fear the dark insides of our bags. Ask them to get keys orcoins and they go in as if an alert Black Widow spider is lurking atthe bottom. They can't understand why we need these adult satchels, andso suspect the worst. This week the poor things must have been evenmore baffled to witness the two estimable female candidates forLabour's deputy leadership duelling over handbags.
You just don't get it, chaps. This thing we carry is loaded withserious meaning. Mrs Thatcher held her bags tight on the inside of heriron elbow. The incident of his dog chewing on the £2,000 bag belongingto Kimberley Quinn encapsulated the foolishness of Blunkett's obsessiveaffair. It revealed the dynamics of class inequality, exposed themanipulative yet dim rich and the envious face of Blair's Labour partydesperately seeking brassy, toff playmates. In today's Britain,handbags have become potent symbols of politics, power, economics,social mobility, pre-feminist proclivities or post-feminist libertiesor the death of feminism, ethical living, advanced capitalism, the ebbof socialism and possibly the end of history.
Hazel Blears owns what I am told is an Orla Kiely handbag, costing£250. It is a designer name I don't recognise, not being an aficionado.I could imagine Ms Blears buying Swiss army knives and Rosa Klebbshoes, but not, to be honest, softly voluptuous gear. Harriet Harmanwho always looks nice, averred righteously that she would never buy anaccessory costing more than £50 and criticised our divided society'where some people struggle and others spend £10,000 on a handbag'.
Sharp ripostes were returned by the diminutive and unbending MsBlears. Politicians had no right to tell people how to spend theirmoney, she scolded, adding that the party should never again weartank-tops and flares and needs to give people a 'platform foropportunity not a cap on aspiration'. I know, I know, I am,caricaturing Blears. But I am a Harmanite on this war of the bags. Andmillions of other women voters are Blearsites.
Ruth from Buckinghamshire, for one, who writes with much convictionon the matter, in an exchange on the net: 'I work hard to earn my moneyso if I want to blow an entire months [sic] wages on a handbag thenthat's up to me. I have no problem spending £500 on a handbag, its make[sic] me feel good to walk down the street with it. If you want to becheap with your plastic then so be it.'
Thus spake an aspirational babe on the nirvana of choice. How do youblow an entire month's wages without borrowing beyond your means? Thesewomen walk more proud because they are holding exorbitantly pricedcarriers made from cow skins, a cheap and ubiquitous material turnedinto gold by canny businesses who know exactly how to tap into theinsecurities of ordinary people seeking affirmation and the over-richwho have to find endless ways to unload their piles.
One day great leather handbags cost between £35 and £60, thensuddenly even the cheapest high street shops had hiked up the prices.And the trade roared as the herds rushed to purchase carry-outself-esteem. Today there are bags on the market costing £80,000. Ifthis is aspiration, no thanks.
I do have some high-label clothes - bought cut-price in sales andoutlets. Most of my best clothes are inexpensive. We were invited byfriends to Glyndebourne this Saturday, the temple of couture as well asmusic. I wore a lacy skirt (£12), a beautiful, amber 18th-century-stylebodice (£14 in a sale), and an even cheaper bolero. Two grand ladiesadmired the bodice, and I was pleased to tell them the cost. Real stylenever slavishly succumbs to diktats. Post-feminism has made women imagevictims again, confident only when they have, not for what they are. Tofree yourself from the fashion hounds is to free yourself from others,too, who would control you. Like Ms Blears.
Harman's concern about inequality adds moral weight to the revulsionrising against designer-bag shopaholism. More money is swilling aroundin Britain than ever. Ours is well on the way to becoming a suspicious,uncaring and dysfunctional society. Our modern over-rich do not turninto philanthropists as many do in the United States. They buy, buy,buy bleeding handbags, never unzipped to bring out two pounds for a BigIssue.
Next month the fashion changes and more will rush to buy moreleather, ending in bag mountains to fill in the sites of socialdemocracy and political engagement. We can carry on with such bingeconsumption or step towards a saner, equitable future. The battle ofthe handbags is about that crucial decision.

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Wednesday, 30 May 2007

Too embarrassed to protest

As an awkward 17-year-old, Esther Freud felt unable to say no to an acquaintance's sexual advances. After writing about a similar incident in her new novel, she has come to realise how common this experience is Esther Freud Wednesday May 30, 2007 Guardian I see them every day - the teenage girls at the gates of the sixth-form college, at bus stops, walking home in pairs. They look so confident in their low-cut jeans and grungy T-shirts, their flat shoes - Converse or Vans - chatting into their mobile phones. But are they more confident than we were? Those of us who grew up in the late 1970s and were caught between punk and stilettos, without even an answering machine, let alone a mobile, to keep track of our movements. When I was 17, and for some years before and after, I was far from confident. In fact, I was in a permanent state of indecision and embarrassment. I was embarrassed by my lack of knowledge, experience, beauty and talent. I was embarrassed by my spots, my clothes, my dreams. I was proud, too, and that was a disastrous combination. It meant I couldn't tell anyone I was embarrassed, or ask for any help, so I drifted around with a worldly wise expression on my face, getting myself into awkward and sometimes dangerous situations and hoping, more than anything, that no one would notice, or ever know. It was around this time that I fell in love, not for the first time, but maybe for the first time with someone who also seemed to like me, and this only made things worse. My greatest fear was that anyone would know how I felt, especially the person I was in love with, and so I blundered on, sinking into a secret mine-filled world of my own making. I had met this boy, Tom, on holiday and, unclear when he would be back in London, I had spent day after day sitting by the phone, hoping that he would call. Finally, he did. We arranged to meet up that night in a pub. I was feverish with excitement. I imagined it would be just us - we would sit holding hands in a corner, talking through every moment of the time that had elapsed before taking a night bus home to where I lived, and spending the night in each other's arms. In fact, there were four or five other people at the pub too, all a little older than us, drinking, smoking and talking about things I didn't really understand. I hadn't seen Tom for two weeks and in that time there were jokes I had missed, people who had become his new best friends, new drinks and drugs he'd tested. I grinned and attempted to join in, sipping at my Pernod and black, wondering whether our affair stood any chance. Finally, last orders were rung. "Where to now?" We stood about, and, not daring to suggest we leave the others and head to where I lived on the other side of London, I waited to see what would happen. There was one man, Derrick, who seemed to be in charge. He was a grown-up. Twenty-five at least, with a marriage and two children already behind him. "This way." He ushered us through dark streets, across busy roads, through closed-off squares until eventually - the others having disappeared - he invited me and Tom through the front door of a tall, dark house. We trudged upstairs and into a flat, where a girl, half asleep, appeared with smudged makeup and a T-shirt showing one plump shoulder. When she saw us, she retreated into her room. "Tamara, wait." Derrick took Tom's arm and he pushed my boyfriend into her room. He pulled me after him into another room which turned out to be his. "You can sleep in here." I stood there frowning. A hundred options flitted through my head, but not one of them seemed viable. And surely, anyway, after a few minutes, Tom would realise the mistake and come and find me. But Tom didn't appear. I listened, but I heard nothing from the next room. Maybe he had just fallen asleep. He was drunk - we all were - but as I lay down on the very edge of Derrick's bed, I felt horribly sober, afraid of what would happen next. I have written about a similar scenario in my new book, Love Falls, with more devastating consequences than those I suffered, and I've had two very different reactions. The first, mostly from men, is frustration, anger: "Why didn't she do something?" The second, from women: "That chapter, that was just so very familiar." These reactions have inevitably led to a discussion about the embarrassment of being a teenage girl. How hard it is to call out, to make a scene, to risk looking ridiculous, even if you are being abused. I have one friend who was assaulted in a toilet when she was 15. She was at a party, when, to the envy of her friends, an older boy picked her out and, without a word spoken, led her into the toilet and pushed her up against the wall. She was a virgin. And someone was banging on the door, but even so he wouldn't let her go, kissing her hard on the mouth when she tried to call out. "Although I didn't call out much," she admits. "I was too shocked. And too embarrassed." Afterwards her friends looked at her with admiration, and, instead of disillusioning them, she closed herself off from them and her family. She put on weight and developed a rash of cold sores around her mouth. It was only years later that she understood it had been rape, and also, where she had caught the cold sores. At the time she just blamed herself for being, well, 15. Another friend got into a row with an older man she'd been seeing for six weeks. She stood up to him, asked him to take back something offensive he had said. After he had, he turned to her and smashed his fists down on her ribs. She crawled out of the bed, dressed and went home, but although it was Christmas and everyone she knew and loved best was all in one room, nothing in the world would have made her tell them what had happened. She felt too ashamed, and when, even after two weeks, her ribs were still hurting, she didn't admit to it and see a doctor. In a recent NSPCC survey of girls in their mid-teens, it turned out that 45% had had unwanted sexual experiences, and at least half of these were made to feel guilty for saying no. Fifty-six per cent of these experiences happened before the girls were 14. One in three kept quiet. I didn't mention to anyone what happened that night with Derrick. I was too embarrassed to protest when he stripped down to his underpants and got into bed beside me. My heart was thumping. "What should I do? What was Tom doing? Did he want to spend the night with that other girl, Tamara, and, if not, then why didn't he come and find me?" Derrick was restless. He kept brushing his leg against mine. I turned away and then his hands were on my shoulders. "Relax," he urged. "At least take off your skirt." When I did, under the covers, wrapping the sheet tight round me, he suggested I was tense and offered to give me a massage. "No, I don't want a massage," I protested and he put his finger to his lips and told me to shush. "If you let me give you a massage I'll leave you alone, I promise." So I lay there with his hands on my back, and then later I had to listen to him laugh, when he said he had had his fingers crossed all along. And that was how the night went on. Hour after hour, an awkward, clumsy battle, his hands groping me, mine forcefully, politely, pushing him away, until the light started to show in the sky and eventually he gave up and went to sleep. I didn't want to tell anyone what had happened because they would think I was a fool. Why didn't I shout? Get up and leave? Find a phone box and call home? I didn't even say anything to Tom when we were finally reunited the next morning. Maybe he was embarrassed, too, because he didn't say anything either. And in case he had enjoyed the experience, had planned it, God knows, had wanted it, I kept quiet. Years later, in my mid-20s, I bumped into Derrick. I was with a friend who stopped to talk to him. I hoped he wouldn't recognise me, but after a moment he turned to me. "Why so quiet, stranger?" And, to my amazement, my embarrassment finally gone, I told him: "That night, you trapped me in that room!" I felt my face grow red. Maybe he wouldn't even remember. But he did. "It was only meant as a joke," he said, and for the first time I was able to look at him. "It wasn't funny," I told him, and, as I walked away he called: "I'm sorry. I was a mess back then." I turned and, in spite of myself, I smiled. I felt oddly lighthearted. So it wasn't my fault. Was that it? And I realised that for all those years the worst thing about that night was that I had blamed myself for being too embarrassed to protest. · Esther Freud's Love Falls is published by Bloomsbury at £12.99. To order a copy for £11.99 with free UK p&p go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop or call 0870 836 0875.

Gender matters

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

Fotos 27/07.

Monday, 3 August 2009

Fotos 27/07.

Sunday, 2 August 2009

Fotos 27/07.

Saturday, 1 August 2009

Fotos 27/06.

Thursday, 7 June 2007

Corinne Sweet: The truth about older mothers

Monday, 4 June 2007

Forget that handbag and set yourself free

Canny businesses tap ordinary people's insecurity. Women are image victims once again

Published: 04 June 2007

Wednesday, 30 May 2007

Too embarrassed to protest

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