Women and Domestic Abuse

The prevalence of domestic abuse will never be fully known because most incidents are not reported. What tends to be officially recorded are the most serious cases: the deaths, or assaults that lead to hospitalisation. Even these are rarely deemed newsworthy. They happen, people shrug and try not to get involved. There is discomfort in asking about what goes on in the privacy of a family home. The most common response seems to be, if the situation is so bad then why does the victim not leave? The causes are rarely addressed.

It is the causes that interest me. The everyday sexism project has highlighted how so many in society view women. I doubt that any woman has been shocked by the contributions as most have lived with these attitudes for their entire lives. The benefit for me has been to see that I am not alone and to recognise that this sort of behaviour is unacceptable. I have sons. I do not wish them to grow up treating women as objects that exist for their delectation.

Another common responses when abuse of women is raised is, it also happens to men. When this is pointed out the implication is that what happens to men matters.

Statistics show that more men get murdered and beaten each year than women and the majority of these incidents are also not deemed newsworthy. However, it is my understanding that the majority of these assaults involve men attacking men. This is worth discussing but is not the issue that I am trying to explore.

Domestic abuse happens in the home, a place that should offer sanctuary. The perpetrators are family members who should be trusted to provide support. There is a spectrum of abuse, from constant verbal put downs to occasional assaults to significant violence and murder. It can happen to men but most victims of the domestic abuse cases reported are women.

In some countries and cultures this is seen as acceptable. In law, the husband is the head of the household and the women must do as they are told. Wife beating is seen as a method of control, frowned upon perhaps but rarely punished. In this country we are supposed to have moved on from such an attitude yet still too many men expect women to fulfil an approved role and will seek to punish them in some way if they do not conform.

I want to talk about women. I want to talk about how society treats women, what they are expected to put up with and how they are blamed if they become victims.

“She used to be a real looker, let herself go since the kids were born.”

“She should be grateful he provides so well for her and the kids.”

“Her house is a mess, what does she do all day?”

“I don’t blame him, she has a go at him every time he stops off for a few beers with the lads.”

“She was giving that one the eye, no wonder he flipped.”

Women are not possessions, not servants, not inferior. It is never acceptable to beat women into submission either verbally or physically when they do not conform to a societal ideal.

I have always been drawn to the intelligent which has resulted in me spending my life struggling to keep up with their wit and wisdom. There are times when I open a discussion but am incapable of doing justice to a topic that deserves a sound hearing, incapable of succinctly stating a case that would swing the debate. My inability to impress with clear and well reasoned discourse does not invalidate the point I am trying to make yet men dismiss it as female fuss and foolishness. I wonder would they treat a male friend with such obvious disdain?

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.”

Domestic abuse will continue until something is done to stop it. The recent killing of Reeva Steenkamp is a case in point. It is not a shame that a talented sportsman has risked his career, it is a shame that a women has been killed at home by her boyfriend. It is shameful that the world seems more interested in one celebrity’s rehabilitation than in considering why he and many others like him feel free to act in this way.

Yes, men have a right to expect the laws of the land to offer them protection from violent attack. So do women.


(Note: I reworked the original version of this opinion piece and submitted it to ReadWave where it made the front page. This is the reworked version) 

Book Review: The Boy Who Loved Rain


The Boy Who Loved Rain, by Gerard Kelly, is a story about parenting, teenagers and the difficulties inherent in communicating with those we love. When the truth will hurt it can be hard to confront, especially when a lie has been perpetuated for many years.

Fourteen year old Colum suffers from recurring nightmares that he cannot explain. He feels numb, depressed and harbours suicidal thoughts. Despite an apparently loving and happy childhood he now feels alienated from his parents who put his moods and silence down to his age. His father has immersed himself in his work while his mother struggles to cope with their sullen, uncommunicative son. When serious issues at school are brought to her attention she recognises that he needs help but will not defy her husband’s wish to keep things within their church.

The church, religion, is a recurring theme that I felt was overdone. Having established its importance in the lives of several of the characters and the subsequent impact on their decision making I felt that it should have been given less prominence. I am now aware that this book is published by Lion Hudson who are ‘committed to publishing quality literature which is true to the Christian faith’ but I read it unaware of this, regarding it as I would any other work of fiction.

Putting that aside, the depiction of this troubled family was credible and universal. There were interesting issues of nature versus nurture to explore as well as the selective blindness that can occur when parents see their child as all he has been rather than what he is now. The apathy, simmering resentment and truculence of the teenager were well described.

I was less impressed with the subsequent mellowing of the boy as the friend and counsellor gradually uncovered and addressed the issues that were causing so much pain. I felt that, by the end, the teenage character had become a little too much how adults would like children to be. The development of the parents as the story progressed seemed more believable. I would be interested to know if the psychological issues explored had any basis in scientific fact.

The story is nicely written with plenty of food for thought about how we see ourselves and those we are close to. It will perhaps appeal more though to those who choose to live their lives by the tents of the Christian church to which the key characters ascribe.

My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher, Lion Hudson.

Book Review: The Ghosts of Heaven

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The Ghosts of Heaven was printed in Golden Ratio, from which the logarithmic spiral can be derived.

The Ghosts of Heaven, by Marcus Sedgwick, contains four separate yet interconnected stories that wind through time like the spiral from which they are each inspired. The writing is lyrical with dark undercurrents, disturbing in places yet full of hope. It is suggested that the tales may be read in any order and still make sense. Certainly each stands on its own but also adds depth to those read before.

The first quarter of the book is set in the time of prehistoric hunter gatherers when marks in caves were linked to magic and writing had not yet been invented. The second quarter introduces us to a young girl, newly orphaned, who becomes the victim of a powerful church hunting down witches. The third quarter is set in the last century at a lunatic asylum where the lines between madness and sanity become blurred. The fourth quarter is set in a futuristic spaceship where a lone sentinel discovers that all is not as it seems.

Each tale is richly imagined with compelling story lines and intelligent, questioning characters. It is the questions that they ask, the thought processes they explore, that add to the intrigue. The reader is lead to philosophise alongside, to consider where they have come from, why they are there, and where they may be going.

Although classified as for Young Adults I enjoyed this book for what it is, a work of fiction that entertains and gently challenges without preaching. The darkness that has always existed in the hearts of some men is examined alongside a perception of supposed progress. The denouement of the final tale is pitch-perfect.

Four quarters make a whole and life goes on, spiralling ever upwards or downwards depending on how it is viewed. It takes skill to present complex ideas in such an accessible way. This book is story telling at its best.

My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher through Goodreads as a ‘First Reads’ giveaway.

Book Review: Charles_HRH’s guide to Great Britishness

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Charles_HRH’s guide to Great Britishness, by Prince @Charles_HRH, is as outrageous (especially if you happen to be French) as it is funny. Stereotypes, puns and wordplay abound as the ‘heir to the throne’ expounds on British history, government, culture and the lifestyle choices of his future subjects. It is wittily irreverent with pin sharp truths occasionally penetrating the amusing silliness. For example, when commenting on minimum wage employees he notes:

‘People working in shops can look out of the window and see parking meters earning more than they do.’

Written by the author of a popular twitter account it can easily be dipped into and enjoyed in small doses. Much of the humour relies on the reader being aware of how the characters or events being discussed are mocked in the media. Recent popular news stories are referenced to good effect as are the habits of the various elements of British society. The wry observations sit comfortably alongside the waggery, such in the opening sentence of The History of Britain:

‘For some, history is that thing you hastily delete whilst logging off the Internet.’

I suspect that the book has been released as a potential stocking filler for the Christmas market, and it would serve this purpose well. It is light hearted and amusing but has enough substance to provide a smidgeon of food for thought alongside the laughs. It reminded me of a stand up comic except that it succeeded in entertaining without descending into sexist innuendo. This is a book that can be enjoyed by anyone who understands what the British are like. As HRH opines:

Where would we be without a good sense of humour?



(My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher, Headline.)

Book Review: Blood Lake


Blood Lake, by Kenneth Wishnia, is a complex and gritty tale of murder, poverty and corruption in troubled Ecuador. Written from the point of view of a revolutionary activist turned private investigator, the style of writing left me questioning if this were intended as a serious political drama or a satire. The characterisations contain a deluge of  clichés such that by the time I was a quarter of the way through I was hearing the narration in the voice of Naked Gun’s Frank Drebin. I was surprised by this as the protagonist, Filomena Buscarsela, is female.

Much of the action takes place amongst the dirt poor, hungry and often feral residents of a swamp. These supposedly family orientated down and outs appear willing to sell their souls for the price of a beer. Life is cheap and, despite the many descriptions of violence and death, I found it hard to empathise with their plight. There were too many people double dealing to know who was who. At no point in the book did I really understand why our leading lady was so damn determined to avenge the murder of someone she hadn’t been in contact with for 20 years.

The last book I read persuaded me that I never wish to visit Nigeria, this one has done the same for Ecuador. Much of the story dwells on the hardship, corruption and violence that are a way of life in this country although perhaps this is not typical. Filomena herself said:

‘Don’t get me wrong, there are nice parts of Guayaquil. I just never visit them.’

As she is in the country with her teenage daughter in order to catch up with family and be a tourist I couldn’t help but wonder why not.

Filomena worries a lot about carcinogens from the likes of smokers or burning tyres, all while deliberately putting herself in the way of people with guns who have no qualms about killing. She is portrayed as a hardboiled detective concerned about her daughter, yet continually runs risks that are liable to bring retribution on her whole family.

Perhaps I took it all too seriously, I really didn’t quite know what to make of this book. It was not one that I could just keep reading, not a page turner. Whilst being well enough put together it did not draw me in as I would have liked. Filomena risked her life for a cause and it was never really explained why.

My copy of this book was provided gratis by the author.

Random Musings: The learner driver

My eldest child is learning to drive. She has been taking weekly lessons with an instructor for a little over six months, practising her skills in between by driving my little car. Sitting with her while she drives terrifies me and she knows it. I console myself with the thought that when she sits her practical test she will likely be nervous. Driving under my supervision gives her practice at driving under pressure.

Her lessons are expensive. I do not begrudge the instructor his fee but the longer it takes my daughter to pass her test the more the costs mount up. Encouraging her to practice as much as possible therefore makes sense but for her to practice either my husband or I must be in the car. While he is at work I must take my turn.

In recent weeks our weather has turned cold and wet so my boys have been less inclined to cycle to and from school. Bus fares have increased markedly so I decided that it would be a win win situation if my daughter drove everyone in each morning. This decision is proving to be a challenge to my well-being.

Automatic transmission cars are becoming more popular but most cars in this country still have manual gear shifts. Pulling out of busy junctions into rush hour traffic is not a good time to stall the engine; I try to stay silent as Daughter restarts the car and pulls away in a screech of spray. Changing gears whilst navigating the busy roundabouts en route requires concentration; I try not to flinch as the car veers worryingly close to kerbs as she accelerates away from each intersection.

I am not a particularly skilled driver and I recognise that I am a nervous passenger; my husband’s driving regularly causes me concern. He seems to take it as a personal slight if a car pulls in front of him, his irritation obvious in his demeanour and language. He will overtake furiously and then coast along, his mind focused on fuel economy. The irony of this variation in style is apparently lost on him. He chooses routes on distance rather than navigational ease. He and his dad will discuss at length alternative, potentially faster routes with the eagerness of alchemists. I suspect that my slow and steady driving along the best maintained roads irritates him as much as his driving decisions can irritate me.

This is all about trust and control yet with driving the biggest risk comes from others. My daughter will benefit from being able to drive but it is hard to put aside thoughts of the road traffic accidents that so regularly cause delays near our home. When my husband is late back from work that is where my imagination takes me.

I drive as little as possible, preferring to cycle, walk and use the trains. Our rural location, inclement weather and patchy public transport require me to use my car more than I would wish. Friends tell me that my real worries will start when my daughter passes her driving test and goes out on these roads alone.


Book Review: Lagoon

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Lagoon, by Nnedi Okorafor, weaves an earthly story around an alien landing off the coast of Lagos in Nigeria. It explores the imagined consequences for the residents of this corrupt and superstitious city of such an event, as well as individual and mob reactions to happenings that all would struggle to comprehend. Man seeking to exploit a situation for his own benefit is not a new subject to explore, but this tale offers an imaginative take on what is a familiar theme.

My reaction to the book remains mixed. I enjoyed the chapters told from the point of view of the non human creatures, particularly the ocean dwellers being slowly poisoned by human activity. I liked the magical abilities given to the small number of humans who still had some good in them to share. It was fun to imagine how a few could develop such power over evil even if in using that power their goodness were compromised. Not for the first time I wondered if the world would be improved if humans were wiped out.

I struggled to understand the segments of Pidgin English dialogue, not wishing to constantly refer to the translations of words and phrases included at the end of the book. Any sympathy that I may have felt for the hardships suffered due to poverty, or exacerbated by the struggling infrastructure that was unlikely to improve due to greed and corruption, was quashed by the seemingly constant desire by so many to trick or steal their way to wealth whilst pushing others down. I know little of Nigeria but any prejudices that I may have felt about the natives of the country were exacerbated by the characterisations in this book. One of the well educated protagonists had travelled yet stated that they had wished to return to Lagos. Having read this story I am at a loss as to why anyone would freely choose to reside in such a place other than with charitable aims.

The characters may have evoked little sympathy but I found the plot beguiling. The interweaving of alien powers and earthly magic was nicely written with a rhythm and cadence that perfectly suited the extra terrestrial tale. It is hard to see how any intelligent life form capable of reading the minds of man would choose to stay on this planet but by offering the prospect of enforced change radiating out through example and sacrifice, the story retained a message of hope.

My copy of this book was provided gratis by the publisher, Hodder and Stoughton.