Let's not beat about the bush

[Platypus]

Courtesy of Banksy

Funny, very funny

[mudskipper]

Courtesy of Banksy

[SimonMac]

[scooterscot]

PS

[SimonMac]

PS

[scooterscot]

Is this Caitlin Moran?

I love her.

(Just in case our CM thinks I mean her.)

(I love her too, btw...)

No, Deborah Ross

[SimonMac]

Is this Caitlin Moran?

I love her.

(Just in case our CM thinks I mean her.)

(I love her too, btw...)

Nope not her Deborah Ross - The Times

[cojak]

Is this Caitlin Moran?

I love her.

(Just in case our CM thinks I mean her.)

(I love her too, btw...)

[scooterscot]

Value for money is my times subscription, say would you not?


"The thing is, Dad, although women have, in fact, always tidied up a bit for the summer, as we don’t wish to arrive at the beach looking as if Brian Blessed has been trapped in our bikini bottom"

Let’s not beat about the bush


Today is the day an advertising agency (draw your own conclusions) has chosen to launch Project Bush, “a call to action for women to stand up to the pressures of modern society and present their bushes in all their glory”. And now I have to be careful what I say, as I know my father, a lifelong Times reader, will be reading this and so I’m not sure how far I can go. Maybe all the way? Maybe it’s time we had this discussion, and got it out in the open? Actually, can you believe my father recently turned 90, and we have never talked about this? Ever?

OK, so, Dad, a “bush” is a woman’s pubic hair, her mons pubis, and although my mons pubis is basically still as natural as the day it was born (when I was about 11-years-old — you took no interest, as I recall; no party, no balloons, no present, not even a card) its physical presentation has lately become a hot feminist issue. There is waxing, Dad, and shaving, and there is topiarising it with trimmers into shapes like hearts and “this way” arrows but not, as of yet, Damascus, the Taj Mahal or Whistler’s Mother — I thought I’d best get that in, before you ask — and there are also all sorts of new terms for it. Foremost of these, Dad, is “lady garden”, thereby implying you must pay attention to it at all times, and can’t leave it untended for a few months to see what comes up in the spring. (This is a pity, as you may discover a begonia you never knew you had. Or mum’s favourite, sweet peas.)

The thing is, Dad, although women have, in fact, always tidied up a bit for the summer, as we don’t wish to arrive at the beach looking as if Brian Blessed has been trapped in our bikini bottom, and is now abseiling his way to freedom down the inner thigh, some are saying it’s gone to far; that it not only represents the pornification and infantalisation of women’s bodies, but also gives women yet another body part to fret about and despise, as if we don’t have enough already. (Dad, one day we will have to sit down and have a serious talk about cankles; we can’t put it off forever). This is why the advertising agency, whose name I will not divulge, as that would be playing right into their hands (yes, I’m talking about you, Mother London; and, to think, you imagined I’d fall for it!) has instituted Project Bush, which invites women to come along today and have their bushes photographed, in all their “variety”, to show there is no “normal” and then, to quote the press release, Dad: “The bushes will feature in a major public exhibition and all participants will be invited with their friends to a swanky Private View.” Imagine!

I don’t know, Dad. Although I’ve never had much luck with feminism — remember how, in the Seventies, I marched to take back the night but, having forgotten the receipt, always had to bring it home again? — I can’t see how this is going to move the debate forward, and where will it end? With a National Bush Day, similar to Mother’s Day, so you’ll have to send your bush a soppy card — “Thank you for being my bush!”; “You’re the best bush in the world!” — and then take it for lunch at a country pub with a carvery ? But I’m glad this is now all out in the open, Dad, and I don’t resent you for never having taken any interest, although one balloon, at least? Would that have been too much to ask?



Keeping up with the Joneses
So, Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones has returned for a third outing in a new book, Mad About The Boy, which is already No1 on Amazon, as a pre-order, and here is how I’ve been feeling about it all week:

Monday: Number of times I feel stab of jealousy over Helen Fielding’s success: 676. Number of times I hate myself for feeling that jealousy: 677. Hurrah, am in credit. on self-hate front! Can have one stab of jealousy for free! Will save for another day, when I read about how minted she is.

Tuesday: Read about how minted she is and use free stab of jealousy: ouch! It hurt! What I have learned so far: each and every stab is as painful as the last. Proportion of day spent thinking of ways to get minted: 92 per cent. Best idea so far: little dots on everything, particularly tea-towels and mugs, but have Cath Kidston and Emma Bridgewater already got all that covered? Ask self: any room for more little dots in the world?

Wednesday: Have plan of action! Then remember: don’t!

Today: Have just rung around agents to see if any interest in screenplay based on my newspaper column explaining pubic hair politics to dad. Interest expressed so far: nil. Likelihood of Colin Firth starring in the movie: nil. Only good bit of news: Brian Blessed’s not just up for it, but keen as mustard, and can bring his own abseiling equipment! Hooray!



Proof that marriage does pay
Let me see if I’ve got this right: the tax break for married couples will be worth up to £200 a year, and the average cost of a wedding is now £20,000, so you’d have to be married for 100 years to see any kind of financial benefit? I’ve cohabited for the last 25 years but, seeing the figures in black and white, I can now clearly see what a dolt I’ve been. Or, to put it another way: I don’t want to be out of pocket and kicking myself when I reach 135 or thereabouts. I’d best get married today.