Tits for Tat

I’m all for the tits.

I’m all for women’s bodies being applauded, not covered.

I want freedom of speech.

I want freedom of the press.

I want freedom of expression.

I don’t mind that some people make their beauty their living.

I understand that women with great knockers aren’t stupid.

I understand it’s not your fault if my body has looked better.

I understand that sometimes it’s individual women that choose this line of work, it’s not the male patriarchy choosing it for them.

I can see that Linda Lucardi could be a bit of a role model.

I’m all for your right to look at what you want (unless you are a BLEEDING PEADO obvs).

I’m onboard with the view that I choose whether or not to be offended.

I agree that women’s mags harm women’s body image more than Donna from Dorkin’s double Ds.

I believe in the power of democracy, and am aware of the power of capitalism: if the people don’t want the tits, then the tat won’t sell.

I realise that if vendors of the newspapers choose to stock tabloids featuring Shirley from Sheffield next to the Cbeebies mags, that’s their business, not mine.

I know it’s my problem if I can’t take a joke.

I feel its important to raise kids who respect others, including their mothers.

I believe it was a bit awkward in the cafe that time when the 3 year old asked why Sonia from Southampton wasn’t wearing her ‘booby pants’. But my bad – I was not looking carefully at the nipple draped table as we sat down. I was trying to control 3 kids in a cafe full of cake.

I acknowledge that I’ve felt better in my life than when my three boys then laughed at my booby pants, that they could see a glimpse of down my jumper,  while I bent down to pick their coats off the floor. Kids, eh!

I’ll confess, I felt a little uncomfortable when everyone else in the cafe laughed at them laughing at my booby pants. I then told them off sternly, strong woman that I am. Well, I told off the kids – the 3 big laughing blokes I let be. They scared me. They also, for the record, did not help me pick the kid’s coats off the floor.

I exercised my right to not go into the cafe again, which is a shame. It did a great bacon sandwich.

I exercised my right to also not take the kids  into any cafe in the vicinity, into the pub garden, various shops, on a seat on the bus, past three vans and a car, all proudly showing the wears of Wendy from Wigan. I’m independent like that. Which is odd, because I feel like I stay at home much more than I used to.

I could not do much when, while at school, the eldest pointed at his 6 year old friend’s chest and laughed at her for not wearing booby pants. He couldn’t work out why his male teacher was so angry with him – the men in the cafe thought it was so funny!

I guess sometimes little boys find this world confusing.

I can’t think why, can you?

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