In public =/= public property

This post is inspired by something that happened this morning, but first of all I want to talk about an incident from years back that's stuck in my mind.

Years ago - at least seven or eight - I went through a period of regular hospital treatment for what I prefer to call a condition rather than an illness. Nothing that would ever kill me, but it caused me some discomfort. All dealt with now, leaving only a few minor scars.

This required three hospital appointments every week for months, for which I, in my time-related paranoia, was invariably early by at least half an hour. So I would sit in the hospital's reception area with a book. A 'real' book, this being years before Kindles became ubiquitous. Martin Chuzzlewit will forever remind me of hospital waiting rooms for this very reason.

Not a week went by without some passerby, fellow patient, even one of the hospital cleaners who should have been fucking cleaning interrupting me with one of the following:

• "Is that a good book?" To which I have now taken to replying, "I don't know; I can't get peace to read it."
• "There's a film out soon. Why don't you watch that instead of wasting your time reading?"
• "Oh, I read a book once." Fancy.
• "Is that the book where [character's name] dies in the end?"
• "I've read that book. Didn't think much of it." Really. And you just had to interrupt me to tell me that, huh?
• "I'm not much of a reader." And I'm not much of a cunt, which is why I didn't interrupt whatever you were doing.
• "Have you read The Da Vinci Code?" Yes, and my IQ dropped 50 points as a consequence. [Nowadays that glorification of rape and domestic abuse, 50 Shades of Grey, is the likely title to be used here.]

I suffer from migraines. Trust me, there's a point to this. Anyway, I often get asked, "Have you tried-?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what I was going to suggest."

I give the other person that look and say, "Trust me; as a long-term sufferer, that is, over thirty years, whatever you're about to suggest, I've tried it."

I get the literary equivalent a lot these days. "Have you read-?"

"Yes."

"You don't know what book I was about to name."

"Trust me; I've been able to read since the age of two. Whatever book you were about to name, I've read it."

Now, I'm not saying I've read every book in the world. Far from it. But I've read a good few thousand over the years, and I'm always, to a man, better-read than the people who think they're helping by making suggestions. That's not as arrogant as it may sound, and let me explain why: only someone who is not a bookworm would think it's a good idea to interrupt when I'm reading in public.

It seems to me that people who interrupt readers don't understand how much we enjoy reading. Alone. Quietly. And if they don't understand how much we enjoy reading - ALONE - they likely don't appreciate a good book themselves. And that, in turn, leads me to conclude they read about one book a year, if that, and then only the latest hyped-up piece of shit. Fifty Shades of Grey being a case in point.

I have been told on a number of occasions that I'm rude for not doing the donkey work of carrying a conversation someone else has foisted on me. Don't think I never speak to people; I do. But however rude you think a person sitting on their own on a bus, reading, is? Your interruption is ten times more unacceptable to me.

I never go anywhere without my Kindle or a paperback that fits into my handbag, and I can't get from my front door to the bus stop without someone commenting on the simple fact that I can read.

And not only do I have the ability to read, but I choose to exercise that ability. Yes, I choose to. Reading is not a chore to me; it's a pleasure. Indeed, it's a lifeline. A Godsend.

It's more than a little irritating to be walking along the road reading - yes, I can walk and read at the same time - and be stopped by a man, for it is usually a man, and asked, "Is that a good book?" or to be the target of a slightly irritated "What are you reading now?" as if my love of the written word is an inconvenience the people around me must deal with.

Now, back to this morning's incident. I had an appointment which required me to leave the house quite early. Blech. Anyway, I was walking across a bridge and saw a dog-walker heading in my direction. My heart sank. I am not a fan of dogs. Or people. So I did my usual thing of rendering myself invisible - or so I thought - by burying myself in a recently-acquired print copy of The Great Gatsby.

No such luck. And it wasn't the dog that bothered me, as I had feared. It was his (male) owner. I make the point that he was male because whenever a woman has interrupted my reading, it's been to say "Oh, I liked that book," or something similar, before moving on. Women don't tend to block my path, or carry on talking after I've made my lack of interest in conversation clear, or stand too damn close to my personal space for comfort.

And yes, yes, yes, as I was told on Twitter this morning, "Men get interrupted too," but I guess their position of male privilege makes their first thoughts not of possible escape routes to avoid rape, but of simple, petty inconvenience. Men are generally larger-built than women and a quick "Hmm," would be enough to convey lack of interest in talking. It would be a foolish person who persisted.

But when a man walking a dog interrupts a woman on her own, there's an added sense for that woman of, "Uh-oh, what does he want?"

Some readers will think, "He only wanted to talk to you about the book you were reading," and that's as may be, but I WAS A WOMAN ON HER OWN WHO WAS OCCUPIED WITH A BOOK.

What part of that seems like an invitation to interrupt to you?

I did not make eye contact. I did not stand aside to let him past, because the bridge was plenty wide enough for both of us. His dog didn't trot in front of me and cause any sort of inconvenience beyond me thinking, "Ugh; I don't like dogs."

He had no reason to speak to me and stop in front of me other than making a nuisance of himself in a way that bordered on (maybe unintentional) intimidation. He asked about the book I was reading. Then he told me about a book he was looking for, as if I had that very tome stashed in my handbag. There was room to walk past him, so I did, hoping he wouldn't try to stop me, and he didn't. Not physically, anyway. He carried on the conversation after I twisted away to carry on walking.

That's right. He carried on talking after I had made clear my wish to get the hell out of there.

What sort of siren or alarm did this guy need? A red flag? A signpost? THIS WOMAN DOES NOT WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU. WHATEVER HER REASONS, RESPECT THEM AND MOVE ALONG.

I had an appointment to get to, but even if I'd just been out on a timewasting stroll, there is one thing I would like to make clear to the entire fucking world:

A WOMAN BEING OUT IN PUBLIC DOES NOT MAKE HER PUBLIC PROPERTY.

In which I diced with death and was nearly mugged for my Kindle

This afternoon I went along to my local Spar shop to buy electric credit which isn't really all that relevant here but it's essential to fleshing out this blog post and setting the scene.

If you know me even a ickle bit, you'll know I rarely go anywhere without my Kindle. If I were getting a smear test, I wouldn't be hitting the 'next page' button while a complete stranger was rootling around in my flange with an ice-cream scoop, but on pretty much any other occasion I'll be suckling at the electronic word-teat.

So. I was on the way back from the Spar. There's a shop closer by from whence I could purchase electrickery, but I wanted to check my bank balance at the cash machine crammed into a crevice between the Spar and the pharmacy. Proceeding homewards in an Easterly direction, I was met with a cry of, "I'm gonna steal your Kindle."

As threats are pretty much par for the course where I live - you're at risk if you're outside of your house and breathing - I ignored it. A group of kids who looked to be in their early teens were showing off to each other and weren't worthy of more than my cursory attention.

"I'm gonna steal your Kindle!" one of them shouted again, louder this time as they were walking in the other direction. A funny way to steal someone's ereader, but there you go. Classic mistake, also employed by the Mysterons - letting your enemy know what you're going to do before you do it. And walking away from the potential muggee isn't too clever either.

Given that I only open my mouth to change feet, I wasn't going to let this little fuckballoon get away with it, so I told her - yes, her - that she was welcome to try.

"Why? What're you gonna do?" she shouted back. "Kill me?" she added in Father Jack's "I'm so, so sorry," voice.

I hesitated to point out that she was the one who started this conversation as she clearly had trouble with logic. So what did I do? Stopped, turned around, looked her dead in the eye and said, "No. I'm just surprised that you can read."

And I clipped my Kindle cover shut and walked off, listening for rapid footsteps behind me just in case they decided to carry out their pseudo-threat. But no. These fat, illiterate, pubescent knuckle-draggers thought it made them look 'harder' to shout at me from quite a distance away, "I can read! I fucking can read, you bitch!"

So that's how you defeat potential muggers, dear friends. Draw attention to their lack of literacy and watch them cower.

Besides, no bitch was taking my Kindle from me when I was on the last chapter of The Great Gatsby. Had to finish the book before seeing the film, yo.

Ed Balls

As @BeckyBlackBooks asked on Twitter yesterday, "What is all this Ed Balls fuckery?"

Let me tell you about Ed Balls as I understand it. Him.

*ahem*

A few days ago, I was on Twitter ranting - sorry, protesting - about those who whine about showing respect to Thatcher, don't speak ill of the dead, etc, etc. I came across @stavvers, though not in the sticky penile way, on a related hashtag, and immediately started stalking...er, I mean following her. She's nearly as sweary and ranty as me and that's saying something.

Thatcher led to talk of politics, and somehow, I know not how...the man himself made his presence known on our timelines. Or, y'know, something @stavvers said brought the following to my attention.

We said his name three times and he appeared.

Ed Balls.

Ed Balls.

Ed Balls.

Turns out that two years ago, Ed Balls attempted to search for himself on Twitter and this happened:

Here's a direct link to the tweet itself.

You'll note from the time and date that the anniversary of such epic tweetery is upcoming, so on the 28th of April, which is a Sunday, at 4:20pm, EVERYONE ON THE INTERNET SHOULD TWEET "Ed Balls", damn it! Or retweet the original from the man himself. Use the #EdBalls hashtag. Tell your friends.

Sunday the 28th of April is ED BALLS DAY.

On that date, ladles and germs, ED BALLS WILL TAKE OVER THE INTERTUBES.

Remember: wherever you may be, let your Balls tweet free.

When I pistoff the #Pistorians

It's been a few days since I took these screenshots, but I got around to this blog eventually. Here goes.

Twitter's the biggest timesuck on the interwebs but damn it, I just can't quit. Especially when there are many arguments to be had. I would've made a crack about bloodshed, but that would be too close to the truth for joking, as the following will show.

You might have heard of the #Pistorians, a group of Oscar Pistorius fangirls who show their support on Twitter by insulting anyone who suggests...let's just say...a differing view of their hero might be valid. Much as I am loathe to post links to the Daily Fail, I'm going to do just that, here.

Interesting, no?

Well as I just can't stop myself, I had a poke around that hashtag and may or may not have tweeted something as diplomatic as you'd expect from yours truly.

I had to go out at one point - you know me; stir the pot and leave it boiling - and I came back to discover one of this, er, 'fan club', had looked at my then-profile on Twitter. A shocking secret of mine was then broadcast far and wide on the #Pistorians hashtag. Yes, I'd mentioned it in my Twitter profile, but did I want the entire internet's attention drawn to the fact I fancy James Purefoy? Did I really?

Oh how shameful!

(For the benefit of any Pistorians reading this - the above was sarcasm.)

What did I come home to on my @-replies column? The following (and remember to read from the bottom up):

I know. I know. You're damn close to a *headdesk* right now, aren't you? Oscar Pistorius shot and killed his girlfriend but what's even worse is I worship* James Purefoy, who left the mother of his child (did he? Perhaps it was mutual. Perhaps she finished with him) and in so doing, condemned her to a life half-lived. Dead inside.

Melodramatic much?

As far as I know, James Purefoy wasn't married to the mother of his son, but semantics aside, I'm ashamed of the fact I worship* this guy. I mean, he's a cad, isn't he? The Pistorians say so!

Yes, the Pistorians. Women who have joined the Oscar Pistorius Twitter Fan Club.

That's the same Oscar Pistorius who's killed someone. But hey, at least he hasn't split up from a woman who was the mother of his child. Phew!

*When I say 'worship', the same word used by the above Pistorian regarding my feelings towards James Purefoy, I'd like to clarify that I actually mean 'fancy' or 'would do him in a New York minute'.

And har-de-har-har - me, scared to reply? Oh, I think not, darling. Coward fan of a cad, indeed. No. You see, I have a social life. While you were spewing bile all over the internet, I was out talking to my real friends instead of egowanking a celebrity who's never heard of me.

Up until now, whenever I've had a crush on an actor, I've just bought his DVDs. Perhaps I should start up a hashtag excoriating people with an opposing view?

But perhaps I'm being cruel. All these women are doing is defending a man who might have accidentally made his girlfriend a teeny-weeny bit sorta dead, like.

Is that, er...viscous of me?

Why yes. If only all the facts were taken into consideration. And a dictionary. That might help.

I'm not sure if the above was actually written in English, txtspk or some sort of illiterate LULZ-inspired bang-the-keyboard-until-shit-appears-on-the-screen language, but I must warn you to stock up on Tena Lady before reading the next gem.

Gentle "ppl", yes. Let's see how "gentle" the Pistorians are, shall we? (Remember to read these screenshots from the bottom up.)

Yes, you read that correctly. death was too good for 'her', who, incidentally, had a name. That name was Reeva Steenkamp.

Just in case there is anyone out there who's bothered.

More. (Bottom up, again.)

Second one from the bottom. Victim-blaming much? Reeva Steenkamp has 'embarrassed' herself like this. What is 'this'? Oh yes. Being shot to death by her heroic boyfriend.

Ah, Pistorians. Hard-done-by supporters of Oscar Pistorius who are 'gentle' (if illiterate) people who merely want to support their hero.

Not as if they're insulting Reeva Steenkamp any and victim-blaming, is it?

Reverse abuse? What is that, exactly? Perhaps when you blame the person who ended up dead for being a gold-digger?

Now I know there are people out there who will think, "Scarlett, you should have just left it alone. Let these people get on with their lives." But the problem is, such internalised misogyny and victim-blaming is becoming all too common these days. Do I have a problem with people supporting Oscar Pistorius? No, though I will confess to thinking them misguided. Innocent until proven guilty, after all, even if the one known fact of the case is that he is responsible for Reeva Steenkamp's not-very-alive state.

What I have a problem with is a young woman being murdered, then being called a nasty, ungrateful, trashy whore by a bunch of people who claim to be...now what was that word again...oh yes.

Gentle.

* * * * *

Note, added Monday 22nd April: I've just been informed by Jenni on Twitter ( @derrygirl21 ) that Ukanrun Butukantheid isn't an 'official' Pistorian. Is there such a thing as an 'official' Pistorian? Anyway, I'm happy to leave a note to that effect.

I might not agree with the Pistorians' support of Oscar Pistorius, but whatever your view, there's no risk - okay, little risk! - in striving for accuracy when it comes to who supports who and who is a member of which group.

Still here

Thought it was best to blog just to let everyone know I'm still alive. Because yes, the entire interwebs would collapse if anyone thought something had happened to Scarlett Parrish.

I haven't much to report, writing-wise. But a new-found keenness to get on with things gives me the feeling I may have something to do so, soon. I'm actually rediscovering the desire to write, as opposed to the obligation to do so.
However, despite this, I have quit the Dirty Birdies blog after discussing the matter with one of its co-founders, Cassandra Carr. As much as people who are familiar with my Twitter persona would love to believe there was a huge falling out in which I insulted people in fruity Scottish language, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there. Here's the real reason.

I simply felt it wasn't correct for me to take up a space on a group blog that would be better occupied by a writer more productive than I. Not that word counts and productivity are a contest - unless you want them to be and 'word war' with a buddy - but I just felt with nothing on my 'coming soon' page and no manuscripts fizzing away on any editors' desks, I couldn't justify occupying my slot on the blog.

So I got in touch with Cassandra privately, and she was very understanding about it. Apparently she knew something was up but didn't want to push me, and it was all very quiet and discreet and civilised. An email or two exchanged and boom, I was gone.

But I'm still here. I'll be keeping my personal blog to document my climb back to productivity and publication. I'll use this site to empty puddles of brainvomit onto the interwebs, but be warned: such brainvomit might not be entirely writing-related until such time as I sign another contract or two for further books.

So yes, I do have a new-found desire to write, but I decided to quit the DB's to create space for someone more fitting, someone who has manuscripts in hand, now, which they are able to discuss publicly.

Without contractual deadlines or bloggy obligations to fill, I hope my tiny little mind will be freed up to dedicate itself to splurting smut of the literary sort here, there and everywhere. The pressure's off and the peen is coming.

Heh. I  said 'peen'.

And 'coming'.