You might not think you're brave, but you are to me

 So many of you have probably seen the video doing the rounds on Facebook of a woman chasing a racist attacker down Upton Park tube station platform after the man punched another passenger in the face. A man has since been arrested and bailed until November 14th on charges of “assault occasioning ABH and using threatening / abusive words / behaviour or disorderly behaviour likely to cause harassment, alarm or distress”. This has definitely struck a chord with me, given that it's been just over two years since I was attacked for standing up in a similar incident, getting a nasty injury to my shoulder after standing up to a man sexually harassing a teenage girl.

 Now the title of this post may seem a bit odd but bare with me. After my experience I had friends and family telling me how brave I was. I remember the worst part of the night was for ours, ringing and ringing my parents and not getting an answer from either of them. But I definitely didn't feel brave, I felt like a stupid child who had tried to do something good, but then fallen over and scraped my knee; like I'd made things worse. 

 Luckily the woman in this incident wasn't harmed (as far as we know) and that has been the biggest relief for me in seeing this. And at the same time I can relate so much to her. Being surrounded by men, bigger and stronger than she is, sitting by and doing nothing while the man sat next to her is verbally abused before he is punched. There were so many others who could have intervened but didn't, it was left to her to stand up. I'm by no means saying that she isn't capable of standing up for herself and others - she clearly demonstrates the opposite! - but it put her at greater risk than it would have for others. It was an incredibly brave thing for her to do. But that's the thing with brave women, we don't always feel it. We feel like we're just doing what any other person would have done, and not want a fuss made.

 Personally I think this needs to change; we need to recognise women that stand up, putting themselves in danger, do help others. It's important. In fact I've been thinking that if anybody knows who this woman is I would like to get her flowers - or something else that she may need and find more practical. It's important that she knows that people admire her bravery, and others who have done what she did are thinking of her. We did the same thing with the Buy Gary a Pint fund for making a very fitting gesture behind Nigel Farage on the news, so how about we try and get some similar support for a brave woman?

National Coming Out Day 2016: Family-phobia, mental health, and breaking the cycle

 So the other week I posted a piece about Bi Visibility Week which included my own coming out story. As those of you on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum and good allies know, 'coming out' isn't a one-off experience; it's a staggered constant experience. Coming out to friends and family, then there's more to come when it comes to co-workers, peers, and new acquaintances. And in some cases other family members, beyond those who you initially knew would understand. You take that chance, thinking you've come this far and this person loves you enough to not give two shits about it. Well, that's what you think.

 I decided to get this off of my chest in a post, in order to get it out of my head so I can move on and stop stewing on it. It's difficult though. I'd spent the day with a relative last Friday; we had lunch, shopped, and talked about all sorts. It got to the point that we were talking about current TV programmes and talked about Poldark, it's a show I never managed to get into the storyline but happily watched a few episodes of because *swoon* Aiden Turner! Such a gorgeous man, I watched it just to look at him. The conversation moved to the new Victoria series on ITV and, being a fan of Jenna Coleman from her portrayal as Clara in Doctor Who, I expressed to this relative that I found her very good-looking. It was an innocent comment, yet this relative managed to read my undertones: that I found her attractive rather than just expressing an admiration for her looks.

 That's when shit hit the fan and it all spiralled down. While it showed progress for somebody of their generation that they accepted that they know some people are gay and accept that, they refused to accept that a person can be bisexual. Apparently "you can't ride two horses with one arse", and that's what confused me. Confused me in terms of my mental health and has done me damage; dating women is what has caused me to become mentally ill according to this relative. It's funny when I think about it because it wasn't a woman who sexually assaulted me, it wasn't a woman who made me feel it was my fault, it wasn't a woman who made me feel utterly worthless and broken when I thought I could trust them. Relationships with women tend to have been the healthiest I've had (other than my relationship with Paul, he is the exception to the rule!) and have always left me with a better understanding of myself. For somebody to try and throw that in my face as something that has done me damage makes me feel sick. In fact being told this made me cry in front of this relative for the first time in years.

 In fact I think that is what made me most angry, that they made me cry. A good rule I try to follow is that a relative shouldn't make you cry out of sadness unless they're dying/have died. To try and make me feel so ashamed about my sexuality and my mental health in one fell swoop, trying to blame one on the other, makes me feel physically sick. This was probably the most recent point lately that I've felt utterly helpless, and almost embarrassed to by myself. Though it wasn't shame about myself I felt, but more ashamed of myself for being stupid enough to open up to this relative, thinking they would react kindly.


 I have told my parents about this experience and, when opening up to them about how this relative has treated me about my mental health, they have grown concerned about my relationship with them and offered to talk to them about it. It has done me a lot of damage. I've gone through about two years of being told by this relative that my mental health doesn't matter, that I've made it all up. But this has been my breaking point, going from downright dismissing my mental health to blaming it on my sexuality, something that I cannot and would not change for the world.

 We've always been told since we were children to respect our elders, or the more condescending that they're old and don't know any better, and should do so regardless. But after this experience I'm not sure that I can unquestioningly follow this rule. I still love this family member dearly, and do not at all regret my decision to come out to them, but it will take me a while to forgive them.

Keep your Rosaries off our Ovaries: Victory for Polish Women, Next Stop Ireland!

 Disclaimer: This may be more of a ramble than usual, somebody has taken 'sharing is caring' very out of context and given me their germs! Apologies in advance.

 The term 'Pro-Life' has never sat well with me, in the context of it meaning anti-abortion. It's paradoxical when you look at it. Pictures have been flooding social media of protesters in Poland, mostly women, all dressed in black and taking to the streets against the proposed changes to already restrictive abortion laws; as well as messages of solidarity from around the globe, including a solidarity demonstration in Edinburgh (video from Emito.net). According to recent polls only 11% of the population were in favour of the proposed bill, opposed to more than 51% in favour of liberalising the current abortion laws.

 Today articles have surfaced saything that government officials are planning a u-turn on the proposed bill after the amazing show of direct action from citizens, with the minister for science and higher education saying that the women had "caused us to think and taught us humility". With such widespread contention for the proposed bill it would have been a dreadful move not to, leading to further strike action and escalating tactics. And who would blame them?? When a government tells you that you cannot have autonomy over your own body anybody would be pissed off. Whether you have a uterus or not, whether you would personally have an abortion or not, would you really want laws in place telling you that you cannot have a say in something that may risk your own life?

 That's where the paradox comes in. When a woman's life is at risk because of a cluster of cells that is doing her harm, and she is told that she cannot have it removed, where is the pro-life sentiment there? When a teenage girl finds out her contraception has failed but the law says she has to give up on her ambitions of getting a good job that would provide childcare, so she can give her future children the best life possible, where is it then? Pro-Life campaigners aren't fighting for paid parental leave, better pre- and post-natal healthcare, support for parents of disabled children, or helping to ensure children in care, waiting to be adopted, are being properly cared for. No, they're standing there with pictures of aborted foetuses, telling women who are seeking a medical procedure that they should be punished for doing so. And the scary thing is that these people are in our governments.

 While researching the topic I stumbled across the sickening statistic that because of current restrictions, legal abortions in Poland only make up around 10% of the total figure, leaving 90% of them being carried out in potentially dangerous conditions, threatening the woman's life and future health. Tell me again how riky medical practices are pro-life? It has always been the case that such laws will not stop abortion, they will only stop safe abortion. How many women will end up dying because of lack of access to safe procedures? And how many more would we have seen in prison if these laws came through, arrested for miscarrying like so many other women in the USA and South America have been? I feel physically sick thinking about it. Not to mention the number of appalling cases, including a woman in Ireland, where dead women have been kept alive on life support as nothing more than an incubator, because they were pregnant at the time of death. These cases go beyond disregarding respect for the deceased to treating these women as objects.

 With only five days to go until Ireland's debate to Repeal the 8th we wish them the best of luck and solidarity. I urge you all to check out ROSA, the campaign for Reproductive rights, against Oppression, Sexism and Austerity, and send them your support. Polish women have kicked arse this week, now it's Ireland's turn!

Out for a Decade, Still Here and Still Queer: Happy Bi Visibility Day!

 Happy Friday folks, hope you've all had a great week. Mine has consisted of my first day back at uni, dealing with the fuck-up that is Student Finance (that's a post all in itself), general stress and a lovely heaping of hormones and PMS on top. But given today's title you're probably aware that this isn't a post about my menstrual cycle - again that's one for another day. It's been a wonderful week for me on social media seeing all of the posts about Bisexuality Awareness Week and in the past few days something rather nice occurred to me:

 It's been a whole Ten Bloody Years since I came out!!

Yes lovely people, I've decided it's about time I treat you to my coming out story. I think it's a pretty important thing to do. We hear so often on LGBTQ+ pages and websites about coming out stories from Lesbian and Gay folk, and at the same time the whole phenomena of coming out is being questioned, whether it is still necessary and whether it is still relevant to do so. Yet if you type 'Coming Out' into Google you get a whole list of articles ranging from advice, how-tos and gossip on public figures who have opened up about their sexuality. So yes, in the mainstream coming out is still very much a thing. FYI cake seems to be a very popular way of coming out, and I must admit I like my Queers how I like my cake: varied and often. 

 Anyway, on with my own story.

 I can always remember that one moment when I first admitted it to myself. I'd been tearing myself apart internally for months on end about it. Until that point there was never any 'one moment' when I realised, I think it had always been a part of me. I remember being seven or eight and trying to kiss a friend of mine, and her panicking in case people thought we were 'lesbians'; the way she whispered the word and look terrified at the thought told me automatically that it was a bad thing. For the next few years I felt guilty and ashamed of myself for wanting to kiss girls, like there must be something wrong with me if I wanted to kiss girls. Maybe I was meant to be a boy instead? After all, I did like Pokemon and play fighting - and as far as I knew they were 'boy things'. Don't judge me, I was eight; the concept of being attracted to somebody of the same gender had never been explained to me, let alone what transgender is. It had all been very binary up until then. It was also around the age I became utterly obsessed with Avril Lavigne (again, don't judge me, I was eight!). And I don't mean in the way that other little girls wanted to be her, I mean in the same way other girls my age would obsess over boybands; I want to say Busted here? Yes, fair enough I liked them. But it wasn't their poster that I kissed every night before going to sleep. You have no idea how much of a cringe-worthy moment it was to type that last sentence. But at the same time I would fancy boys at school; it felt very much the same as my celebrity crush but I would never admit that to myself.

 It wasn't until I was twelve and in secondary school that it all snuck up on me. I had new friends, there were lots of new people and I met an amazing girl (now NB so they/them pronouns will be used). I can remember the moment I met them actually, I was having my cello lesson and they were in for the lesson after mine; the music teacher introduced us and I can remember how friendly and bubbly she was, and how pretty I thought they were too. That last thought I tried to push down, remembering the embarrassment of my eight-year-old self and that feeling I had come to learn about how wrong it was for me to want to kiss girls. Anyway, I fancied a boy at the time, so that must've just been a minor blip, right? He later became my first secondary school boyfriend, and in that time I became good friends with that gorgeous, bubbly person who could make me smile and feel good about myself just by looking at me. I learned a few years later, long after we had broken up, that my boyfriend (who I was just good mates with by that point) thought I had something going on with them at the time I broke up with him. I hadn't realised that my affection towards them had been so obvious to everybody else around me. 

 We had what I would call at that time (and still now I'm pleased to say) a very close and affectionate friendship, full of handholding, little kisses and lots of long hugs. They made me feel so special, and still does; I'm extremely lucky to still have them as a friend. I can remember the moment over the summer during a particularly angsty chat over MSN messenger about my feelings and how wonderful they made me feel, and how confused I felt about myself, like I didn't feel normal. And then they asked me, in three simple words.

 Are you Bi?

 Seeing the words seemed to knock all of the breath out of my body, but in the most wonderful way. It was like an epiphany. Knowing other people felt this way too, knowing I couldn't possibly be the only person attracted to men and women if there way a proper name for it! It was an utterly wonderful feeling. From then on we kind of became an unspoken couple, we never discussed it but we were a 'thing', and it was so, so wonderful. However given that it was secondary school and a particularly religious one at that the gossip and bullying soon started, and of course as it was so unnatural and unbiblical the teachers let the whole thing slide. Even when it got to the point of what may have been my first mental breakdown and I had to switch schools, no longer able to cope with the stress of being such a target. Thanks faith schools...

 As a teenager I dated men and women and had further quibbles about my sexuality, thinking that because I preferred women over men that it meant I must be a lesbian; getting drunk one night when I was fifteen and telling my Mam, then getting so panicked about it that I had an asthma attack and had to go to the hospital. Fun times. My Mam was so wonderful about it and never treated me any differently for it, and never even questioned my future relationships with men after that - knowing I suppose that it had been mostly teenage angst and questioning of my sexuality, fuelled by cheap rose wine. It's funny because at the same time when I was seeing a guy I never thought that it meant I was straight. When I met Paul everything seemed to fall into place. He never questioned or doubted that I was attracted to him and at the same time didn't try to invalidate that I was still attracted to women, or make the seemingly obligatory threesome jokes that other men I've met tend to when they realise they're in a relationship with a bisexual woman. 

 But it did lead to questions from others, believing that because I'm in a long-term relationship with a man it means I must be straight now. Because five years with him must totally invalidate a lifetime of feelings and attraction to women. Then again, that's the view society tends to take on penises: they can magically and irreversibly change women forever - another example being the concept of virginity.

 So there you have it, a rather condensed version of my coming out story. And just to echo the last point that yes, ten years on and in a long-term relationship with a dude I'm still one of those greedy bisexauls that the media warned you about, and not just going through a phase, I thought I'd include a wonderful infographic from a fantastic friend of mine, Rachel. If you enjoy it so much and want to hear more from Rachel then give her a cheeky follow on Twitter at @RachelCDailey - and while you're there and in the mood maybe give me one too at @lizi_gray. It's mostly drunken political rants but it's amusing nonetheless. Happy Bi Day!!

Following in Father's Footsteps...

WARNING: This post is a little gorey, if you're not a fan of hilariously stupid injuries and fairly graphic descriptions of them then you may want to turn back. In the meantime though you can check out my shiny new Facebook page for behind the scenes rambling, daft pictures and more details of other shenanigans.


 This is my Daddybear. Isn't he handsome? He's the loveliest Daddy I could have asked for - albeit occasionally grumpy and a total wind-up merchant - and I love him to bits. I've always been told I look a lot like him, though my beard never comes in that well; and that we have a lot of the same mannerisms. We're both total nerds, enjoy shouting at the telly and ranting about things and both find Hayley Williams very attractive.

 But last night I had a moment that definitely solidified that there is no denying I'm his daughter. When I was younger I would do the typical teenage thing of arguing with him, storm to my room and slam the door, and think to myself "how can I actually be related to this man!?". Don't lie, we've all done it at one time or another. However this event makes me question how I could ever think that.

 One of my clearest childhood memories was from when I was about seven. Dad was fitting a new banister, and being the handy-around-the-house DIY type that he is he was doing all the work himself; staining and varnishing the wood, cutting and fitting pieces. Though this would prove to be a bit of a mistake. I'd been sat in the living room watching Scooby Doo (probably, it was my absolute favourite) when he comes in from his garage (aka his Man Cave), talking incoherently and in a panic and goes to see my Mam. I follow him into the kitchen and see blood all over the kitchen floor and him holding his hand. From what my little brother told me it was quite a spectacular sight. He'd been in the garage at the time and saw Dad slice through his hand between his finger and thumb with a stanley knife while evening out the bottom of one of the rungs, coming very close to losing his thumb. The knife had slipped, cutting his hand quite deeply, blood shooting up in an arc through the air. My little brother's reaction - cry, scream, panic at the blood? Nope!

"Wow, do it again Dad!!"

My Mam, as any good partner would, put it under the tap to clean it up and see how bad it was. However in the process she ended up washing part of his nerve down the sink too. It was a bit of a crazy night, one of our Grandparents having to take him to hospital rather than dragging the whole family out to Accident and Emergency. After surgery and a lot of stitches he was all patched up and on the mend. I remember Mam taking us on the bus over to see him in the RVI and it absolutely pouring with rain; we ended up having to duck into the Oxfam shop on the way from the bus station to get some dry clothes - I got a nice pair of jeans with a skirt attached to them and they became my absolute favourite. He looked pretty sorry for himself, full of painkillers with his hand all strapped up. It's pretty strange as a child with parents who are otherwise fit and well to see them so ill. Dad recovered well and eventually got the feeling back in his hand, though we still mock him to this day about this and similar clumsy injuries. However last night I may have lost any high ground I had to mock him from about such a ridiculous injury.

Like father like daughter - still both adorable!

 Paul and I got back to Newcastle at about 10 last night after a weekend in Edinburgh with a wonderful friend of ours, we had had such a fantastic time and were quite sad to leave. Given how late it was and how down we felt about coming home we agreed that something quick and convenient from Sainsbury's would be better than cooking that night so instead we could devote our energy to cuddling up in front of the telly and talking about how good our trip had been. Being the good wifey-to-be that I am I put Paul's pizza in the oven while my pasta bake was in the microwave and he got the telly set up and an episode of Family Guy ready to go. However shit hit the fan when I decided to go one step further and cut his pizza for him, the cutter slipped when I got stuck on the crust and I found that while I didn't quite get through the crust I had almost severed the tip of my finger.

 It was a bit of a surreal moment, it stung like a bitch and bled all over my feet and the floor and all I could do was stand there looking at it, wondering how on earth I had managed such a deep cut with a bloody pizza cutter of all damn things and how I'd go about clearing it up with just one hand. Priorities, amiright? When Paul came in to see what had happened, what had warranted the "oh fuck", he immediately began asking if I was okay and how bad it was. All I could say?

"Well... There's no denying I'm my father's daughter."

 I stayed quite calm actually, polishing off my pasta bake and chatting happily about what an idiot I was while my poor Paulobear panicked that I'd severed my tendons. Having done so himself a few years ago I could see why it was a worry. After a phone call to NHS 111 I told him to get to bed while I got myself along to the RVI. A long wait, x-ray and a tetanus jab later (it really fucking hurt, right in my shoulder!) the wonderful doctors determined that I had cut right down to the bone but it was perfectly intact, no damage to that. Unfortunately because of where the injury is, right down my finger tip it wouldn't be possible to stitch it as it would just split again so I'm looking forward to sever weeks of steristrips and three days of antibiotics just to be on the safeside.

 So from my little misadventure I've learned several things:

• If you're going to slice your hand/fingers with anything, do it with a pizza cutter; it leaves a nice and straight cut - although hot cheese and tomato sauce aren't the nicest of things to get in a wound.
• The NHS is absolutely fantastic, no matter how stupid your injury they'll try their best not to laugh at you.
• Clumsiness can run in the family. Not only have me and my Dad shown that we can't be trusted with sharp objects but a year or so ago my darling little brother thought that the best way to see if the blender was still broken was with his finger...

 Thank you Daddybear, while we may be ridiculous human beings we at least give people a good laugh! Love you xx

P.S. - if you haven't already, check out my shiny new Facebook page here!!

Bikini Wax Horror Story

This week has been a week of firsts: the first time I watched Game of Thrones, the first time I nailed cooking kale….

And my first bikini wax.

Yes, the first time I went to a salon and had it properly done with hot wax rather than doing it at home, terrified and gulping down wine to prepare myself for ripping off the next strip. I've got no trouble doing my legs, though finding the right way to bend to get the back of them can be a bit of a pain. I just thought it'd be easier paying somebody else to do it rather than putting the waxing strip on my crotch, doing one side and deciding it would be too painful to do the next. That'd just look silly. And if somebody else is doing it it removes my own hesitation playing a part.

I was pretty nervous while waiting, but was taken from the front of the salon into the treatment room by the very nice lady who would be ripping out my pubic hair. The hot wax smells very nice by the way, though I wouldn't recommend eating any! She left the room while I took my things off, a little unsure about what she said by "take off your bottom half" and had a minor panic when she came back in and I had to confirm if she meant my knickers too (obviously yes!).

Starting with my legs, we chatted about the weather, holidays, my partner etc; much less painful than doing it at home! The nerves started kicking in as she rearranged the towels, asked me to bend my right leg and spread the wax on my bikini line. Crunch time!!

It got worse as she moved in and at one point I was thinking “shit, can I pull off the one side look?”, maybe fashion it into a comb-over?

No such luck!

I'd booked in for a Brazilian and as she got further in I had to stop her and double check I wasn't in for a Hollywood (all off). Yes, definitely a Brazilian, just skinnier than I'm used to shaving.

When she was finished I had about a centimetre thick strip left. That I could live with. She left the room as I got dressed, and that's when I realised. Oh fuck. It was lopsided.

Like, nothing in the middle, just a strip on the left of my pubis. So far to the left it was more of a commie than I am. Could I pull this look this off!? (No pun intended). I left the room to find her and at this point I had two options: take the typically British route of, every other time you get a *ahem* haircut, just bite your tongue and say yes it's fine as you're quietly dying inside; or I could woman up and see if she could fix it. The prospect of ripping out that last little bit myself seemed far too daunting after what my poor private area had already been through so I put on my big girl pants and asked if she could fix it.

Oh. My. God.

As it was so slim there was no way of fixing it other than taking everything off. EVERYTHING. I've never been so bald since I was 12, it's so strange.

Hobbling back home and contemplating my very existence I came home with two things:

A bald pubic region and a better understanding of when to assert myself.

So anybody considering getting their first below-the-belt wax, here is some advice:

Research the salon thoroughly, check out their Facebook and other reviews. If it's much cheaper than others in your area it's probably too good to be true. And before anything is applied be very clear with your beauty therapist. When you assume you'll get what you're after you just end up making an ass out of you and me.

The French Burkini Ban: State-Sanctioned Violence Against Women

 Pictures surfaced yesterday of armed French police on a beach in Cannes confronting a woman lying on the beach, forcing her to remove her coverings. The controversial Burkini Ban came into force at the end of July after the horrific Bastille Day killings in Nice in an apparent bid to tackle radical Islam. After becoming the first European country to implement a law prohibiting "concealment of the face in public space" back in 2004 - applying to Burqas, Niqābs and balaclavas - this law has been predominantly used to target Muslim women, with the European Court of Human Rights ruling to uphold the ban back in 2014.

 With that bit of background out of the way, the recent Burkini Ban has sparked outrage across the internet, from religious rights groups, to feminist groups, and many others who believe in basic human rights; the image of armed police confronting a woman has been widely circulated and fuelled this anger. If it were anybody else toting a gun, coming up to a woman and forcing her to remove her clothing it would be treated, rightly so, as sexual harassment under threat of violence. Yet as they are police officers enforcing a bigoted law the onlooking crowd did nothing other than applaud, as well as throwing in racial slurs and harassment. I find the images of this absolutely heartbreaking. Imagine for a moment you're on the beach, enjoying a day of sea and sun with your daughter, and a group of armed men are suddenly standing over you and forcing you to remove your clothes. It's a sickening feeling, isn't it? You get a tightness in your throat, you start to shake, all eyes are on you; you're a spectacle, being humiliated in public. These women are enjoying the sun with their families, they are not criminals.

 Then why, just why, is this law being enforced?

 According to The Guardian the ban is being enforced by 15 local authorities in order to "citing public concern following recent terrorist attacks in the country." You know, rather than teaching the public about tolerance, putting programmes and services in place to help make Muslim communities feel safer and more included in their local areas, therefore less likely to want to get involved with extremist groups.  No, we'll just enforce violent bans to make non-Muslims feel safer by spreading Islamophobic messages and making spectacles out of them. That'll make French Muslims less likely to want to act out against the government and authorities!

 Except... No.

Source: Thanh Nien news

 By taking away somebody's basic human right to personally express their religion, all they are doing is fear mongering and alienating French Muslims. They are forcing them away, telling them that their religion and French values are not compatible, that they are outsiders. These attitudes also spark fear and mistrust of Muslims in the widers French population, with hate crimes against Muslims having trebled in 2015 that number is only set to rise if the message doesn't change from one of distrust and persecution to one of tolerance and coexistence. One argument used to justify the initial ban of face covering religious dress was to stop women being forced to wear them by men in their communities and families. Yes, this does happen in some areas - notably the Burqa being enforced by the Taliban and Daesh (the so-called Islamic State). Yet where is the liberation in violently forcing somebody to remove their clothing, as opposed to violently forcing them to wear something they do not want to?

 Many Muslim women in the West choose to wear the form of religious dress that they feel most comfortable with themselves. They find it liberating and a way to feel closer to God, who do the French government think they are to tell them "No, you are not allowed to feel comfortable with yourself and practice your religion in a way you want to"? It is famously a secular country yet most targeted hate crimes regarding dress have been against Muslims and Jews. There would be national outrage if groups of roaming atheists went around ripping off Nuns' Coifs and Habits, holding them at gunpoint and claiming their modesty is oppressing them.

 There is a long history of laws and 'morality' being used to police women's bodies, like the picture above which shows a police officer from the West Palm Beach police force measuring Betty Fringle's bathing suit to see if it's long and modest enough. Again in the eyes of a man with no regard for a woman's comfort and freedom of expression. It's been 91 years, can we not just bloody swim in peace?? Certainly this modern case reeks of racism and Islamophobia but it is just another example of taking away our right of how to present our own bodies in public.

 As a white, atheist woman I can't fully relate to these experiences. My closest experience to something like this would have been in secondary school where we would be made to kneel on the floor to see if our skirts were long enough (no option to wear trousers), or receiving detention for wearing a bra any other colour than white as it was a distraction to male pupils; often with older male teachers pointing out such infringements, it makes me feel physically sick thinking about these memories. Personally I love how burkinis look, when doing research for images I came across so many beautiful and well put together designs, why deprive women of the joy of going to the beach, spending time with family and friends and feeling comfortable while doing so? Women will never be free and equal until such instances no longer happen.

UPDATE: After publishing this post I spotted this very welcome contrast from Scotland, introducing a uniform Hijab for women in the police force. Thank you for being the voice of reason, Scotland!