Archive for February, 2011

My little lad is a huge fan of Lego. In fairness who isn’t? Although our house is overrun with the stuff and I’ve sustained multiple injuries by standing on various sharp little pieces in my bare feet, I love it too. It’s an excellent, durable, creative toy and has given him, and consequently us, hours and hours of pleasure for several years now.

Lately he’s been wary about showing me his most recent purchases – a series of top quality, mystery mini figures that come in sealed packages and are well within pocket money range. “Great idea”, you say. “Yes”, I agree BUT my objection is that in a world where half of us are women these cute little figures are overwhelmingly male. I know I may well be accused of carrying feminist thinking to its extremes in this instance but hey you have to get ‘em young! What does everyone else think? Is this merely coincidence, a non-issue, or yet another example of marginalisation? At less than 20% representation for women are they merely reflecting real life? Yes, I know I should lighten up (before anyone says it) but the pervasive invisibility gets me down.

Series 1

Look at them. Aren’t they cute! Amongst the first 16 the girls get to be nurses and cheerleaders. The boys have a lot more choice and can be zombies, magicians, clowns, deep sea divers, forest men, ninjas, spacemen, wrestlers, tribal hunters, cowboys, demolition dummies and cavemen. Even the robot is referred to as “he”.

Series 2

Things are improving. Next 16 figures and the girls get to be lifeguards (a la Baywatch), pop stars and witches. The men get to be explorers, karate masters, maraca men, mime artists, traffic cops, pharaohs, ringmasters, skiers, Spartan warriors, vampires, surfers, weightlifters and disco dudes.

Series 3

By now my lad has taken to hiding them from me. In the latest series the girls get to be tennis players, hula dancers and snow boarders. The men get to be samurai warriors, sumo wrestlers, rappers, fishermen, tribal chiefs, elves, race car drivers, pilots, baseball players, mummies (the bandaged variety), space villains and gorilla suit guys. The alien is not assigned a gender so perhaps we can claim her too!

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There’s an interesting new interview with Kathleen Lynch over on Mediabite, in which the UCD Professor of Equality Studies

Professor Kathleen Lynch

discusses inequality in Ireland, her treatment on Tonight with Vincent Browne, and why some female politicians are so scared of feminism. Here’s a taster:

What do you think are the main obstacles to gender equality in Ireland and would you agree that Ireland still has a deeply chauvinist culture and that this too is a major factor underpinning the meek acceptance of gross injustice as a solution to what is essentially a crisis of and by the richest people?

KL: Ireland has an extremely chauvinist culture. I travel abroad a lot – in Northern Europe and have a lot of contacts outside the country. I have been a Visiting Professor and I work with many people in Germany and in France – which isn’t exactly devoid of sexism either. I also work in Brussels. I would say that we are going backwards because in terms of political representation it is self evident. We have only 16%. The two main parties have only 15% each and it’s almost nothing. The smaller parties have more. I think there are so many factors at play. Women are too polite. We have been socialised not to offend as women – don’t be too strident, don’t be too this or that. I suppose the backlash that you mention when I raised things that people don’t want to hear is one of the reasons that women will not put themselves forward because they are abused in a different way than men are abused. Men are abused for their ideas but they are not abused in terms of their appearance in the media if they dissent. Women are subjected to sexualised abuse. I think the political class in our society has no interest in this issue and women have not been resistant. We have been too conciliatory and accepting. My view is we should have marches on the Dáil – we should sit down in the middle of Dublin and stay there until something changes. We have no proper childcare, we have no infrastructure. Quebec in Canada has a very successful, non-profit childcare system because the women went out there and organised it. The Irish Women’s Council has no money, for example. There is no-one to organise it here. There have been all kinds of backlashes in the media against women who have dissented. The have actually been called nazis – or ‘feminazis’. A lot of women are afraid of that kind of abuse and it’s a form of violence against women that is accepted in Ireland.

MC: Lucinda Creighton recently felt the necessity to preface something she said with the qualifier “I’m no crazed feminist but…” – as if it would be a terrible thing to be thought of as a feminist.

KL: There are lots of sociological reasons that can explain that but if you have a young woman going into politics who is so fearful of that, what will she ever do? If she can’t defend herself as a woman, I’d be worried about what she will ever defend. You have to stand up for what you believe in and women are not equal to men in this country. For many, many years we have had second class citizenship. I’m not saying that I want a whole group of middle class women coming into politics. I’ve always said this – if we want gender balance we want it of men and women from different backgrounds which I think is as big an issue as gender. There is research from Norway and from a number of countries where they have gender balance, relatively speaking i.e. 40% and which shows that even women from conservative parties actually promote health, education and social welfare. It’s because they are closer to the vulnerable in society. It isn’t because women are morally superior to men – I would never say that, I think that’s nonsense. Or that men can’t care for children as well as women – of course they can. But because of the way our society is, women are the primary carers and a lot of the vulnerable people in society are cared for by women most of the time. Therefore policies that affect the vulnerable are more visible to women and they are more likely to vote for policies that are supportive of childcare, disability, healthcare and education. That is a simple empirical fact – observable from countries that have large numbers of women in their parliaments. I believe we will never get women in politics in sufficient numbers in this country without some sort of a quota system.

MC: I’ve argued before that in any other circumstance where you have such an obvious imbalance or social lack it’s only natural for some sort of remedial action to be taken to restore the situation to health.

KL: We need only have it for a period of time to overcome the problem, otherwise it’s not going to happen.

MC: And yet very disappointingly women in the Dáil – over half of them – are saying they are against gender quotas.

KL: Well you only have to look at who they are, a lot of them. Many of the women who succeed in politics in this country have family associations in politics and they get selected on the basis of their family connections – and that in my view is a form of a quota. They have already benefited from the family quota and they should remember that. And many of the others have benefited from their money. I’m sorry, but there are some women with wealthy backgrounds and that has greatly helped them. You’ve probably been to privileged schools and enjoyed all the privileges of your class and therefore of course you don’t need a quota because you belong to the privileged upper middle class. So bully for you! The vast majority of women do not. Any woman from a poor community down the country hasn’t a hope.

You can read the whole interview here.

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We did late dockets in our secondary school. There are variations elsewhere, I know – late slips (why dockets in ours, I’m not sure, unless it was along the lines of the ‘shifts’ in Synge’s Playboy of the Western World and they feared revolt amongst the demure young ladies of the school), black marks, late marks, points, minus points, demerits, order marks for your form (though I think that one might have only existed in the land of Enid Blyton). The trick was to be let off the hook by the receptionist, pleading some kind of crisis – or to sneak past if she was away from the front desk for a moment.

Of course, despite the late docket – the proof that you’d already been chastised, reprimanded, and had clocked up one more mark against yourself – some of the teachers would still frown and demand an explanation. Parents were often blamed, especially in those pre-Junior Cert years when they could be held responsible for so many things, before the Leaving Cert era of ‘it’s your future – it’s up to you’. Others, conscious of limited time in the classroom, skipped over such things and moved on with the class. If you accumulated enough of these dockets, you received the particularly apt punishment of early morning detention – an hour before school began on Friday morning.

It was understood that being late was something to be avoided, but as the years crept by it mattered less. A couple of the girls in the school had their own cars, and could talk about traffic and/or car trouble in terribly grown-up terms as they stood in their crest-adorned jumper and pleated skirt explaining why they were late. It started seeming like something ridiculous, to be given out for being late. As the exams drew closer it became more common to arrive after a first class had ended, if it wasn’t a favourite. For the exams themselves, of course, we were on time, there was no question about that – and if parents had been lax or treating their offspring like responsible human beings during the year, they were taking no chances with the almighty Leaving Cert.

In college, that great world of freedom beyond the walls of uptight schools, it was possible to skip classes entirely (depending on one’s course and institution, of course), and certainly it was inevitable that the first seven minutes of any lecture would be punctuated with shuffling latecomers finding a space – sometimes including the lecturer themselves. If you were meeting someone for coffee, the text message to let you know they’d been delayed was a not-uncommon experience. And then out in the alleged real world it was more of the same – I’ve never been to a talk that’s started at its designated time, never known a concert or stand-up comedy routine to begin anywhere close to the ‘show’ time on a ticket. Theatres are usually a little bit better – I was at the Gate recently and there were apologies to the audience for being kept waiting three minutes. People looked at their watches in bewilderment.

It is, of course, considered something of a social faux-pas to arrive at someone’s house within half an hour of the given time, unless food is being served. And if you’re meeting people for pints, unless it’s within ten minutes of their workplace and their designated workday, you’d be a fool to turn up on time. I’ve done more than my fair share of sitting at the bar, looking intently at my phone, trying to exude an air of aloofness rather than desperation, wondering why seven o’clock really means half-past eight and whether this should be something taught in schools when they’re teaching you how to read the time.

At work meetings and other engagements one is generally expected to arrive on time, but not early, and in fact it’s often proof of one’s busyness and importance if you’re late – so many people to see, so many things to sort out, so little time! I remember adults always seeming very busy, very busy indeed, when I was growing up, but I wonder whether it’s worse now – with the various things to occupy us (we need to keep up with our email, with our phone, with what the Internet is saying, now now now now) and various ways of letting people know that we will be delayed.

At twenty-five I see myself slipping into it more and more – the feeling that actually it isn’t worth apologising for being five minutes late, because no one else does. How terribly childish and schoolgirlish – no one’s going to hand out a late docket, we’re so beyond that. Turning up on time doesn’t mark you as an organised person – it’s an indicator of how little else you must have to do, what a leisurely life you must lead. Aren’t we all too busy to remember that there’s always traffic this time of day, or that we meant to get back to someone? Deadlines? Prioritise, bargain your way to extensions, plead whatever you need to – it’s just what has to be done. Who bothers praising punctuality? That’s one of the things in a reference that means they don’t have anything else to say, isn’t it?

But I do wonder – if we all had some equivalent to that early-morning detention, that needing to reorganise our schedule, no excuses, so that we absolutely simply had to be somewhere well before a time that had consistently proved such a hardship – what would happen.

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Last Wednesday evening, around tea time, my daughter grew about three inches.

Growth spurts are bad news in our house because they inevitably mean the sudden relegation of an entire wardrobe to the charity bag. Then, only when there is one outfit, peering sad and lonely from a rail of empty hangers, do we admit the terrible truth. She needs more clothes.

Any colour, as long as it's pink...

If I was made of money, I’d only ever shop at Boden, from the comfort of my own sofa, accompanied by music I love and a glass of good champagne, but I should probably pay the bills this month, so we are forced to supplement the Boden buying with that dreaded place – the High Street.

What I hadn’t accounted for was how much more of an ordeal shopping would become now my daughter is about to hit the grand old age of ten. The problem is, she has no idea what JLS stands for, prefers Oliver! to High School Musical and has the audacity to listen to Indigo Girls and Seth Lakeman rather than Hannah Montana or Justin Bieber.

Until we hit the shops, I had no idea how many shades of pink existed in the world. From angelic off-white pink (clearly for girls who never eat ketchup) to the garish colour borrowed from the latest chick-lit best seller.

‘It’s not that I hate pink,’ my daughter informs me in the very first shop we descend upon. ‘It’s just that pink is for pyjamas.’

What about a sensible pair of blue jeans, then? A safe bet, you would think. Yet why do manufacturers impose the proportions of a woman’s size eight on young girls? Hipsters. At this age they do not have the hips to hold them up; ‘Skinny’ jeans. Now, there’s a body shape to desire! Blood circulation to the ankles is just so overrated, darling.

Probably the best of this bilious bunch are certain high street stores who cannot help but to ensure their shop logo glares back at us from the front of every item of clothing (we all know the culprits) If my daughter must be employed as a walking billboard, then is it too much to ask that we are at least offered a free outfit and a contribution to the college fund?

In the final shop, a girl, probably about seven, clonks past trying on a pair of heels and I grow all misty eyed over an off the shoulder number, with the word BABE spelled out in diamanté studs. Oh, the top has a point. It was surely only last week my bundle of joy stared up from my arms, cushioned by the promise of a whole drawer’s worth of teddy bear rompers to chose from … Yet, something tells me this isn’t what the top means, not what it means at all.

A laugh from beside me. ‘Mum, I’ve found something!’

She yanks a top from the rail and holds it up; ‘I HEART SHOPPING!’ the top screams.

You see, if not following the crowd has taught her anything, it has certainly taught her irony.

Tonight, when she is asleep, I’ll sneak up to her room to steal her sole trusty outfit from the floor; a good old Amy Ray youth t-shirt and a pair of currently unavailable M&S magic jeans that grow with her. I’ll pop them in the washing machine and if I hang them on the radiator they will dry by the time she gets in from school tomorrow.

And by the way, I’ve decided I prefer laundry to shopping any day.

Amanda Dixie works in a library and is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing. She lives in Glastonbury and dreams of one day owning a pair of goats. She tweets at @MrsPelephant.

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A couple of weeks after I’d started work in Dublin, a colleague-of-a-colleague asked to pick my brains about the British publishing industry. He’d written a few books for the Irish market and was keen to spread his wings. Could I put him in touch with someone in England?

No problems, I said. If you let me have the proposal, I’ll look through it, make any suggestions I think might help your chances in the bigger, more saturated UK market, and once you’re ready with that and your sample chapters, I’ll steer it towards the appropriate editor. Of course, since I didn’t know the publishing house’s forward schedule, I couldn’t tell him if his book would be a fit; but if the editor thought it might be, the proposal would go forward to the commissioning meeting for due diligence and then….

The would-be author, a successful businessman in his, I’m guessing, mid-fifties, cut me off. ‘Oh!’ he said (I’m paraphrasing here). ‘I don’t have any ideas for a book yet. I just wanted to work with a big British publisher. Can’t you introduce me to an editor who’d just agree to publish my book once I *did* have an idea? Doesn’t it work like that over there?’

I was reminded of this yesterday, listening to BBC Radio 4’s morning news show, ‘Today’. In a somewhere-in-the-middle news item about the Irish election, the presenter made an offhand reference to ‘the end of cronyism’. It pulled me up short. Not because of its incisive commentary (hardly) – but because it suddenly struck me, listening to the end of the report, that it’s so much harder than it sounds for the nation to achieve.

From the outside (by which, for these purposes, I mean England), it all looks so simple. Ireland got rich, people did each other favours that they really shouldn’t have; this behaviour should cease and desist instantly. Even the news I’ve seen from within Ireland seems to think this is the answer. To which I say, we’re missing the point.

The Irish mentality is hard-wired to lend a hand, to try to help each other out. To go back to my author-businessman story, I can see how it came about.  You want to write a book and become a British bestseller? No problem. I know someone who worked in that field. She’ll help you to do it. No matter if you have talent, the appropriate skills or, you know, an actual concept for a book; that’s all secondary.  From an English perspective, this looks utterly bonkers. But two successful businessmen thought this was more than reasonable, and looped me in.  Sound familiar?

(image c/o Zazzle) Right, who's first?

During my time in Ireland, I saw iterations of this ‘I know someone who can help’ mentality, in different aspects of daily life, time and again. And really, the sentiment is admirable. Why on earth *not* help someone if you can? I’ve been aided in this way, personally and professionally, more times than I can count. And in Ireland you see why the instinct is particularly strong; it’s a small country with historically large families; your degree of separation from everyone must be far fewer than the traditional six. So ‘helping someone’ in the abstract becomes, very quickly, helping your niece; or your boyfriend’s sister, or your sister’s boyfriend. Something that’ll make the next family gathering beyond awkward if you say no.

The American version of this, of course, is networking, where the emphasis has somehow shifted from how can I help others? to how can others help me? A logical consequence of arriving in the Land of Opportunity and needing the support of others to get on your feet, I suppose. But in Britain, where nepotism is a fate right up there with queue jumping, cronyism isn’t a close cousin of, well, helping your cousin. It’s wrong. And it’s absolutely not something you want in business.

We all know that whatever went on on that golf course, and doubtless in countless other situations we don’t know about, was desperate and should never have happened. But my point is this. When we’re looking to rebuild Ireland, especially those of us looking from the outside, we should think carefully before we insist the Irish give up the urge to help each other along. It’s a core component of the national  character, and when it’s not bringing down the Euro, we’re all incredibly pleased to be associated with it.

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Today, there’s much fanfare about the discovery of a new Enid Blyton book. Jolly good, says a nostalgic generation, including me, who loved Blyton’s books as a child. That said, it’s hard to look at them now through the prism of “isms”s – sexism, racism and classism, even if they are of their time. Mr. Tumpy’s Caravan tells the story of an anthropomorphic caravan who, in a fit of wanderlust, goes off on an adventure and – hopefully – doesn’t encounter any evil gypsies on his travels.

More interestingly, is the recent rediscovery of lost work by another feted female writer. Five stories by Daphne Du Maurier, author of Rebecca, and short story ‘The Birds’ (both immortalised in film by Alfred Hitchcock) have also come to light. One of the stories, ‘The Doll’, sounds not just macabre and psycho-sexual, but way ahead of its time. Written in 1928 (when Du Maurier herself was very young), it’s the story of a man who discovers that the girl he’s in love with, is obsessed with a sex doll. Sex doll, you say? In the upper middle-class 1920s of Du Maurier’s life? There’s an almost prophetic modernity to that. And a bravery. Du Maurier’s books were often dismissed as romance novels with a literary sheen, but ‘The Doll’ reminds us just how much of her work is concerned with the murkier corners of human experience.

The new collection, The Doll, will be published in May by Virago.

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…opined my 4 1/2-year-old on the way back from school. He thought the concept quite laughable. Whilst I’m flattered, in a way, to be thought of as in a different category to all other women, according to him, it brought me up short.

I’ve been reading unsettling things lately, which has added to my dis-ease (the disease of being a mummy, as opposed to just being a woman). There was that book I picked up about love and marriage. It had a whole chapter on how men are more likely to stray when they are older because the sex gets boring after 20 years with the same person, but mostly because older women are more likely to put up with an affair and not leave because they are less likely to find someone who would want them.

A week later an article did the rounds on Facebook and Twitter by an American woman who, being recently divorced, regretted taking half a career break to be there for her children in the way we are exhorted to do.

Her advice? Don’t do it. Kids cost a million dollars per child and mummy gets screwed in the process – and not in the fun way. We lose  our financial security and the ability to make what we were making, and on the path to making, before we took two days off a week to bring expensive, needy, future tax and pension paying, joy into the world.

Is being a mummy and being a woman compatible? A woman can stride through her life, making her own choices, having a room of her own. A mummy is a breeder, someone who is there to serve her children, to be seen to try to fail to mould them into what everyone else thinks they should be like. She literally has to give over her body to her young for at least a year, often two. Her job is to love, feed and clean up.

In the process she becomes financially reliant.

In doing all this she becomes dull. Her body is no longer for sexual subjection (begging a hippo of a question about how we define our womanhood), because it’s given up, handmaid-like, to procreation and protection.

The yummy mummy phenomenon only occurred in the past ten years and purely because celebrities with enormous amounts of money had their children early, by optional cesarean section, so that the final couple of weeks of pregnancy, the ones that see the most weight go on the baby and the mother, were circumnavigated. Then, whilst under anesthetic anyway why not have a quick tummy tuck and maybe a boob job and hey presto, instead of coming out of the maternity ward like a sad sack, expanded and then retracted like a five-day old birthday balloon, they sprang out, gazelle like, Frankenstein stitches hidden under designer garments.

Mostly mummy is not yummy. She’s worn out, socially isolated and fiscally poorer.

Of course she will be a lot poorer if she doesn’t slap on a smile and keep her husband happy.

So why do so many of us do it and others yearn for it?


As Alice Thompson Elis put it: ” There is no reciprocity. Men love women. Women love children. Children love hamsters.”

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I Want All Her Clothes

I can’t remember which red carpet she was walking down, but recently I saw a photo of Michelle Williams and thought (after the usual “man, I can’t believe the girl who played Jen Linley on Dawson’s Creek turned into such a good and credible actress), “Wow, she always seems to wear really great clothes”.

Oh Sofia, your films are vacant self-indulgent hipster bollocks, but your clothes are awfully pretty...

And I realised she had joined the select group of Famous Women Whose Wardrobes I Covet. Yes, there are many appallingly dressed celebs (thank goodness), but there are few who tend to step out in the sort of clothes I would instantly snap up myself if I were much, much richer (and a little bit taller).

This wardrobe-love has nothing to do with the women themselves – while the aforementioned Ms Williams seems like a talented, smart, likeable woman, and I love Charlotte Gainsbourg’s music as much as I adore her effortlessly cool style, I find almost all of Sofia Coppola’s films incredibly irritating, and she comes across like a boring whiny brat in interviews. Yet I think she’s beautiful and it is she whose wardobe I covet most of all. She always looks amazing. It’s not fair, really.

Sadly, in reality I am smaller, scruffier, and infinitely less stylish than all of these people. But I bet if someone gave me an unlimited supply of Marc Jacobs I could at least give it a try. So what famous wardrobes do you covet?

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Growing up in Midwestern America, one of the first school assemblies I can remember being corralled off to was the annual presentation on the topic of Stranger Danger. This talk was carried out with heroic indignity by an ever-shifting but always-cheerful entity known as Officer Friendly, a for-hire, aw-shucks, perennially unthreatening police officer from the local precinct whose job was to instruct an unruly herd of squirming six and seven-year-olds that we should always listen to our parents and teachers, but never, ever talk to strangers. Particularly perilous were strangers offering candy. A curious child, I’d wondered if it was OK to ask the stranger what sort of candy he was packing in the backseat of his Ford Abductor (a handsomely wrapped Twix might be worth breaking the rule for). But Stranger Danger’s laws were absolute. The world was a dangerous place, but as long as you went straight home after school and didn’t talk to Them, you would be all right.

Traveling solo really can be this fun and carefree...

Officer Friendly may have been particular to my region, but its message is one drilled into every child’s brain. The world is a nuthouse, says the message, and you never know what nut you’re going to crack, so best not to crack at all.  Stranger Danger’s iron-clad rules may have worked wonders for the small set but they seemed hardly practical for adult life. If you didn’t talk to strangers, how would you ever meet new people? The answer came boomeranging back to me in sturdy, Midwestern black-and-white logic: you wouldn’t.

Then in my late teens and early twenties, I developed a chronic case of wanderlust. I’d always enjoyed our family road trips to the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Northwest, but for the first time, I was booking flights and staying in houses or hostels without my parents for company. My first transatlantic journey (and by no means the last) was to Ireland, where my friend Kate and I spent a gregarious month cavorting in clubs and pubs, Officer Friendly a dim hologram from a dull and innocent age we had no use for anymore. Spend a month in Dublin? And not talk to strangers? You’d sooner go to a brothel to cure yourself of a sex addiction. No, not only was it was far richer to talk to strangers, it was virtually impossible not to.

So began my highly fruitful, well-traveled, stranger-infested decade, because as that notoriously unsociable W.B. Yeats once said, “There are no strangers here, just friends you have not yet met.” In the Troubadour Café in London my friend Rachelle and I passed an hour talking to Nino the Crazy Croatian with his titillating tales of fleeing KGB tanks and his as-yet-unrealized invention, the Karl Marx shoe polisher. In Cambridge I traipsed with a scruffy, soft-hearted busker who serenaded me with Oasis songs. I discussed the weather with a weathered woman in Connemara and traded travel tales with an Australian adventurer in Amsterdam. A med student in a death metal band showed me an autopsy on his iPhone in Phoenix, Arizona, while a bandana-clad bouncer in Amarillo, Texas confessed his life’s ambition to wrestle bears.

Not all exchanges, I’m afraid, have been so lively. James Joyce said he never met a bore. Lucky him, for he never sat next to the rubber band salesman from Pennsylvania on a six-hour flight. Longing for noise-cancelling headphones, I endured a litany of mind-numbing salesman’s minutiae. I responded with cheerless monosyllables, and when I feared I’d been too forthcoming in my responses, resorted to grunts. I longed for a decoy diamond ring to ward off any ideas he might be getting about me, a young woman travelling alone. By the time the red-faced rubber band raconteur had ordered his fourth baby Jameson’s and had started to lean lecherously over the all-important armrest, nothing short of brass knuckles would’ve done to help my predicament.

I suppose without the leering and leeching strangers, there’d be no need to sharpen one’s street smarts. Though it shames my social side to say it, I’ve learned that when the going gets truly rough, there’s no harm in popping in the earbuds and feigning deafery. Even so, I can’t help but wonder, as I tune myself out in the name of so-called self-protection, what stories I’ll miss out on from friends I’ll never meet.

Therese Cox lives in Brooklyn and lurks in Dublin. She is a fiction writer, indie rock accordionist, and volunteer writing mentor for Girls Write Now, an organization that supports at-risk teenage girls in New York City. She blogs about cities, road trips, and architecture at http://ampersandseven.blogspot.com and has just finished a coming-of-age novel set in Dublin, now making the rounds. Twitter: @ThereseCox

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Political art has come into its own (and moved on to the streets) in recent years. In the run-up to this year’s General Election, the excellent Upstart campaign asked for submissions from artists, illustrators, writers, designers and film-makers to come up with an antidote to the candidate election posters. Anti Room’s Nuala Ní Chonchúir wrote an election haiku (seen here, nestled cosily between posters for Labour and Independent Paul Sommerville) and gave us an idea.

Photo: Unkiedave

We want you to embrace your inner Yeats and tap that Seamus Heaney vein and hit us your best election haiku.

We’ll even offer a mystery prize for the best one.

Let the 5-7-5 syllable madness begin!

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