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We are a race obsessed by lists. Nowhere is this more obvious than when trawling the internet for inspiration for a blog post. It seems we’re especially fond of numbered lists. Alongside one single article today I found links to all of the following. 13 Common Words You Are Probably Mixing Up. 11 Things You Should Know About Piercings. 14 Habits of People With A Healthy Relationship To Food. 10 More Realistic Milestones For Your Baby Book. 5 Myths About Caffeine, Busted. You’ll be relieved to know that was the only one I read. Apart from 9 Breakup Texts That Just Might Test Your Faith In Humanity. That one sneaked up while I wasn’t looking. Despite a title cunningly formulated without numbers, the article I actually wanted to read hovered perilously close to list format too. I forgave it, on the grounds that it was quite interesting.

These articles seem to have a few things in common. They often purport to provide useful information. Apart from the breakup texts one. That was almost a total waste of cyberspace. Although one of the nine did make me chuckle … They usually have some kind of ‘angle’. I’m fairly sure the caffeine article was sponsored by a coffee company. Or written by someone with a habit even worse than mine. And from a writer’s perspective, they’re a pretty good way to present a list of loosely-connected factoids without having to sweat blood over editing.

So in the interests of experimentation with different writing genres, I’d like to present my own list. [Insert Number Here] Things You Should Know Before You Decide To Give Up Not Being A Writer For A Hundred And Twenty-Five Days

1. It’s much harder than you might think to type a title where Every Single Word Begins With A Capital Letter. Don’t do it.

2. If you’re writing a list like this you don’t actually need to decide how many items it will contain until you’ve finished. Just so long as you remember to insert the correct number before you post it online.

3. Your word processing programme will automatically reformat any sentence that begins with a number. Don’t forget to undo the formatting. It’ll be really hard to sort it out later.

4. See what I mean?

   5. You may think you’ve only given up not being a writer. Mad fool. You’ve actually given up watching telly. Eating cooked meals. Going to bed before midnight. Phoning your friends. Having a social life. Doing anything whatsoever without wondering whether you might be able to work it into a blog post. In fact, you could write another article entitled 107 Things I Gave Up …

5. There are some words you will never learn to type correctly at the first attempt. Words like theer, inot, socila, and nad are easy to spot because of the red squiggly lines. Your spellcheck isn’t bright enough to know you meant ‘pick’, not ‘prick’. ‘Every’, not ‘very’. ‘Look’, not ‘loo’. It could make all the difference. My all-time personal best typo, a few years back, was the title of a well-known hymn. Come, let us sin …

6. You’ll start out all fresh-faced innocence. You’ll think that writing 500 words every day is a great way to discover your ‘voice’. Don’t be fooled. By Day Forty-Three you’ll be sick of the sound of it.

7. There are two very good reasons not to save every article you write under the number of the day you posted it online. One is you’ll lose track of what day it actually is by Day 25 … or 26 … oh, sorry was it only 24 …? The other is there’s no way on earth you’re going to be able to remember what you wrote about on which day by the end of the first fortnight.

9. You are going to feel exactly the way you did when you were a student. With an imminent essay deadline. And no idea what to write. Continuously. For around four-an-a-half months.

14. No matter how carefully you plan out your time, writing 500 words ALWAYS takes longer than you think it’s going to. And if you’re going to post anything intelligent online you’ll probably run over 500 words anyway.

82. Giving up not being a writer is one of the craziest things you’ll ever decide to do. But it will be worth every stressed-out minute. Really.

27. All this is to raise funds for a charity close to my heart. I’ve given up NOT being a writer for 125 days in support of One25’s work with vulnerable women in Bristol. You can find out more about them by visiting their website at http://www.one25.org.uk/. You can also support them by visiting my fund raising page at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch where you can make a donation and suggest an idea for a short story or a post on the blog. Thank you.

Er … ahem … I’m sorry … My name is Jean and I’m … I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this … Go on, you’ll feel better when you’ve got it off your chest … I’m … you can do it … *whispers* I’m a Christian.

A few years ago I went back to university as a mature student. The tutor for my weekly seminar in Study of Religions was really hot on academic neutrality. The slightest hint of stereotyping. Ill-informed assumptions. Prejudice. He came down on us like a ton of bricks. After class, six or seven of us used to adjourn to the cafeteria together. A few weeks in and we were getting to know each other fairly well. Then one of the girls dropped a bombshell. She told us, slightly red-faced, that she’d been to church on Sunday. As the initial flurry of feathers calmed, we realised several of us were nodding in sympathy. Of the seven round the table that day, five of us were practising Christians. We’d never had the guts to say so.

“I thought he’d tear me to pieces,” said the girl who’d broken the silence. The ‘he’ was our apparently impartial tutor.

We Christians are our own worst enemies when it comes to PR. I wouldn’t give the time of day to the God my atheist friends (and that embittered tutor) don’t believe in. I don’t blame them. But they must have got their concepts from somewhere. Truth is, there are an awful lot of Christians out here who seem hell-bent on keeping heaven to themselves. By making it appear as unattractive as possible to everyone else.

Not all of us subscribe to the concept of a vengeful God. Seated on a cloud. Clutching a fistful of thunderbolts. Flanked by cowering angels strumming harps. And the half-dozen-or-so smug Christians who’ve actually managed to Get It Right. Sadly, those of us who don’t see God that way are really bad at making our voices heard in the hubbub. Nervous of being tarred with a fairly nasty brush if we label ourselves ‘Christian’, we keep our heads as far below the barricade as possible. Hoping we’ll somehow get our point across by making tea and being nice.

Of course, Jesus wasn’t a Christian. No such thing back in the day. I’m not sure he wanted to start a new religion at all. He wasn’t keen on the religious hierarchy. That’s for sure. The problem with religion is it so often boils down to a set of rules. With the God of the Big Stick, waiting gleefully to beat us as soon as we put a foot wrong. I don’t know why we like that idea so much. Am I the only person on earth who’s never going to get anything one hundred percent right? Every minute detail. Every minute of every hour of every day. For ever and ever. World without end. Amen. Because that’s the gold standard religion aspires to. Absolute perfection. No pick-and-choose. No margin for error. No time off for good behaviour. Rules is rules. There’s no fifty percent pass mark when it comes to obeying rules. Not even ninety percent. It’s all or nothing.

Small wonder I’ve heard the question so often. What’s so good about Good Friday? I tried talking through it with a friend a few years back. God loves us. I said. He knows we’re not perfect. We’re never going to be. And we beat ourselves up when we fail. He sent Jesus to take that burden from us. To show us we’re forgiven. Loved utterly. Absolutely. To the point of death. Even when we hate ourselves. When we can’t forgive ourselves. The cost was immense. Forgiveness isn’t an airy wave of the hand. Don’t worry. It’s fine. If it was, there’d have been no need for the crucifixion … My breathless exposition ran dry at that point. My friend was looking utterly bemused.

“Do you actually believe that?”

“Ye-e-es.”

My conviction was wavering as much as my voice.

“So why are you Christians so miserable?”

I knew what I was supposed to believe. Trouble was, what I really believed was that God excused minor lapses. Turned a blind eye now and again. After all, I was quite nice really. I’d been a bit wild in the past. But God had probably forgotten all about it by now. All I had to do was get things more-or-less right from here on in. All would be well.

I guess that would be brilliant news for religious people. If it were true. Keep your head down. Keep your nose clean. Well, clean-ish. Don’t actually drive a coach-and-horses through the rule book. And maybe pop a bit extra in the collection plate on Sunday when you do. Everything will be hunky-dory. Not earth-shatteringly wonderful. But OK. On the other hand, it’s really rubbish news for everyone else. What if you don’t know the rules? Or you’ve done something you know darn well God’s never going to forget? And you certainly can’t forget about it. Or you’re poor? Marginalised? Addicted? Homeless? An abuse survivor? The friend I was talking to was all of the above. No wonder he saw through me.

This morning I walked through part of this city I love so much with sixty or so others. We followed two men in white robes, with a makeshift wooden cross. We stopped at various points along the way to pray. Reflect. Sing. One of the stopping points was a place I’ve often visited on the One25 outreach van. We prayed for the city’s vulnerable women. The homeless. The trafficked. The abused. The sex workers. A woman who had once been a regular in the night shelter read from the bible. I stood beside a friend who’s battling demons of addiction and poor mental health. We sang.

Inspired by love and anger, disturbed by need and pain … [John Bell]

I’ve come a long way. Words I spoke to my friend as theory I’ve experienced as truth in the last seven years. The good thing about Good Friday is it really does offer love and forgiveness to everyone. Especially to those who are not rich enough. Not well-educated enough. Not ‘nice’ enough. Not religious enough. Which is pretty much all of us really. Life’s often messy. Painful. Brutal. So was crucifixion. Jesus didn’t have to do it. He chose to. Because he loves us. He wanted to make that crystal clear.

But we continue to muddy the waters with religion. With ‘it’s-all-very-well-buts’. With rules and respectabilities. My friend was right. Why are we Christians so miserable? Because we don’t live what we say we believe. We should be pulling down barricades. Tearing up rule books. Demanding mercy. Living generously. Joyously. Dancing and laughing. Love and forgiving. Just as Jesus lived. That’s the way only way we’re ever going to change the world. And I don’t know about you, but I think it’s about due for a change.

All this writing is to raise funds for a charity close to my heart. I’ve given up NOT being a writer for 125 days in support of One25’s work with vulnerable women in Bristol. You can find out more about them by visiting their website at http://www.one25.org.uk/. You can also support them by visiting my fund raising page at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch where you can make a donation and suggest an idea for a short story or a post on the blog. Thank you.

It’s amazing how the internet can change your life. One minute you’re trying to remember why you felt so sad about that earthworm in your San Francisco backyard, back in 2009. The next you’re all over the front page of the Daily Mirror as a symbol of starving children in Britain. And while you’re basking in all that unlooked-for media attention. The children who could actually do with it are being quietly parked back in front of the wide-screen telly. Out of sight, out of mind. Except when someone wants to have a go at their parents for owning a wide-screen telly in the first place.

I have some sympathy for whoever’s responsible for this weird juxtaposition. A tearful Californian child with an article about food banks in the UK. Aside from writing 500+ words a day, one of the most time-consuming aspects of assembling this blog is searching for photos to accompany it. Preferably eye-catching. Hopefully tasteful and appropriate. Containing no images of people who might object. You may have noticed a tendency to fall back on neutral images. Flowers. Trees. Bottles of cheap Shiraz. At least they’re not going to offend anyone. Except maybe an alcoholic with severe hayfever.

It breaks my heart to live in a country where food banks are necessary. Frankly it’s a scandal that 330,000 children are dependent on food handouts in an affluent nation like ours. I’ve been volunteering in a community café for almost two years. The local food bank uses the same premises. Two years ago we were able to co-exist comfortably. These days the café has to close early on a Friday afternoon. There’s not room for our customers once the food bank opens.

Of course, as Michael Gove pointed out last year, they’ve only got themselves to blame. All these families who can’t manage their money. Nothing to do with having no money to manage in the first place. After all, what right do they have to be sick? Disabled? Unemployed? On low incomes? You thought it was the supermarkets who’d priced your local shop out of existence? Think again. Those pernicious food banks and their irresponsible customers. They’re the ones to blame. How dare people need to eat when their benefits have been sanctioned?

Andrew Brown argues that it doesn’t matter whether the photo in today’s Mirror is authentic or not. In a sense he’s right. No photo is going to convey the suffering of 330,000 hungry children. If photos of starving children stirred up compassionate action, global hunger would have been eradicated decades ago. Most of us simply prefer not to see them. The real danger of a sloppy piece of journalism like this is that it actually detracts from the cause it seeks to support. It should have highlighted the scandal of an affluent nation where hunger amongst children is on the increase. Instead, it may well have made us even more wary of believing anything we read in a newspaper. And less likely to respond with empathy in the future.

A year or so back, a weary-looking mum came to the food bank. She’d had no money all week. She and her six-year-old daughter had run out of food. I don’t know the ins and outs of their situation. I do know I came face-to-face with a woman who hadn’t eaten for three days so she could give what she had to her child. We made beans on toast for them. I never saw them again. Tonight’s photo is of the thank you note from that little girl. It doesn’t come from California. It has nothing to do with earthworms. I hope and pray that, wherever Charley is now, she’s no longer one of the 330,000.

All this is to raise funds for a charity close to my heart. I’ve given up NOT being a writer for 125 days in support of One25’s work with vulnerable women in Bristol. You can find out more about them by visiting their website at http://www.one25.org.uk/. You can also support them by visiting my fund raising page at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch where you can make a donation and suggest an idea for a short story or a post on the blog. Thank you.

I should get a dog. I know. I know. It’s not practical. Vet’s bills. Food. Second-floor flat. Middle of a city. Out too much. And what about holidays? They’re such a tie. Dogs I mean. Not holidays. I know all the rational arguments. But let’s face it. Anyone who’d force me to go for a long walk twice a day can’t be all bad.

This is not some kind of crazy health kick I’m on. Much though I ought to be. It’s just that walking’s so good for the writing process. It doesn’t have be wandering-through-a-host-of-golden-daffodils walking either. Plain putting-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other will do. A section of my regular journey to the supermarket runs (or walks) along a pavement too narrow for two people to pass without one of them stepping off. Busy road one side. High wall on the other. There’s usually a grimy tanker labelled ‘extreme recycling’ parked by the only gate. And a wisp of noxious gas above it. Wordsworth country it is not.

I was stumbling along this very stretch the other day. Bag of shopping in each hand. Shoulders aching. Fingers purple. I found myself thinking of Tom. I miss Tom. Tom was the kind of guy who always had a bee in his bonnet. Often several. His bonnet was more a hive than a piece of headgear. I was chatting to him over after-church coffee one Sunday a few years ago.

“God’s been talking to me,” he said.

“Really?”

“He asked me to think about which tree I’m eating from.”

Don’t worry. It didn’t make sense to me either. At least not at first.

I’m not a fan of self-help books. Their didactic tone and veiled suggestion that I could be as wonderful as the author if only [insert behaviour change here] is usually enough to send me screaming for cover. But every now and then, one gets in under the radar. The Artist’s Way for example. It came recommended by a friend whose personal journey leaves me breathless with awe. That’s the only reason I gave it house room. The author, Julia Cameron, talks about synchronicity. Loosely speaking, the way the universe sometimes flows along with our creative decisions. Leap, and the net will appear, she says. Although that should probably come with a government health warning. Don’t try this at home.

Be that as it may. I started to think about Tom’s trees, and whether I could work them into the blog. I was well into the idea by the time I got home. Fingers throbbing. Ice cream melting. In urgent need of tea. And the loo. I dumped the shopping. And checked in to Facebook on my phone. Yes. I really am that hooked. A friend had posted a Russell Brand video. I’m a big fan of Russell Brand. Ever since his incredibly honest documentary about his addiction. My friend had also tagged me in a comment. About wu-wei. Effortless action. In case you’re as uninformed as I was up to that moment.

According to Edward Slingerland ‘wu-wei is very much like the feeling of being ‘in the zone’ that athletes describe’. It’s that place where everything seems to flow. Without grit-toothed blood, sweat and tears. The idea runs so counter to everything we’re taught to believe. I was fascinated. But I’m a well-trained domestic goddess. I put the shopping away. Sorted out dinner. Sat down and turned on the laptop. That was last Thursday.

Last Thursday was the night of the Great Virus Software Crisis. The laptop went nuts. Any idea of synchronicity went out of the window. And wu-wei. The universe was flowing against me. Action was in no way effortless. Even the internet hated me. My laptop was riddled with viruses. I’d have to stop writing. For ever. What kind of idiot was I to imagine I could be a writer anyway? I couldn’t even manage 125 measly days without something going horribly wrong. I was going down the garden to eat worms. I should have stuck to Supersize vs Superskinny.

Five days on from the tantrum now. I’m definitely older and possibly wiser. Synchronicity is a bit more than everything-going-exactly-the-way-I-want. After all, last Thursday I didn’t know I was going to have an amazing experience of wu-wei on Sunday. While talking about knights on white chargers. Superman. And donkeys. In church.

So what does this have to do with trees? Tom’s trees are the ones Adam and Eve faced in the Garden of Eden. The tree of life. And the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. To cut a longish story short, they chose the second tree. Against the best possible advice. Tom took this as an allegory for the choice we all make minute-by-minute. Life. Or judgement. Love. Or condemnation. Flow. Or effort. Synchronicity. Or struggle. I like his analysis.

We tend to choose the second tree. It’s familiar. Safe. You know where you are with it. Some kind of morality is at the core of everything we do. Black-and-white. Right. And wrong. Not that we’re always in agreement about what ‘morality’ means of course. Wars are fought over the issue. Schoolgirls are shot. Men and women are denied basic human rights. Because they don’t agree with us. Closer to home, David Cameron considers himself on a moral mission to cut welfare benefits. The Archbishop of Westminster considers his mission anything but moral. I know which side of the dispute I’d come down on. But who am I to judge?

Here in the western world we like hard work. We cling to the protestant work ethic. Regardless of its impact on the human psyche. Not to mention the planet. It seems we’re all anxious to buy a piece of heaven. Personalised. Designer label. Red-carpeted with hard work. Effort. Doing our bit. Not rocking the boat. And definitely not asking questions about the point of it all.

We have just the one life. Unless you happen to believe in reincarnation. This isn’t a rehearsal. So why is it a good idea to spend so much time being so miserable? I’m not much given to envy. I’ll wash my mouth out with soap and water when I’ve finished … But I do get the odd twinge when I meet people who’ve found their metier. A way of making a living by doing something they actually love. It’s a gift so many of us miss in the daily grind of paying bills. Making money for people who already have more than we do.

Wu-wei. Synchronicity. Eating from the tree of life. Living outside the box. They go against the grain. Run outside the rut. They bring the beautiful. The spiritual. The life-enhancing. Crashing into the workaday world. Dancing. Laughing. Wait a minute. Wouldn’t we all be happier like this? But we’ve lost any sense that the world ever was. Ever could be other than as it is. We’ve even forgotten there was once a world without iPads. For goodness’ sake. We get scared. Envious. Judgemental. Cover our eyes and hope it will go away. But you know what? I think it’s time a few of us started eating from a different tree. I don’t know about you, but I’m with Tom on this one. Bees. Bonnet. And all.

I’m writing this blog  to raise funds for a charity close to my heart. I’ve given up NOT being a writer for 125 days in support of One25’s work with vulnerable women in Bristol. You can find out more about them by visiting their website at http://www.one25.org.uk/. You can also support them by visiting my fund raising page at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch where you can make a donation and suggest an idea for a short story or a post on the blog. Thank you.

Progress for the last couple of days has been frustratingly slow. If procrastination was an Olympic event I’d be a gold medallist. I’ve edited. Shunted words around. Written first paragraphs for three different articles. Done some research. Had in-depth discussions about an article I’m planning. In fact, there’s a bit of a log-jam on the ideas front. Too much material, rather than too little.

Be all that as it may, I thought I should post a few lines to let you know I’m still here.  Still running. Still in the game.  Even though the finish line’s a long way off yet …

All this is to raise funds for a charity close to my heart. I’ve given up NOT being a writer for 125 days in support of One25’s work with vulnerable women in Bristol. You can find out more about them by visiting their website at http://www.one25.org.uk/. You can also support them by visiting my fund raising page at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch where you can make a donation and suggest an idea for a short story or a post on the blog. Thank you.

The last two days have not been good for my blood pressure. It all started so well. A sunny morning. A brilliant idea for the blog. Well, I thought so at the time. More delicious food for thought delivered by a friend on Facebook. Then. Bang. My virus software kicked in. Or rather, failed to kick in. My laptop went into existential crisis. So did I. I entered a murky sub-world. Firewalls. Deactivation. Reinstallation. Data execution prevention. An Install Wizard, with no magical powers. System restore. Two hours on the phone to my son. He KNOWS about these things. I almost dragged him into the abyss along with me.

Before the crisis struck, I’d been in the community café. Knee deep in cheese and ham toasties. We had a sullen, red-headed lad from some kind of community project helping out in the kitchen. He refused to wash dishes. Spent half his shift in the garden blagging cigarettes from the customers. Ate his way stoically through a whole packet of Cadbury’s Eclairs, intended for all the staff. There were four left when somebody challenged him.

So what about the rest of us?

That’s not my problem.

I’m becoming a grumpy old woman. I remember being taught that consideration for others actually mattered. The idea didn’t appear to have entered his head.

No more has it entered the heads of computer hackers and the authors of viruses, apparently. What have I ever done to any of them that I deserved to have several hours of valuable writing time eaten up by sorting out this glitch? I’m an ordinary woman trying to make a living that happens to involve being online on a regular basis. My poor son got dragged willy-nilly into the fray. They don’t even know our names.

The average hacker’s victims are just that. Faceless. Anonymous. The creator of a virus doesn’t see individual human beings. On the receiving end. The inventor of the worm that ate my old PC didn’t intend to rob me of dozens of family photos. It wasn’t personal. He just did it because he could. A victimless crime. For all I know, he’s now holding down a lucrative job producing anti-virus software. Set a thief to catch a thief.

The anonymity of the virtual world is a double-edged sword. I can reinvent myself in a hundred and one ways. New online personae. Avatars. Whoever said the camera never lies? They clearly never visited an online dating site. It may not lie about the person in the photo. But there’s no guarantee the photo belongs to the person whose profile it’s attached to. Or that it was taken less than ten years ago. Apparently over half of us feel it’s OK to massage the truth on social networks or dating websites. We put over an image of who we wish we were, rather than who we really are.

I decided a while back I didn’t really need to impress anyone. I’m sixty years old. A tad eccentric. As poor as a church mouse. I’m never going to be Marilyn Monroe. Mother Teresa. National Velvet. Or J K Rowling. What did I have to hide? In practice though, I’ve found it surprisingly hard to maintain an online presence without quietly manufacturing an image. A firewall.

Of course the fantasy is fun. Who doesn’t dream of being ten years younger (or older) and three times as beautiful? The internet allows us to play out our dreams. Harmless enough you’d think. And mostly it is. But if everyone plays let’s pretend, it’s easy to get caught up in the game. Forget the other players are real. Then empathy goes out of the window. Human connectedness gets lost. And the dream – if we’re not careful – becomes a bit of a nightmare.

If you would like to suggest a title for a story or a topic for a post on the blog, please visit my fund raising page

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch

To find out more about One25 – the charity I’m supporting – and the work they do, you can visit their website http://www.one25.org.uk/

Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

Just to reassure you that I haven’t given up the giving up … Today I’ve been working on a short story with a title suggested by a good friend. It’s currently 515 words long. Within the terms of my 500-words-a-day ‘contract’, but nowhere near finished, of course. It’s quite fun to be writing a story again after all the ranting over the last week or so.  Although ‘fun’ may not be the right word …

If you would like to suggest a title for a story or a topic for a post on the blog, please visit my fund raising page

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch

To find out more about One25 and the work they do, you can visit their website http://www.one25.org.uk/

Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

Remember that feeling? You’re stuck in a dingy classroom. Sun streaming down on the playground. Somehow not quite making it through the window. You’re doing an exam. Only they must’ve given you the wrong paper. Your mind’s blank. The clock’s ticking. All you can do is chew the pen. Stare out of the window. Wish you were somewhere else. Anywhere but here. Today’s been like that.

In between bouts of window-staring I’ve been teaching English. Cleaning out the fridge. Reorganising the kitchen. I’ve walked to the shops and back. I’ve fumed at BT for telling me the free email service I’ve used since dinosaurs roamed the world wide web is going to be withdrawn. I’ve cooked. I’ve made endless cups of tea. Nothing. No inspiration. Not a whisper. It’s nearly bedtime. Here I am writing about not writing. Just so I can get my five hundred words for today done.

It’s all part of the journey, I suppose. For the last few days I’ve been on a roll. Ideas have flowed. And the words to go with them. I’ve written on topics close to my heart. And enjoyed every minute. I didn’t even consider counting words yesterday. Not until the post was almost finished. I’ve counted this one three times already. Four now.

Time was when the towel and I would have parted company hours back. I’d not so much have thrown it in as thrown it right out of the pram. Along with the laptop. My toys. And all thought of ever writing anything again. Apart from incensed emails to BT. I’d have opened that bottle of red wine. Filled a large glass. Put the telly on. Huddled in the armchair. And felt sorry for myself. Quite right too. Poor me. I’m rubbish. What on earth made me think I could write in the first place?

It’s just as well I’ve got a hefty welly behind me now, in the form of a £12.50-a-day fine for failure. It’s also as well I spend so much time trawling random blogs and news items online. I’m not usually a fan of motivational gurus. They make me feel even more inadequate than usual. Not to mention annoying me because they’re more concerned with their message than with being kind to the English language. This being the case, I’m not sure why I gave an article entitled The Most Important Question You Can Ask Yourself Today more than a passing nod over the muesli this morning. But I did. The gist of the Mark Manson’s argument is that happiness requires struggle. Or to give it a more familiar twist – no pain, no gain. Yes. I know. It screams cliché. But it works for me right now. The harsh truth is I’ve wanted to be a writer all my life. Up to now, every time I’ve hit a day like today, I’ve given up. Told myself I was never going to make it. Gone off in a huff. Abandoned the keyboard for weeks. Months. Sometimes years. Manson asks what is the pain you want to sustain? See what I mean about cruelty to the English language? But he has a point. If you want to lose weight you have to eat less. If you want to pass exams, you have to study. If I want to be a writer, I have to write. Come hell. High water. Disputes with BT. Total mental blocks.

Today is day thirty-two of my Give It Up challenge. I think. I’m beginning to lose count. And the plot. I seem to have given up watching telly. Sitting in comfortable chairs. Washing dishes. Leaving the building. Eating proper meals. Exercise. Making phone calls. Reading. And going to bed before midnight. But in somewhere the midst of it all, I have most definitely given up NOT being a writer. I’m pretty happy with that.

And you’ll be pleased to know that, despite everything, no pens were chewed in the writing of this blog.

I am blogging to support One25, a Bristol charity working with street sex workers. If you’ve enjoyed reading this, please consider donating at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=JeanMutch

Thank you

I walk past the scene of a murder every time I go to Tesco’s. It’s a pretty normal-looking house. Nothing special. Once the police cordon had gone there was nothing left to distinguish it from any of its neighbours. I suppose that’s not surprising when you consider how ordinary the crime that was committed there actually is. On 20^th July 2013, Nirmal Gill is alleged to have battered his estranged wife Rosemary to death in the course of a row. On average two women every week lose their lives this way in the UK. For all I know I could pass half a dozen murder scenes every time I stock up on toilet rolls.

The thing I’ve never been able to get my head around is how any human being believes they have the right to rob another of their life. How can your feelings, no matter how strong, be more important than that person’s right to live? And yet it happens time and again. With a kind of weary inevitability.

A fact sheet published by Women’s Aid says there are no reliable data on the general incidence of domestic violence in the UK. It could be that Rosemary never appeared in any statistics until the day she died. On the other hand, it’s unlikely the attack that killed her was the first. It’s estimated that a woman will be beaten on average 35 times before she raises her voice to seek help. Amnesty UK makes the point (almost unbearably) in this video.

On a miserable Monday morning in early December I found myself with half an hour to spare before catching a train. I decided to get a coffee. Outside the café a woman I know slightly was huddled on a seat. Her partner had thrown her out of the house. Not for the first time. Over coffee she told me he’d done time for assaults on her in the past.

So why are you still with him?

I forgave him.

She stared into her coffee.

It’s a heady blend of love and terror keeps women in abusive relationships. Believe me. Call it trauma bonding if you will. There’s a kind of insane optimism. Flying in the face of all the evidence. He’s a good man. Deep down. Just no-one else can see it. By contrast, the men believe there’s nothing good about us. We’ll never get it right. If we only did it their way, they’d be fine. They must police. Control us. Discipline. Make us do it right.

I read a fascinating article this morning. Men are being lured to Ukraine by dating agencies. Told they’ll be able to date a model, but with the values of your grandmother. Talk about feeding male fantasies. Do these men actually want women who wear full-length flannel nightgowns and insist on separate bedrooms? Or do they believe their grandmothers were obedient slaves? Not surprisingly, they’re being fleeced. And going home alone.

I’m cynical. I don’t think a man like that wants a real woman. He wants fantasy. An inflatable doll would do. One that cooks and cleans, of course. She won’t catch colds or need the loo. Never have a headache. An opinion of her own. She won’t need food or clothes. Ask awkward questions about who that woman with the mini-skirt was. And she’ll do everything just the way his mother used to. Or his grandmother.

I knew a woman once. She spent more than half her life with someone whose first love had rejected him. He kept the photo in his wallet. He yelled. He stormed. He hurled abuse. He shouted. Sulked. Threw tantrums. She tried so hard to please him that it hurt. She was never good enough. She just wasn’t his fantasy woman. She was herself. It took her a long time to understand. I’m not sure he gets it even now.

I’m not suggesting I’ve got all the answers. But it might stop one or two men in their tracks if they remember a woman is not a fantasy. She’s real. Unique. Not a substitute for someone who’d be better. A living, breathing person. Not an alien. Not wholly unlike you. She needs food. Sleep. She has a job. Breaks wind. Is not responsible for cleaning up your mess. Or feeding you. She has bad days. Forgets to shave her armpits. Loses her keys. Won’t wear make-up in bed. Or a full-length flannel nightgown. Thank God. She has ideas. Opinions. Dreams. You can’t control them. Nor do you have the smallest right to try. She doesn’t have to play the game your way.

Above all, her life is never, ever yours. You have no right to take it. End it. Or control it. Under any circumstances. End of story. Get it? Good.

Ah … tea and cake. I’m an old-fashioned girl at heart. English afternoon tea. Floral frocks. Knitted tea cosies. It’s not so long since I was worrying that all these were about to disappear for ever. Swept away in a torrent of microwave lasagne, leggings and lattes. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against any of these things. Apart from leggings. I could write a whole blog on the evils of leggings … I love a good latte as much as anyone. Especially a chai one. I’m not a Luddite or a dyed-in-the-wool traditionalist. I just don’t much like the way the old can get forgotten when the new muscles in on the scene.

This afternoon I had a good, long natter with a friend. She and I are much of an age, so the inevitable happened. We began to reminisce. It wasn’t the usual it’s-not-like-it-was-in-the-old-days conversation though. It had more of a wow-all-these-things-are-coming-back-again feel to it. The Great British Bake-Off. The Sewing Bee … also Great and British but it sounded kind of repetitive. The fact that the local wool shop has undergone a revival, instead of closing down. The number of young people on the allotments of a weekend. Technology has forced itself upon us. For good or ill. Most of us have embraced it. I’ve no problem with that. I use it all the time. But it’s failed to edge out the traditional skills, as I once feared it might. Instead, people are learning dressmaking techniques from YouTube. Buying fabrics on eBay. Exchanging gardening tips on Twitter. Posting photos of their creations on Facebook. It seems human creativity is a resilient beast.

Many of these blossoming skills were once considered the preserves of women. Part of the traditional female role. They were sometimes scorned precisely because of that. I’ve been sneered at for knitting. Looked down on for baking. Asked what was the point of sewing. Usually by men. Sometimes by other women. Often because we all confuse equality with sameness.

At my core I believe all human beings are of equal value. No matter who they are. I’ve considered myself a feminist from the start. But looking back at the heady days of early feminism, I think we missed a trick. We bought into a myth. Assumed our role was second-class. Scorned our own traditions. We assumed ‘equal’ meant ‘the same’. We missed our chance to change the world.

I don’t have time to elaborate the consequences here. That would take a book. Or two. Spiralling housing costs. Ongoing income inequality. Marginalisation of ‘female’ roles. Stress from juggling employment. Housework. Childcare. Most men have side-stepped that one rather neatly. Capitalism saw us coming. And rubbed its hands with glee.

You’re probably thinking I’m about to advocate a mass retreat to the kitchen sink. A nostalgic return to the way things used to be. Not a bit of it. I love my freedom as much as anyone. It’s just that in an ideal world, that freedom would include being able to care full-time for my own children. If I chose to. Regardless of my gender. Without being penalised. Marginalised. Looked down on. And for that role to be considered of equal value with any other.

The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. So they say. Maybe we were a bit quick to give that one away. With all the skills that went hand in hand with it. Baking. Sewing. Knitting. Growing. That’s not even the half of them. They’re flourishing in new ways now. In the hands of a new generation of feminists. Maybe they’ll value our traditions more then we did. Find more creative ways to breathe life into them. But as I said. I’m an old-fashioned girl at heart …