Talent and entertainment does not reason out rape.

Not like me to be all political, but I've just seen my little girl's face as it poked sweetly and cheekily around the lounge room door at 11pm on a school night. She's down, blue, chemicals working her body to it's last defence of rationality.

She's 12.

She's gorgeous, and that's not just my opinion.

She has shape and beauty and big brown eyes.

Roman Polanski apparently drugged and sodomised a 13 year old girl.

He's a talented director, so apparently this should be forgiven.

Free Roman, they cry.

my daughter is 12.

A crime is a crime, even thirty years on it has still been carved into memory, beaten into your Self. It has made you, shaped you, it must not be forgotten. Or forgiven by us.

I was hurt when I was 9. I thought all I had to do was get my daughter to 10 to feel better, now I feel that I have to get her to 14. Let me die without her hurt, and let my son never grow up to harm.

I don't care that I enjoyed the Ninth Gate; punish the crime that has been commited, and for once say that harm is wrong regardless of the victim's unimportance to the World's distorted view.

That's all I have. I'm still a 9 year old girl, eyes wide and terrified as I face a greying World.

Don't let the World grey for my children.

Moderate Expectations

After getting rather aroused at Dorrian kissing a bloke yesterday I am today attempting to finish Great Expectations. Why did link those?
I've got to the good bit where Pip gets tied up and goaded. This and my new fixation on James Spader movies means for some very strange imaginigs. I think I should go read some Austen, quick.
Other than this, nothing to say, nothing's been writen, and I may have a go at watching Naked Lunch tonight. That'll set me right.

Middle management and being a walking vending machine

One thing garanteed to sap your soul, stomp on it, dip it in sugar and then serve it up for £2.35 is working for and with people of low expectations at your local coffee emporium. I know, I should have done something better in my life than day dreaming and now I'm stuck there too. For now. But when they know you're not staying, and they are, they decide to use every ounce of purposless power to make your day creep by pathetically slowly, like a small, beaten animal.
Is there much worse than middle management? The Golgafrincham's had the right idea, in some respects.
On a lighter note I only work 16 hours a week, something that annoys them immensely, and I'm not back until Sunday, where the place will be occupied by college students and people biding their time until their degrees kick in. In the mean time, I write.

a Sunday, oh god a Sunday.

It is Sunday. So far a haven't washed my hair, something that leaves me feeling a strange, pulsing guilt and I don't know why, I have failed to get my son's free lego from the bloody Mirror and I have had a parking space at Tesco's stolen fom me by a man in a jeep. I also face the fact that, although my newly grown nails look nice, I can not type properly with them. Also, the music on Metropolis is nice.
I have my aching stomach back, a great sence of loss at I don't know what, and I'm starving myself again.
I want to start something but I can't, so I'm cooking sausages instead.
Hello and happy Sunday.

I have woken up from the holiday and must return again.

After the wonders of staying in bed til noon over the Summer holiday I've finally figured that I should try to do something here. My nails have grown quite long; typing is strange.

New creative writing course about to begin, along with a literature one - reading books better than mine, wonderful for my ego. I have come to the conclusion though, that Dickens talks too much.