Sunday 30 November 2014

Full of Thanks

People often ask me what Thanksgiving is all about. Technically I suppose it's the annual American ritual of celebrating mass genocide by eating a turkey, or more controversially a turducken with your closest friends and family. It's about a parade, a four day weekend and it's about football. But as I get less cynical in my old age I think it's about something else, something deeper.

Thanksgiving for me is an excuse to invite round the people I love to say "thank you" for just being around. Not everyone has a home they can invite people to and not everyone has people to invite, so for me it's about reflecting on my life and recognizing that I am incredibly lucky.

I had the company of four incredible women plus my wonderful husband this Thanksgiving and it was lovely. Of course we overindulged in food and libations, but that's all part of the fun. My guests requested that we take it in turns to share what we were thankful for. We must have forgotten because champagne, but I wanted to be incredibly self-indulgent and share my list with you today.

What I am thankful for this Thanksgiving 2014:
1. My wonderful husband- he is a saint and a brilliant partner in everything
2. My fantastic friends- No matter where you are, I am thinking of you this week and today. I have the best group of buddies a girl could hope for and I am so appreciative that we all make time for each other.
3. My family- although they are all far away, it's great that I have a family I can go home to.
4. My job- I am so fortunate that I get to get up every day and look forward to going to work
5. People who read this. My blog is my joy, my respite and my outlet. Thank you for reading, for sharing and for supporting me on this journey.

This has been an incredible year and I'm so looking forward to what 2015 has in store. But for now let's all enjoy the run up to the festive season and remember that it's less about the crap you buy, it's the stuff that's free that endures and that matters.

Happy Thanksgiving week, everyone.

Sunday 23 November 2014

We all know it's Christmas.

Last week I sat through the video debut of the newest Band Aid resurrection of that horribly patronizing Christmas classic designed to inspire us to loosen our purse strings and feel bad about the size of our Christmas dinners, "Do They Know It's Christmas?" This time the focus is on Ebola-ridden Africa and not poverty-stricken Africa, but always Africa. I don't know what I was expecting to have changed, but I was bitterly disappointed that so much remained the same.

There are 54 countries in Africa. It is a widely diverse continent in socioeconomic situation, natural resources, religion and even weather. Contrary to Geldof's lyric, there is usually snow in Africa at Christmas time. It is not the sweltering hot desert populated by children with flies in their eyes and distended bellies. Of course those images we see on infomercials and in Bob's vision are real, but they are not representative of all of Africa.

I worked in fundraising for 7 years, so I understand better than most that these are the images to invoke when you're on the other end of the phone with me and I'm asking you for £3 per month. The same images we use to threaten our ill-behaved and greedy children when they hide their vegetables under their meat. "Starving kids in Africa would be grateful for those broccoli florets." This is how I recognize the dangerous and demeaning message we send to Africa about how we, the intentional community view its citizens. No campaign has demonstrated this to us in the west better than the satirical Radi-Aid Campaign created by Africa for Norway: see it here.

Currently the Ebola outbreak is affecting 6 of Africa's 54 countries, all in West Africa and yes, this is a terrible and catastrophic epidemic in these countries, but not in all Africa. It would be as if the recent snowstorm that left Buffalo, NY under 6 feet of snow was reported as if it were the whole USA that was in a deep freeze. It's totally inaccurate. But we're not talking about something as banal as snow, we're talking about a virus that kills people in ways so violent and painful that to even think about it causes widespread panic.

This panic is detrimental to Africa's recently burgeoning tourism trade. Countries like Kenya and South Africa are suffering as people are confused about what countries in Africa are at risk. These are the same people who think Africa is a country. Formerly plagued as a continent of crime, hunger and poverty, now Africa is contending with the plague of the bloody plague and singles like  "Do They Know It's Christmas?" aren't helping.

I'm not saying don't give to charity, not at all, but know what you are giving to. Do your research and know your cause as well as where your money is going. If you're donating to help treat Ebola and your money's going to "Africa" that shouldn't be good enough. You want it going to Sierra Leone or another affected country. Ask before you donate.

As someone who works for a volunteer organization I know how damaging these perpetuated assumptions can be to a country, or in this case a whole continent. Africa For Norway's latest offering sees a white European desperate to volunteer to "save Africa" but the Africa she wants to save is nothing like the majority of the continent's reality and it's our collective ignorance damaging the international perception of Africa as a whole. Videos like Live Aid's gang of rich, white celebrities continue to sell the "white man's burden" bullshit that we, since colonial times should be trying to distance ourselves from.

Where are all the African artists? Why were Emilie Sande's more sensitive revisions to the song binned? Was changing a few odd lines really enough when the shitty, condescending chorus remains? Of course people in Africa know it's Christmas. The problem is so many of us know nothing about Africa.


Friday 21 November 2014

How do we solve a problem like Cosby?

I feel like no one's talking enough about Bill Cosby.

I feel like I just found out that the man I looked up to for decades, that I trusted with my affection and that I laughed with every week; same time, same channel is a rapist. Because that's exactly what just fucking happened and I want to talk about it.

Recently I've had painfully sustained conversations re: Kim Kardashian's ass, but as of yet I haven't had one conversation about the accusations facing Bill Cosby. Accusations that I don't hesitate for a second to believe. Not because I'm a woman or a feminist, but because it makes sense. You don't pay people to shut up about things that aren't true. You just don't. You don't just shut the fuck up when people start accusing you of rape. You just don't. And sure, that's not solid evidence, but it's one fucking hell of a hunch.

When the Jimmy Saville case blew up over here in the UK it was on every news channel for...well it still is. He was some radio DJ who liked to fiddle underage girls, boys, the infirmed, you name it. He's also dead, but that didn't stop his face being plastered all over the papers for months, continuing to the present. Speculations flew and in their dozens and now hundreds of people have come forward and started talking. But this is a dead man, and a man who I feel is getting a much tougher time in the media and in the nostalgic minds of children than Mr. Cosby.

Cosby's victims are calling him "this generation's most prolific serial rapist" yet his new stand up show is still due to be broadcast on Comedy Central this month. What a way to begin the festive season: with a rapist telling jokes. Ho, ho, ho. Dapper Laughs gets his show banned for making jokes about rape, but Bill Cosby, an actual real live rapist is still earning a paycheck many, many, many years after these accusations first came to light.

I feel such intense sympathy for Barbra Bowman. Having suffered at the hands of Cosby multiple times in the 80's she spoke out numerous times to a variety of different people. Their advice: shut the fuck up. But she didn't. Bowman has continued to speak out against Cosby and supported a fellow claimant against Cosby in 2006. It's not a surprise if you've never heard of Bowman, surprisingly after numerous rapes at the hands of Cosby her career never really took off.

What blows my mind is that after nearly 10 years of evidence and complaints against Cosby from as many different women, it took a comedian, a man, to point the finger just once and suddenly we were all listening. What the hell does that say about us as a society? Be dubious of women who accuse their attackers, but if a man makes a joke, we better follow that shit up. I'm sorry, but whaaaa?

The statistical data suggests that less than 50% of rape victims in the USA report their rape. And we wonder why this is? The culture of disbelief and senseless shaming of victims is allowing criminals to continue to commit crimes. Our reluctance to react in a way that empowers victims is silencing them. I blogged earlier in the month about how proud I am of Ke$ha for coming forward and pursuing her claims against producer Dr. Luke. I wonder how many of "her people," people employed to protect and look after her told her to shut up about it?

The statute of limitations is up on all of these accusations, so Cosby will unfortunately not be prosecuted for these attacks. To add insult to injury there are people still buying tickets to his stand up show.  "Plenty of people still love Cosby, and they would be willing to overlook just about any allegations in order to see him perform." (Vox, 2014) WHY? Why are we continuing to financially support a man who raped multiple young, vulnerable women? I just don't get it. We continue to support known sexual offenders like Cosvy, Woody Allen and Roman Polanski, but Lena Dunham checks out her sisters vag and she's now a paedophile. Something has to change.

We need to support the victims in the Cosby case. We need to show that it's better to come forward and to make a big noise than to shrink into the shadows. People are not going to believe these women. People are going to say terrible things about them.We need to stop thinking that they should have said more, spoken sooner, done more. They did their best and they are the victims. Bill Cosby is not a victim. Bill Cosby was not your dad. Bill Cosby is most probably a rapist. We need to get used to that idea.

Thursday 13 November 2014

Someone please fix the internet.

I had a conversation about this topic with some of my lady chums the other day, so to avoid being misunderstood I think I need to make some things clear about my position before I proceed.

1. I am not jealous of Kim Kardashian
2. I do not dislike Kim Kardashian
3. I do not think mothers can't be sexual beings
4. I think Kim is a beautiful woman

Now that that's out of the way let's talk about those photos. Those photos that showed a cartoonish derriere attached to half of the body of a woman with Kim Kardashian's face. She's like a centaur, but instead of being cross-bred with a powerful horse, she's genetically a half sequined tablecloth.

If you want to learn more about objectifying images I recommend watching Caroline Heldman's TED talk here. She's got a very easy checklist you can follow to determine whether or not you are looking at an objectifying image. She emphasizes that if the whole of the person is not displayed in a commercial image, they are not being viewed as an actual person. They are just choice exposed parts. Usually a woman's exposed parts to sell shit. Cars, cigarettes, magazines. In Kim's case, she is presented as no more than her giant, photoshopped ass, which is being used to sell shit-loads of issues of Paper. What's not to smile about? So much.

In my earlier conversation, it became abundantly clear that people feel like those Kim Kardashian photos are harmless. That she's just "owning her sexuality." I say she's not. If she were owning her sexuality, if she were owning anything, even her own body, those photos would not be as retouched and Photoshopped as they are. Just like the rest of us, Kim Kardashian probably hates her body. But it's her one commodity, so she's happy to let other people manipulate it, exploit it and warp it in ways that make the rest of us feel the need to warp our own bodies in return.

I hate the policing of other women's bodies, so I won't do that. I'll police the selling of unattainable, unnatural bodies as reality. We are bombarded every second of every day with images telling us who to be and how to look. If you think you're unaffected, you're delusional. If you think these pictures won't one day affect your children, you're delusional. These photos are at best creating an unrealistic idea of beauty for your children. Both sons and daughters.

Between songs about "skinny bitches" and "big booties." Between Meghan Trainor trying to be retro and J-Lo trying to be relevant we are a society obsessed with sending mixed messages to women about our bodies. Be skinny! No fuck skinny, get a fat ass, but still stay skinny! Wait...you gotta get some bass in your treble. What the fuck does that even mean? And why the hell are we putting ourselves through all this bullshit? So someone else can use our body to make a buck. I'd like to mention that Kim didn't even get paid for this shoot. Her desperation to work with the photographer meant that she earned not a penny for the photos that are currently selling millions of magazines. Sad face.

In other news Kim Kardashian's naked ass has repercussions beyond totally skewing your body image. Maybe white America can't see that it affects not just white America, but I can tell you it does. Using a woman's naked body to sell a product is wrong and I'll tell you why: It sends a really dangerous message about who a woman is. Don't believe me? Think I'm overreacting? Pack your bags and get on a plane. There's a whole wide world of misogyny out there beyond the 50 states.

Those photos will ultimately contribute to the overall impression the international community has about me as a woman. These kind of photos are part of the reason I got my breasts grabbed on the bus, the reason that a man with a motorbike hit me hard enough to knock me onto the road and then got off his bike to feel me up. Even the reason I witnessed another woman being harassed into oblivion last weekend on a train from Scotland.

As much as I am a fan of naked bodies and I think we should get them out more often, we should not be using them to peddle goods. We're better than that. The over-sexualization of women to sell products is harmful. It trivializes our sexuality and sends the very dangerous message that everything is for sale.

Please understand that I'm in no way saying that this is right. I just know it's true. I know that a recent influx of porn, easier access to the internet and newly imported shows like The Real Housewives franchise and Keeping Up With The Kardashians has helped to mold the preconceptions international men have of me. The color of my skin coupled with my accent is a flashing red sign above my head saying "fuck me" "touch me" "buy me." And it's fucking scary.

These latest Kardashian photos are not good for anyone but Paper's bank balance. Kim's naked body is helping someone else to get rich. They are not contributing to the empowerment of women, at best they are contributing to a conversation that I would be more inclined to engage in if these photos were being hung in a gallery. They didn't even contribute to her yearly income. One thing I know that these photos will do for sure, is continue to propagate the segregation and victimization of women internationally. 

Sunday 9 November 2014

A long way from home

By now if you read this regularly, you should know my feelings on street harassment. One of the reasons I feel as strongly as I do about what does and does not constitute harassment is because when you are harassed, really harassed there is no debate or confusion about it.

Last night I boarded the 5:40 Virgin Trains service from Glasgow heading back to London. I settled into my seat, opened my book and prepared for 4.5 hours of boredom peppered with claustrophobia. I was strangely looking forward to it. About 2 hours into my journey, my cocoon of boredom was shattered and replaced with something entirely unexpected on a leisurely train ride home, rage.

Four men, about 55 years in age stumbled aboard the train and noisily ousted some younger, quieter chaps from their seats. "These are reserved" they slurred as they propped each other up in the aisle. "I am so fucked" one of them declared proudly, as if her were 16 and at his first kegger. The boys in the seats scurried off and the old men fell into their places. I was sat directly behind them and the smell coming off of them made me have to cover my face with my scarf until I adjusted.

In no time at all they had turned their attention to a lone woman in the seat across the aisle from them. "What's your name?" One if them asked, the woman continued to read her magazine. This is a tactic I have used often, pretend you don't know they are talking to you and keep doing what you're doing. "Oi! I'm talking to you, we just saw you in the bar didn't we?" I stopped listening for a bit at that point, because I thought maybe I'd got the wrong end of the stick and she knew these cretins. It became apparent later that she most certainly did not, and like me she was just a woman traveling alone and all to often this is treated as a fucking invitation for unwelcome advances and harassment. Real, scary, inescapable harassment.

The woman, whose name she finally surrendered was Louise, engaged in reluctant conversation with one of the men. I've also had to do that before. If they won't let up, you have no choice if the carriage is packed. When it comes to train harassment, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. Get up and move and they could follow you. Start talking and you open yourself up for all kinds of unsavory conversation from the harassers and the victim blame of the other passengers, "she should have moved" "she shouldn't have laughed" "she should have ignored them." Right, so it's her fucking fault for having the brass vagina to travel alone and stay in the fucking seat that she purchased? It's not the fault of the animals who won't leave her alone? Right.

At one stage I had to get up to use the toilet, but even I was intimidated. And the thing that makes me so angry is that I fucking checked myself. Before I stood up, I put my hair up to look less attractive and made sure my clothes were loose, as if that was going to help. The second I stood up the men began whistling at me, and then one shouted "Woah! She was sat there the whole time!" I'd been spotted. Fuck.

After I used the disgusting toilet, which people were smoking in just before I entered and was covered in piss, with no toilet paper with which to wipe it up, or to wipe my offending genitals with I headed back to my seat. At this stage I might add that Virgin Train tickets cost an absolute fortune, so what are we actually paying for? It was anarchy on that train last night and not once did a member of staff walk through the carriage.

When I reported this behavior to Virgin their response was that I "should have got a member of staff." Who exactly? And what would this person have done? The ticket inspector, who I saw once the whole journey was an elderly man himself. I had zero confidence that he could have stopped those assholes in my carriage and I certainly wasn't going to risk making it worse. How about you shouldn't be letting people that horrendously drunk on your trains? Those men would never have been able to board a Virgin plane. What's the difference between a 4.5 hour flight and a 4.5 hour train journey?

Once back in my seat I noticed that one of them had really started going for it with poor Louise. "You'd get it." "She'd fucking get it" his thumb jutted through the gap between the seats in front of me. "You've got lovely breasts" he said to Louise, all of his friends roared with laughter. Louise shrunk. Noticing her body language they all began to ask each other "is that rude?" "Was that too rude?" All the while cackling away like a coven of demented witches. I'd had enough "that's fucking rude" I piped up from behind them, my voice smaller that I would have liked.

"Is that rude?" They all asked each other mockingly.

"Yes, it bloody is!" My voice was back.

The drunkest of them turned around and fixed his bloodshot eyes on me. "Turn around, grandpa" I shouted and his friends responded with a chorus of laughter and "oooohhhhhs" like they were children.

"That one's a beautiful fucking cunt. She'll clip you 'round the ear if you're not careful, stick to Louise." Poor Louise, I felt at times like I was leaving her adrift on a violent tide of misogyny, but I knew I couldn't control it. She remained in her dinghy, but I stayed beside her in my sturdier vessel determined not to let her capsize.

It never let up. For 2.5 hours is was "where do you live?" "Do you eat pussy?" "Do you like cock?" "I'm gonna give you a lift home and fuck you." Louise responded as little as she dared and every few minutes I'd pipe up and they'd act like petulant kids being told off again. I finally snapped and stood up after clocking their wedding rings.

"Oi! You're all married? How the fuck would you like it if your wife was trying to travel home and four belligerent asshats were treating her like this? Would you think it was so funny then?" One of them held four fingers up at me and stuck his bottom lip out in mock pout.

"What does that mean?" I asked him.

"You said four,"he said to me, his voice just above a whisper. I shivered.

"What?" I exploded. "You think that because you haven't said much that you're not responsible for how Louise is feeling right now? For how I'm feeling? You sure do think it's hilarious when they say shit and I haven't heard you telling them to shut up. Your complacency is just as bad. Shame on you all."

I'll also point out that at no time did anyone else try and intervene. People were listening, but no one else tried to help. Between loud choruses of the Hokey Cokey, these men continued their disgusting comments and on two occasions one of them turned around in his seat and tried to touch me.

Once it was time for them to deboard Louise put on her hat "You look ugly with that hat on" and stood up "I didn't know how fat you were. Nice face, though." The men shuffled past me to the exit behind me and I stood up in the aisle to block the space between them and Louise as I directed her to the opposite exit. Her face crumpled as she looked at me and said "thank you." All I could say was "I'm so sorry, get home safe."

"Oy! Louise, you're coming with us!"

"No. She isn't. Goodnight."I gave the men an exaggerated wave and watched as they disappeared into the night, probably to go home and beat their wives.

I slumped back in my seat and got out my phone charger. My phone was dead and those bastards had the outlet on their table. I perched on one of the beer-soaked seats as the passenger who was sat directly across from me came over.

"Hi, I'm going to plug in too. I had my headphones on for most of that, but she really should have moved."

I cold feel my pulse in my ears, "she paid for that seat, why should she have moved?"

"She was asking for it by interacting with them, but good for you for saying something" He smiled at me, "where's your accent from?"

"There were four of them and one of her. Sometimes you don't have a choice. You heard them when she was ignoring them..." I checked my phone to occupy my hands so I didn't hit him.

"Yeah but, I mean she could have moved. I'm a salesman so I move all over actually. What do you do?"

I jumped back in my original seat and put my fist in my mouth. Is this real life?

I would gladly pay an extra fee to have security on evening trains. Or even to have people at the turnstiles to check passengers aren't too drunk to board. I am disappointed with Virgin's response and think that they need to do more to help in these kinds of situations. It's Virgin's responsibility take suitable precautions on their service to ensure incidents like this don't happen, to be vigilant and provide safe transportation. I hold two Virgin credit cards, am a frequent flyer and a frequent passenger on their trains. At least I was all of those things until last night.

I can't help but feel let down, not just by Virgin, but by everyone else on that fucking train.

Monday 3 November 2014

Making a Mountain out of Vagina Pebbles

I think I've made it pretty clear that I am not a huge Lena Dunham fan. I think she's overrated and overexposed, but that's what we, the public have demanded of her. We like her trademark "oversharing" and her cringe-enducing humor that is ususally a lot more close to home than most of us would like to admit.

We cheer when she talks about sucking a kidney stone out of a man's cock. We roll around our living room floors clutching our bellies when her character in Girls takes cocaine and switches shirts in a club leaving her wearing a string vest with nothing on underneath, exposing her puffy nipples. We shield our eyes and then unshield them multiple times during a Hannah/Adam love scene. We love what Lena does. We tell her we love what she does. We shower her with awards and we keep tuning in to her show. So why, when her book reveals "too much" about Lena, are we up in arms? Why are we are disgusted? 

Lena's book has been out for weeks now, so why this particular chapter is suddenly getting a lot of attention is a bit confusing. Why now? Why these words? Lena Dunham is being accused of child molestation. At the age of seven she was able to know her behavior was sexual and inappropriate and she subsequently victimized her little sister. Bullshit. And it's not bullshit because of white privilege. It's just bullshit because it is.

Sexualising this behavior is gross. Sure, we don't all go rooting around in our baby sister's vagina, but at the age of seven we all do weird shit. We eat paste, we eat boogers, we put our hands in our butt cracks and then smell them, we fuck about with our vaginas and have no idea what they are, we just know it feels nice. If I'd had a spare vagina in my house I might have looked at it. I bet Lena's mum is sure happy she did poke around in her sisters vag. She found a shitload of pebbles!

Lena's choice of words was stupid, she says she did "anything a sexual predator might do" to get her sister's attention, even buying kisses on the lips. If Hannah had told this anecdote in an episode of Girls I bet we'd have all done what we've all been doing: gasped and then dissolved into laughter. We know that Lena Dunham is not a sexual predator. She does not have a penchant for little girls, she was a curious child who did some weird shit in a family that was very open about...everything. Get your minds out of the gutter, right wing killjoys. Lena is not a danger to your children, she was not a danger to her sister.

We asked this of Lena Just like in Girls when her publishers encourage her to be more extreme with her disclosures, we have done the same. If this book had come out and been vanilla and tame we would have been pissed about that too. The girl can't win. But what makes me really angry is that there are people out there telling her sister, Grace that she has been abused. There are people out there comparing Lena Dunham to fucking Gary Glitter. Get. Real. People.

She made a joke. A joke that in today's unshockable society, probably at the time of inception, felt tame. I bet she and her family joke about how Grace never needed to worry about men in cars with candy when Lena was around. I bet this is totally normal and cute within the safe confines of their family. I bet these memories are recalled with an awkward fondness, but certainly not shame. We are shaming this young woman for sharing herself with us. But isn't that what we all fucking wanted?

They say there's no such thing as bad press, and this controversy is certainly going to help sell a lot of books, but I can't help but feel like we've set Lena up for this; and that this success will be forever bittersweet.


Sunday 2 November 2014

My date with Dunham and Moran

Friday night was Halloween, my favorite holiday. However, this year's excitement over dressing up and probably taking hallucinogens was usurped by a different kind of anticipation. Fuck the drugs, I was intoxicated on the idea of seeing Caitlin Moran (my idol) have a chat with Lena Dunham (a girl that makes that show I love/hate.)

Steve was his usual legendary self and purchased the tickets for me as a gift. Tickets which sold out in less than 1.5 hours and had people scalping them online for as much as £900. Believe me, I thought about it. But I kept hold of these golden tickets to feminist literary conversation, not for the intellectual value, but because I promised to take my friend who is actually a bit dangerously obsessed with Lena.
This is when the cab driver kept telling us to "smile dirty" because he "really liked it." Ew. 

I mean, look at us here in the cab dressed as "String vest" Hannah and "Slightly angry feminist" Caitlin. We nailed it. Secretly we were both hoping that everyone else would have been dressed up too. I mean, what an opportunity?! To totally fangirl out and blame it on Halloween. Genius.

Anyway, we arrived bang-on 7pm and set about like rats escaping a sinking ship, except instead of frantically searching for exits, we were looking for liquor. Once located, we leaned against the bar with the desperation of escaped convicts and were curtly told by the bartender that "the queue starts there." She extended her hand and pointed her finger past about 10 people, all glaring at us. Something inside me died and we floated to the back of the line like deflated, apologetic balloons.

After waiting for about 5 minutes (felt like days) we noticed another pair of  undesirables trying the same tactic as we had. I recognized one of them as Miranda Hart, beloved British comedienne. "There's a queue" I spoke loudly in her direction. She and her lovely blonde friend looked me in the eye, Miranda cleared her throat and they took thier places in the queue behind us. After purchasing a bottle of fizz, which we regrettably had to empty into two plastic pint glasses a la a high school kegger we went inside to take our seats.

Our seats were taken. Some assholes had nicked our seats and Caitlin was talking. I was missing my idol's precious words being annoyed at some seat-stealing asshats. Thankfully two lovely women moved over and gave us the last two seats in their row. I have to have an aisle seat. Without an aisle seat I will flip the fuck out in a fit of tears and panic.

Caitlin was speaking about how much she admired and supported Lena and her talent. How she was the voice of a generation and how like no one before, Lena was tackling issues of a twenty-something that were before unspoken and hidden. After this generous ego-wank, Lena was introduced and appeared from stage right like a fancily-dressed, green-haired version of herself that was totally expected. She looked exactly like I thought she would, but her walk was very heavy, as if she was trying to make footprints on even concrete. Her gait was leaden and a bit clumsy, but she was small, vulnerable and beautiful.

She read a chapter from her book about nudity, her mother and her work. Her soft, squeaky voice punctuated words and cracked slightly at times. It was soothing, and sweet and made the room noticeably warmer. Lena does what her character Hannah can not do. Lena encourages feelings of admiration, kindness and of soft pillows. Hannah inspires rage and annoyance. I am so happy to see the differences between them. Those who say Lena doesn't act, and that Hannah is just her in smaller clothes are wrong.

Once seated next to Caitlin, Lena mused about meeting Jennifer Saunders that morning and about her obsession with Call the Midwife. "I was watching all the grizzly birth scenes as research for the next season of Girls, but that's all I can tell you."As a lovely surprise Catilin arranged all the cast to be there and called them all out one by one. Miranda Hart, drink in hand, waved. Lena was visibly excited and flattered and said "thank you" over and over.

Caitlin and Lena talked more like old friends and less like fans of eachother's work. There is no awkwardness and when Lena gets stuck on a thought or Caitlin can't find her page there were affectionate arm-squeezes exchanged and I do really feel that whether we were there or not, these two women would have been having a very similar conversation.

The question was posed about how she managed to do as much as she does and Lena revealed that she is learning the word "no." That was women we are told to be amenable and to always accept  invitations and do things for other people but as she said, "saying no is the only thing that allows us to keep going and to keep our light on." I totally agree.

Lena and Caitlin both have the uncanny ability to say the things that we all think. To reach into our minds and put the contents on print, or on the screen, or to just say it. It was refreshing and unifying to be in that room in Friday.

This gift of seeming clairvoyance could be, as Caitlin offers, due to a medical condition called Hypermobility Syndrome. Caitlin rattled off a list of character traits that sounded like she was tipping out my essence, in words from a paper bag. Creative, prone to anxiety, easily bruising, inability to hold liquor, extreme mood swings, etc. The look on Lena's face, and probably mine was that Caitlin had just done some crazy-ass voodoo on us, but she hadn't she'd just described some of the traits that help to diagnose a syndrome she suffers with and maybe Lena does and I do too.

It was only when Lena stuck her thumbs below her index finger knuckle joints that I got really excited. "I CAN DO THAT TOO!" I aggressively whispered at my poor friend who smiled sympathetically at me like she would a child who just fell off their bike and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Lena and I are officially bendy-thumb sisters. This was a big deal.

Other questions ranged from, "how does it feel to be best friends with Taylor Swift?" To which my favorite revelation of the night came about, "I'd love to tell you that you're not missing out on much, but it's the best." (I KNEW IT!) To the predictable questions about body image and the responsibility Girls has to young women.

When questions were opened up to the audience I got in the queue. I wanted to speak to them, to have a genuine interaction with these two incredible women, and I wanted to show them that we dressed up AS them. But they ran out of time as they discussed whether or not one can be racist by omission (the consensus was no) and I had to go back to my seat, which was probably a good thing because I was pretty buzzed from my pint of champagne.  

The only disappointment of the night came when we went to collect our books. We were promised when we bought tickets that Lena and Caitlin would be on hand to sign said literature, but this promise was revoked in an email on Wednesday evening. The email read that due to the amount of tickets sold (it was sold out on day 1) that the books would be pre-signed. Ok, well what can you do? However, when we went to collect our books we were then told to email the publisher and a signed "book plate" would be posted out to us. Not OK, Harper Collins, not OK Lena Dunham. Get your shit together.

Despite this anti-climactic end, the night was fantastic. I got to spend it with one of my feminist idols watching our two biggest feminist idols. I can't wait to see what this season of Girls will bring, and I'm actually looking forward to it now that I understand the woman behind the curtain so much better. I know she's not a pretentious, spoiled shit. She just plays one on TV.