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I own an awful lot of shirt dresses. I have sold an awful lot of them, too, at markets and fairs. They can range from full skirted 50s and 60s styles to the polyester of the 70s and 80s. Any number of prints, cuts and details can make a dress fabulous and fascinating.

Shirt Dresses hold a particular place in my heart, mainly because they are so flexible. You can wear them over leggings, throw a cardigan on top and have a comfortable weekend outfit. You can choose nylons and heels for a cheeky smart/casual look. They go from work to dinner to the park spectacularly well and almost effortlessly. You can create outfits that are a riot of colour or plain.

They are perfect items to have in your wardrobe if you travel a lot. Cotton dresses that are worn layered in the UK winter can become beach cover ups. Woolen tights and long boots make them comfortable for springtime breaks. They adapt to a range of climates, seasons and cultures – I was equally as thankful for long skirts and covered shoulders in Tanzania as I was for nipped-in waists and retro patterns when I was in New York.

Shirt Dress Posts:

Checked Minidress

Pink & White Shirt Dress

Anxiety strikes at the weirdest times. I went shopping / selling this weekend at the @WIWT Humble Sale and picked up some amazing bargains. One of them was a particularly lovely Warehouse dress that was an absolute steal, which I was very excited about. I posted a couple of pictures online. It shows off my favourite bit of my body – the long back that makes it almost impossible to find fitted dresses and shirts, but never suffers from loose skin, wrinkles, sags and dimples.

I think I’m around 5 and a half stones lighter than my heaviest right now, and 6 or 7 dress sizes smaller. I still get self conscious about the way my thighs billow out over the top of stockings, or from under shorts. Trying to describe the fear corsets can strike into me with the words “mushroom cloud” gets my point across. In my mind, the ideal body is smooth and taut, doesn’t bulge or runneth over the merest hint of a waistband. Or… it was. Or it is. I don’t know.

When I think back to the years I spent trying to ignore how I looked, I wonder quite what the problem was. After a few years of serious dieting, I was around a size 16-18 at college in Kings Lynn. I bought some of the dresses I still wear today – and yet I despised my reflection, covered up, and felt deep shame every time I considered mixing with “normal” girls.

I’m only a size smaller than that today, but shame isn’t a word that comes to mind when I’m splashing photos of my boobs across the internet. Partly it’s the childish fun of playing dress up, partly the novelty of enjoying how I look. But what makes it fun now, when I was so convinced I was ugly before?

I tried to compose tweets that went some way to explaining what I didn’t mean. I’m showing off quite a bit, yes – I’m proud of how I look (I’m also just a massive fan of sequins, shiny things, colours and textures and all sorts of spectacular clothing). I’m not proud that it took losing weight to get here. I wish I could have had the strength of character to find this in myself without the years of self abuse. I wish I had the security to shrug off at least some of the hatred and embarrassment I felt regarding my figure. That lack of self esteem took a toll on a large part of my twenties. I feel as though by revelling in my image when I’m closer to the ideal that hurt me, I run the risk of being part of the problem. I feel better like this, but it doesn’t mean that I equate weight loss with worth in all cases. Just my own. I still have to work on separating it.

I’m not a psychologist and I haven’t undergone years of analysis, so I’m not going to speculate on how the roots of my neuroses really took hold. However, I do wonder whether things could have been different, if only, if only, if only.
If only Evans had stocked clothes that weren’t designed to envelop me in flowing fabric, to “smooth out” those terrifying lumps and bumps. Tunics and empire lines and long line jackets erased any signs of a fat roll on my tummy, but they also buried my waist and breasts under an impassable wall of fabric. I still found the odd dress I liked, perhaps squeezing into a tailored BHS number in their largest size 22, but calls to flaunt or celebrate “curves” rang hollow when it was usually accompanied by a shop full of tents. This, thankfully, has changed a bit, with more fashionable clothes designed for younger customers, and stores such as New Look bringing in larger sizes.
If only I hadn’t been young when Supermodels were considered the epitome of elegance. Pop stars were inevitably tiny and even the pseudo-indie bands I liked featured mostly boys or elfin, miniskirted chanteuses. These days people might hold up Beth Ditto as proof that times have changed, but one singer in the last 15 years doesn’t really seem like a whole lot of progress. For every Beth Ditto, there are a slew of Rihannas, Jessie Js and Katie Perrys, their tiny, airbrushed thighs adorning magazine cover after magazine cover. That’s before I even start on advertising. Dove try, at least.

Even if every shape and size was represented on our screens and in our press, would I still have had problems with body image? Probably. It’s only been by a process of trial and error that I’ve figured out my comfort zone. There must be more we can do to make it easier to find that kernel of security, and representing diverse body types, races, heights, ages and abilities would be a good start. Some PSHE classes may address body image, but what else can we do? How young should we start discussing this with children? What are the differences between men and women’s experiences? Please feel free to comment on this post, I’d be really interested.

It’s a lovely word, isn’t it, “sisterhood”? It conjures up images of the girl that’s always got your back. The one you shared a room with, whispered your secrets to and with whom you shared the joys and pain of childhood. A bond that’s stronger than the judgments you receive in the outside world. It speaks of life-long trust and support, beginning in infancy and lasting through school and beyond.

Primary school children have a view on the world that we sometimes forget as we grow into adults. We learn tact, diplomacy, and empathy. We remember how certain things hurt and we don’t inflict it on others… or so you would hope.

I’ve written here before about how being overweight as a child affected me. It still affects me, as I discovered when I attended a clothes swap recently and found myself in a room full of semi-clad women, fighting the urge to cover my breasts. It comes and goes – I refer to them as “bad mirror weeks” as that’s how it feels. I know I normally like and accept how I look, so the problem isn’t with my body, it’s how I process what I see in the mirror. It helps that no one has called me fat or ugly to my face in years. Part of me wants to believe this is because we’ve all learned that judging people on their appearance is a shallow, infantile and stupid thing to do… and then I read something on Twitter which destroys that belief and depresses the hell out of me.

Dr. Brooke Magnanti has published several books. She’s well known under her pseudonym, “Belle de Jour”. What plenty of people watching Billie Piper playing a fictionalised version of her fail to notice, though, is that Doctorate. Her new book and blog meticulously studies the myths we’re told about sex. To have another voice enter the debate on issues such as strip clubs and sex work who is able to identify where distortions in figures happen is fascinating and worthwhile. People whose views oppose hers claim that she is just as invested in arguing her stance as they are, but a scientist has learned specifically NOT to see things through the lens of a particular moral bias and to evaluate results in the most clear sighted way. Call me impressionable, but I would much rather read something by Dr. Magnanti than Gail Dines who admits that “there is no study, argument, or theory” that would persuade her to modify her desire to ban all pornography.

This morning Dr. Magnanti posted about the reaction her interview and extract got from a small number of feminist columnists and journalists. Please click through and read her views on having not her choices, not her work, not her opinions or thoughts or any of those other things that make women rounded human beings with brains inside their head insulted, but…. her looks. Take a minute to think about that – here are women who fight for equality and respect, who are angry and passionate about the fact that their “sisters” are discriminated against and judged on their appearance or baby-making capabilities or assumed character traits based on gender. Here are women who should know better slipping into the childish habit of picking an easy target. When even those actively taking part in trying to dismantle a system that oppresses and reduces women to second class citizens can become playground bullies, what hope to we have? You might charitably wonder if they’d all had a glass of wine too many, because if underneath their ideals and knowledge of what such objectification denies women – an equal voice in politics, business, science, even the arts and the home – they are capable of defaulting to misogynistic attacks, we have to question how ingrained these attitudes are. Terribly, horribly so, it seems.

Most of us wouldn’t consider ourselves puppets of the patriarchy, yet even the most strident of us might be tempted to raise an eyebrow when faced with a disastrous fashion choice or bad haircut. This is different to being dismissive of someone’s work and career because you think they have bad skin, but it can be too close for comfort. Be vigilant. Ask yourself what you’re really doing. None of us are going to get it right all the time, but being aware of bullying instincts and trying to remember what’s actually important to you is a good step. Sisters, check yourselves. If you want that title, it should be earned.

I have always loved second hand clothing. It began through necessity. We were a family of four surviving on a combination of my Dad’s student grant and child benefit, so plenty of my toddler-hood outfits were sourced from jumble sales. Unisex was preferable, as they’d be handed down to my younger brother. If they’d come from a neighbour with older children, a pair of dungarees could go through four or five of us before they wore out.

By the time I got to be a size 26 teenager there very limited options for me on the high street. Buying second hand became a way to stamp out an identity beyond that of “fat girl”. A friend and I were forced to wear matching black dresses to school because they were all that was on offer at the single plus sized retailer in our town. On the weekends we had a choice: allow ourselves to be shrouded in the dark tunics Evans deemed flattering, or seek out alernatives that actually appealed to us. I found a few shift dresses, machine dyed some 40″ cords purple, and was finally able to match my XL Pulp tshirts with something a bit more to my taste.

A while ago I decided that I would give up buying new clothing altogether. So far I have stuck to it, even managing to find shoes that are either new or have only been worn indoors. Living in Tanzania helped, as the street markets there are filled with western clothes that have been unsold in Goodwill or Salvation Army stores in the US and shipped over. My limit of £5-10 on an every day item hasn’t been exceeded despite the odd prom dress or ball gown sneaking up to £25. When I think about people who regularly spend twice that on a flimsy Topshop ensemble, I shrug and carry right on.

There are several reasons this has become so important to me. Top of the list is the quality of the clothing I now own. A 1960s or 70s shirt dress has already survived 3 decades of wear. I’m not worried about the buttons pinging off, seams ripping or hems falling down by lunchtime. Fabric that hasn’t faded or become misshapen in my entire lifetime is going to manage a few more washes. Having said that, I still buy modern clothes, but there are no nasty surprises when something doesn’t age as gracefully as you’d hoped. What you see is more likely to be what you get.

Still a high priority is individuality. Although retro inspired collections have been around for the past few years, there’s something refreshing about the quirks that genuine vintage pieces have. Their lack of conformity means unexpected details leap out. Unusual buttons are a cute addition to any clothing, but seeing hundreds of them lined up on a rail leaves me cold. Knowing that these particular buttons will be unique to my outfit feels like sharing a delightful secret. Leg of mutton sleeves, over-sized shoulder pads, shapes that have been toned down or phased out over the years all scream out that this is an ORIGINAL and it’s just that bit more extreme, it goes a little bit further than your Primark knock-off.

The variety in my wardrobe is a result of the prices I’m paying. When I can buy three different dresses for under £10 I don’t feel compelled to ask myself which I’ll get the most wear out of. If I want something but will only wear it occasionally, the guilt factor is dramatically reduced if I’m only “wasting” a couple of pounds. I have outfits for almost any mood, although this has it’s own drawbacks. I would have to be grotesquely blind to the privileges I was born with to complain that I have trouble finding a flat with enough hanging space, but….

On the topic of #firstworldproblems, the past few years has seen a surge in awareness of how the luxuries we buy in the UK are produced. This is another one of those issues along with organic farming, sustainability and carbon offsetting that plenty of us have lurking in the back of our minds, filed away in a place marked “I should care more but I don’t have the time / money / understanding”. Yes, it’s terrible what happens to those Chinese factory workers, but OMG I love my new iPad. Yes, children are working in sweatshops in India but they’d be out working anyway and creating some jobs is surely better than letting them starve… it’s a minefield. I would like to encourage shops which use ethical practices but for the reasons outlined above, I still don’t think I’d buy that many of their products. Even shops who stock fair trade cotton tshirts and score highly for ethical production may come under the spotlight for tax avoidance. Add to that the cost to the environment of making new goods when so much perfectly wearable clothing ends up in landfill… this is one tiny decision I can make to sleep better at night. I’m not perfect. I probably don’t have a good enough understanding of these issues to make a thoroughly informed choice, but giving my money to the local hospice shop feels like a better option than lining the pockets of big businesses. If it means I have two wardrobes full of taffeta and circle skirts that only get worn every few months, well, that’s just something I WILL have to live with.

A while ago I spotted a retweet from a friend of mine from a young man who was of the opinion that women have a duty to satisfy their boyfriends sexually. If you read through his conversations, which include some grade A victim blaming and really quite sinister statements about taking what he feels he’s due, it paints a picture of someone who believes the “banter” of Facebook pages such as “It’s not rape if you yell SURPRISE!” or the page that attracted plenty of attention last year with the “humorous” slogan, “You know shes playing hard to get when your chasing her down an alleyway” (grammar and spelling, all their own work). Combined with Unilad’s epic fall from whatever parody of grace they had and Dennis Waterman’s dismissive comments about giving Rula Lenska a black eye because “It’s not difficult for a woman to make a man hit her”, you would be forgiven for thinking that men are brutal creatures wholly driven by whatever primal urge is coursing through their testosterone-filled veins at any given time.

Thankfully, most people have the ability to control themselves when faced with an argument they’re losing. When it comes to sex, though, power dynamics between men and women are often an area where people invoke the “natural order” to justify disregarding someone else’s wishes. Women are expected to give it up, lie back and think of England, or be taken advantage of. Men slip her one, get in there, or give it to her. When you think about the actions described, those phrases reinforce the idea that women are passive or even reluctant, and males have to be proactive & demanding to get any sex at all. Factor in the chance that someone’s tired, ill, annoyed with their partner – or, say, that the relationship isn’t going well and someone is emotionally and physically withdrawing – a man who assumes he has to work at persuading a woman to have sex is treading a thoroughly unpleasant line. When does persuasion become pressure? When does pressure become coercion? Anyone who thinks they have a right to do anything they want with someone else’s body has crossed that line.

Perhaps the fact that stories such as the ones I mentioned are appearing almost weekly shows that more and more people are willing to challenge these ideas. The word “outrage” crops up time and time again. It is an extreme reaction and is seen by many as an OVERreaction. Does it help change the attitudes of people like Brian G if they can shrug off “crazy man haters” as hysterical, if they class these challenges as exaggerations that don’t apply to them? Not until we get used to describing our boundaries in clear, respectful terms and drop the unfunny euphemisms will there be a move towards a world where relationships are safer and ultimately more fulfilling all round.

Learning how to spell out what you do and don’t want can take a lot of guts when you’re surrounded by subtle hints that unless you put out and shut up, you’ll be labelled as a rabid Millie Tant clone. We might still have a long way to go convincing some people that this is important, but we can all try to stop being coy and using sayings and words that skirt around the point: sex should be between people who WANT THE PANTS OFF EACH OTHER.

Literally.

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*although I have stuck to referencing M/F relationships in this post, there is plenty of writing about communication and consent in LGBTQ OMGWTFSRSLY and kink communities (please substitute your favourite or least offensive term) which does not refer wholly to gender binaries. Google for some, unless you’re my Mum, in which case, pretend you haven’t read this unless you REALLY want to know

I have been following ReeRee Rockette’s live tweets from the WOW Festival on the South Bank. She has been keeping us up to date with lots of the questions and comments coming out of the talks, panels and debates.

One of the themes that came up often is the question of how women are represented in the media. Soft AND hardcore porn, lad’s mags and Page 3 culture has led to a certain image of women being popularised. It features smooth, hair-free bodies, heavily made up and airbrushed models. One of the talks ReeRee tweeted about asked whether you can be a feminist and vajazzle. When I was growing up, the idea of sticking stars and diamanté all over my FACE was appealing – now teenagers and young women are asking themselves whether they want to stick them on their pubic mounds.

I feel that if you want to throw glitter at your crotch because you think it looks pretty, you should have the right. However, I think that if you feel you NEED to shave, wax, fake tan and diet said body to look a certain way before you consider it beautiful, there’s a problem. Reports of girls and young women feeling under pressure to conform to these unrealistic standards abound. Standards which are perpetuated by advertisers and clothing manufacturers who make bikinis that, apparently, even models aren’t attractive enough to promote. The argument that the availability and ubiquitousness of porn has changed both male and female perception of what constitutes “normal” in both appearance and personal interaction is discussed again and again, although beauty and retail industries also contribute plenty. Mainstream musicians look like glamour models, with X Factor contestants undergoing a make over as par for the course.

So, why are my armpits political? I gave up shaving them a couple of years ago, around the time I went backpacking around Europe. I managed to give myself such a nasty rash that I spent three days wandering around Rome regretting the day I ever took razor to that poor, soft skin of mine. I decided that my comfort was more important than being fuzz-free and I gave up the ritual that I began aged 11. It took a while for me to stop shaving my legs, too, but now I am happily hirsute all over.

These days I’m a career nanny and I sometimes work with girls. A lot of them have giant boxes of Barbies, Polly Pocket, Disney Princess dresses and tiaras, even the dreaded Lego Friends (image from http://TheBrickBlogger.com). Every time they catch a glimpse of my tufty pits, they are seeing a real adult woman who hasn’t changed what comes naturally. Every time they see that I’m not ashamed to go against the grain, I hope that it sows a little seed of belief that it’s OK for them to decide either way, too. Every time they ask me about it, comparing me to other grown ups they’ve seen who are smooth and I say that “Some people take it off, some people don’t, but it’s your body so when it happens to you, you get to choose”, I hope that they get a sense of balance. They might get to puberty and want to remove their body hair for any number of reasons, and that’s OK. Doing it because they’ve never seen an adult who doesn’t depilate and the idea of being “different” shakes their adolescent sense of security so much that they can’t face NOT to… well, I might have made one tiny stroke of difference, and I am proud.

I like to glam up, sometimes. I wear slinky black numbers, corsets, high heels and glitter. I like a tight pencil skirt and a push up bra, but every time I go out in a strappy top and the sight of the long hair poking out at the sides causes someone to double take, I hope that they stop and think “Why not?”. There is no one way to look glam. There is no one way to look normal. My opting not to do something I personally find uncomfortable is a tiny way I can drive home the point that I hope the next generation of girls takes to heart:

It’s MY body, and it’s MY choice.

I spotted a tweet today asking for women who loved their bodies to get in touch. I like Sarah’s work and I’m curious to see the outcome, but it started me thinking. I have had such a long history of battling with my weight and appearance that anyone who knows me would expect me to give either a resounding “No” or a glowing, glassy eyed “Oh, I’m so over all of that, I LOVE my body now!”. Once you’ve conquered your demons, you’re supposed to lapse into a contented state where you embrace every dimple of cellulite and sagging breast, parading how comfortable you are in your own skin as a testament to the fact that you’re a “Real Woman ™” and proud. The reality for me is somewhere in between.

Growing up obese had a profound affect on me. My weight in stones matched my age until I was about 13, when it overtook. My first bra in middle school was a 38C. The rolls of fat on my stomach rubbed together so much that when I got sweaty in the summer, I developed nappy rash. Just the physical toll being that overweight has on a child means that so many activities are off limits – there are no tree climbing, monkey-barring, splashing around in a swimming costume childhood memories for ME, but rather a never ending stream of schoolmates grimly intent on pointing out the painfully bloody obvious. They used taunts, fists, feet, anything. I remember my mother taking me into the headmaster’s office and making me stand in vest and knickers so he could see how many bruises I had on my body. I remember one term spending lunchtimes alone in the library because going outside resulted in so many beatings.

I remember starving myself from the age of 16 onwards. I spent days without food, trying to get my weight down. I went from a size 26 to an 18. In my early twenties, during and after a particularly dysfunctional relationship, I swung into a fully blown eating disorder. A few years of starvation, bingeing, purging, and exercising got me down to a size 10. Every time I lost weight visibly, I would be complemented and praised for my achievements. I had concealer for the dark circles under my eyes and I would drink diet coke on nights out. There was never any vodka or rum mixed in – the calories alone were enough to put me off, but the hangover would prevent me getting up for the first of the day’s 2 hour work outs at the gym, one either side of the office job.

I met several women who confessed similar problems and felt reassured that everyone was working this hard just to appear normal. However, when I spent an entire day of a holiday to New York balled up on the sofa crying because I was so torn between trying dim sum in China Town and my fear of food, I knew I was definitely not functioning normally. When an old friend of mine who had been hospitalised for anorexia every few years since her teens had an operation removing sections of her bowel, I knew it had to stop. I went to the doctor, asked for help, had some very good therapy on the NHS and learned, gradually and for the first time in my life, how to eat without trying to lose weight.

To say it was a revelation was an understatement. I discovered a love of cooking. Vegetarianism presented it’s own challenges, but I was interested in the nutrition of the meals I made, making sure I included proteins from different sources over the week, experimenting with spices and herbs and different techniques. I became healthier, happier, and quit my job to retrain in child care. I thought long and hard about whether I “should” be working with children if I had issues around food and body image that I could pass on to them. When you see a child tearing around, you know they’re using energy. That they need to replace it is a no-brainer. It doesn’t trigger anything in the slightest when I prepare food for children – I get frustrated when they’re fussy eaters, but that’s mainly because I love vegetables and don’t understand why they won’t try them!

7 or 8 years on from my skinniest, I’ve stabilised at a size 12-14. I’ve been this weight, more or less, since then. Some clothes don’t fit at the top end of the range, and some are too baggy at the bottom end. I’ve had long periods where I wasn’t taking any regular exercise, and I’ve had times like now where I work at improving my fitness. I can now run for 25 minutes on a treadmill – a far cry from the wheezing 15 year old being yelled at by the PE teacher until I finished a lap of the playing field a good ten minutes after everyone else. I’ve also discovered that I have an hourglass shape, a long back with generous hips and a tiny waist. I love my collar bones and shoulders, but hate that my breasts resemble used teabags when I lean forwards. I love that my thighs are strong, can carry me all over London on a bicycle and look good in a miniskirt, but I hate that the loose skin I have left gathers at the top and prevents me from wearing hold ups. I love that I’m healthy, but hate that I get spots.

So no, I don’t love my body unconditionally, but I don’t hate it to the point where I feel worthless and ashamed any more. I gained a stone after returning from Tanzania, because Craig and I were spending too much time in front of the TV with a take away and I was drinking several times a week. I wasn’t happy, and have worked some of it off. Just the fact that I am consciously restricting certain kinds of food (yes, yes, OK – I’ve been “on a diet”) and trying to fit in regular gym sessions feels like a betrayal of the serene, wholesome Real Woman ™ who’s so sorted that she just LOVES her body and doesn’t care if her weight goes up and down. Hell, she doesn’t even notice because she doesn’t own scales and all her clothes have elastic waistbands! Who needs to worry about a few extra pounds? and anyway, all you need to look beautiful is a smile.

My body, to me, has become one more thing that I manage. If I’m not happy at work, I’ll try to see what I can change. If I’m not happy where I live, I start flat hunting. If relationships don’t go well, we’re all advised to improve communication, to try and identify where things can be tweaked to make us happier. Sometimes I feel as though we’re not supposed to see a body as something that evolves. We are told so often that how we look reflects on our worth, from the kids in the playground screaming insults to the airbrushed ideals of advertising, we forget that like most things in life, our bodies just ARE. Bodies are frustrating, pleasing, mysterious, wonderful machines that we have to live inside. They don’t always feel as though they’re under our control, but how many things in life would we say we had complete control over? I think what bothers me is the idea that I’m supposed to have incredibly strong feelings about my body, compared to say, the colour of the walls in my new flat. On the whole I’m pleased with it. At best it does some amazing things that I adore and at worst I’m ambivalent, but I am relieved every day that I wake up and it’s not forefront in my mind. I’m grateful that I see it as no more important than finding the fastest route to work. I hope that my refusal to place huge amounts of importance on appearance is one thing I DO end up passing on to the children I look after, because I lived through it being an all encompassing obsession for 20 years, and there is a lot of truth in saying “There’s more to life”.

I’ve moved back to the UK, as most of you probably know / guessed.

I’ve started a blog to document everything in my wardrobe, which is a lot of fun! I will sell or trade certain items, so have a look if you fancy cheap or free clothing. It’s so dumb, but I love it! Off the back of that I wrote my first piece for a magazine thanks to the wonder of Twitter. I’ll post it when it goes live. I’d like to do more writing but I have no idea how to make a name for myself and I don’t know if I could come up with enough of an angle to write a regular blog contribution. I’m fine with that, you know? Not everyone can be fascinating and opinionated all the time!

Waste Not Want That is slow because I’m not very organised at the moment and haven’t had the chance to do much hobby stuff.

I need to get sorted after moving house AGAIN next week – hopefully I will stay in one place this time. My housemates turned out to be violent and drunk a lot of the time, and I couldn’t take the noise. Feeling uncomfortable in your own home isn’t something I want to turn into a long term arrangement.

My new job, looking after 2 little girls, is going well. I think! I hope! They are cute as anything and I’m getting to know the area bit by bit.

I can’t be bothered to do any music at the moment – step by step I will put my life back together and I hope music will be part of it in the future but not right now. I simply don’t have time and want to enjoy things rather than overstretching. I still have the uke for entertaining myself when I feel like picking up something simple. Hurrah for ukuleles!

Oh… this is such a ME ME ME post, but I felt like I should write something here. I’m going to redesign the home page to link to a lot of the stuff I’ve been doing lately… so hopefully it’ll look all spanky and new within a few days!

PS – I lost my phone in Africa when it was damaged and I’m scared of the backup/restore process so if you want to get hold of me, just text – I’m not being quiet because I don’t care, it’s because I’m barely able to use the bothersome things and I am failing at retrieving everyone’s numbers. Mine is the same as it ever was.

They say pride comes before a fall. Saturday, I was pretty happy to find a cute quilted leather handbag in the market and did my usual haul of vintage shopping that comes to all of £10 for me. I rationalise as fair trade, I’m paying the market price and usually a little over, and when I get home the dresses that don’t fit perfectly or suit me I sell on ebay or at car boot sales. Pretty win/win, right? There’s something about the thrill of a bargain, especially when it’s something as silly as fake Balenciaga for £2. I suppose my tweets would have been described charitably as childishly excited, at worst gloating.

I had taken to using a slightly scruffy bag that slings across my body, a chest strap that can’t be wrenched off easily. Sunday, still pleased with my new toy, I took my handbag instead. I was walking home from an internet cafe and ran into two volunteers who live at the hostel, teenage Canadians. We were almost home and chatting about nonsense. I had a bag on each shoulder, automatically tucked in my armpits and clamped to the sides of my body. It being broad daylight in an area we’ve walked through countless times, we felt safe and confident but it took a split second for a sharp downward tug to snap the chains and before I knew what had happened I’d screamed. There’s an instant where everything is frozen while your brain processes what’s just happened and the thief is SO close that you automatically reach out to stop them. By that time I was yelling, “Stop! Stop! Thief!” as he leapt out of my range, but Sam was faster at chasing and both of them took off sprinting across to the river than runs behind the hostel. Although my instinct was to run after what was not an inconsiderable sum of money, an iPhone and a cheap local handset, I was already terrified of what would happen if he was caught by locals. I’ve seen men lying unconscious in the street before as mob justice is meted out daily here; in a country where everyone struggles to survive, stealing is the lowest of the low and a sound beating or even death is the accepted outcome. When the thief dropped my bag Taylor and I slowed for a moment, but there was no sign of Sam so we kept after him, yelling for him to come back. All I wanted at that moment was for the chase to end, the thief to run away and hide somewhere and that to be an end to it. None of us were that lucky.

The river is a busy part of Themi. Water is scarce and it’s used for laundry. It’s a beautiful clear stream and children play there in the afternoon sunshine. The banks are sloped and lined with banana trees, flowering bushes and locals, locals, locals. Everyone had seen the guy being chased, and knew which direction “Bwana Mhindi” had gone. I think at that point I knew what we were going to find but since I had gotten everything back I …hoped or assumed… that we would be able to reason with a crowd. It was inconceivable to me that people wouldn’t listen to us, after all, it was my bag. No harm done, I’d say. Thank you for stopping him. Look, everything’s fine. There’s no problem, now. We can all go back to normal and carry on with our day.

At the top of a track there was a press of bodies. Taylor spotted Sam. He was standing up, talking, unharmed. Relief, dread. The thief was lying in the dust between Sam’s legs as we pushed our way into the circle. Several people asked whether the thief still had anything of mine and I kept repeating, “No, no I have everything. Stop now. Stop now. Please. Please. It’s finished, stop now”. Taylor was screaming “ACHA!” as young men darted into the circle laughing to aim another kick at the broken, slumped body. There were obvious cuts on his head and face, a gash across his legs. Urine seeped through his filthy jeans, and he groaned. “He’s acting. He’s fine.” one man told me. “You are really OK? You have everything returned?” someone else asked. “YES! So this is finished now… you have to go, all of you go!”

“No, sister! Now we’re going to kill him” a man next to me said with a shrug. The tone of his voice was casual, reassuring, calm. Every time someone picked up one of the rocks lying around, Sam batted their hands away. Crow bars, logs, he picked them up from the dirt and threw them out of the circle’s reach, only to have to slap away another arm rising to strike. The general feeling of the crowd seemed to be vague, patient amusement. Surely these silly tourists will stop interfering at some point. “This is what happens. He’s a thief. He will be buried here” someone indicated a roadwork ditch, 5 feet by 4, about another 5 feet deep. People would grab at the thief’s ankles and inch him towards the hole, the three of us would scream and block the move. We were met with roars of protest, catching flickers of laughter amongst the indignant rage. An old Muslim man in a fierce fury came up and beat the thief’s legs with a metal rod, more fists bearing melon sized rocks were pushed away.

Amongst the chaos Sam managed in desperation to spit out the offer of a cash reward for people who helped us disperse the crowd. A handful of twenty-something men picked up the thief’s ankles and began dragging him back down the track towards the river. Although people were still insisting that the man was going to die, they were also watching to see how our meddling would play out. They must have supposed that eventually we’d be satisfied and the delay would be over. We were told as much, so kept moving because there was no safe place. When we were back at the river, I spotted Ommy, an employee of the hostel. We could see the back wall of the garden, the dormitory buildings. The other residents had realised what was going on and Ommy had called the police.

The defectors sat the man up in the river to bring him back to consciousness, splashing water in his face. I caught sight of his eyes struggling to focus, his shock, confusion. The blood washed away from his head and I remembered thinking, it’s not as bad as I’d imagined. Ommy was there, taking care of it, the guy was coming round… then on the opposite side of the river, a thick set man holding a machete came sliding down the bank. “You go now…” Ommy said and this time we took off, begging him to ensure no harm came to the pathetic figure in the stream.

After a couple of hundred metres, we heard shouts from the other bank, “Run Wazungu! Bad men coming!” so we started to run, and by the time we’d found the railway tracks that led back to the gate of the hostel, the crowd had dragged the thief around the opposite side of the building and were waiting for us out front. Ommy came up behind us and told us that the men we’d promised money to had insisted he give it to them immediately. He’d emptied his pockets and they’d dragged the guy by the wrists away from the threat of the blade. He had lost his piss-soaked jeans, and was unconscious again, a froth of blood oozing from between his lips. Ziggy, the hostel guard dog, was frantic outside the gates, snarling and yelping. It was almost impossible to get him back inside as he tried to figure out who he was supposed to be defending.

Waiting from the safety of the compound, listening to the rise and fall of angry voices from outside, the story was told and retold by everyone trying to come to terms with what was happening. I was summoned outside by the Police. “They ask you… if you want him to die?”. I felt 50 pairs of eyes watching me, the single white face. It was the first time there was quiet, just murmurs. I was struggling to remain calm and answer any questions directly. Once we’d finished I went back inside and cried when I hugged Sam and told him that he’d just saved someone’s life. I sat alone on a bed for five minutes, and when the crowd had dispersed I followed on to the Police Station and gave a statement. Ommy knew the Officer in charge of the van that’d hauled the guy off to hospital, and left me trying to decipher how accurate the Swahili in my statement was. It seemed adequate, so I signed it and went back. It took me a long, long time to fall asleep that night.

I am feeling particularly well disposed towards Arusha today. I woke up late, as it’s the weekend and I get to hear when everyone else rises, my bedroom being next to the toilet. Breakfast was Mandazi – small, slightly sweet diamond shaped donuts – and finally, coffee! I made a valiant attempt at kicking my habit, which has fallen before the one week hurdle. Teddy’s husband was telling her off for using too many tea leaves, telling her that it can be poisonous, and has “something like cocaine!” in it. Rapidly switching between Swahili and English, he was asking me to back him up, had I heard of this? It took a while to realise that cocaine, cocaine, cocaine translated to caffeine.

During the morning I fixed a load of my clothes that had holes in them either from the hostel mice or wear and tear, and got told I have way too many. About 50% of the clothes I have here (3 dresses, a skirt, 4 light pairs of trousers and a pair of jeans… some t-shirts including one I’ve owned since I was 15 years old) were given to me free or inherited from hostels and I defended myself by saying that England has weather that’s sometimes as hot as Tanzania but others, snow and hail. Obviously, I NEED this many clothes! I don’t think I do too badly on the grand scale of things, only about 10% of my wardrobe cost more than £4 or £5. I’ve been trying to only buy second hand for the last year – incredibly easy here in Africa, but still, that £4 or £5 would feed a family for a week. When one girl in the hostel had a pair of hiking sandals eaten by mice, she was dismayed as they cost her about $110. That’s way over the $90 it costs to kit out a child with uniform and transport to a government school for the entire year. Incidentally, if anyone feels like contributing I know some very worthy recipients. I’m going to get together some photos and information about the oldest children who are outgrowing the charity school, and spam all of my friends with it. I hope none of you mind. It’s little things like the relative value of the price a London restaurant would charge for Sunday lunch that really drives home the differences I’m often asked about.

That’s not to say I don’t still allow myself some extravagant Western indulgences. While taking a taxi home through the shanty town neighbourhood I live in once it’s dark might be completely necessary, the twice-weekly salad lunches at Via Via probably aren’t. I almost feel as though I’m turning my back on the authentic experience of eating just the four recipes that Aisha seems to know, but every now and again I have to get fresh lettuce for my own sanity. Ugali is a traditional and widely eaten foodstuff here, but when it constitutes about 60% of your diet you’re tempted to say “Screw authenticity”. If another 20% is boiled rice, it’s a foregone conclusion. I feel like a naughty teen sneaking off to drink in secret, only my vice is juicy tomato and the odd black olive. I’ve also got a mental map of the cafes in town which have western style bathrooms and a stock of toilet paper. Again, it’s the little things.

This week has seen Teacher Glory making an effort to use some of the exercises from the new books. I’ve noticed a few of the children who were struggling before are able to circle the correct answer from a choice of three when identifying amounts, or first sounds. We’ve got them matching upper case to lower case, naming letters individually and generally we’re shaking things up a little. I’m still working on lesson plan sheets which have ideas that can be written on the board that require interaction rather than copying. The volunteers are indispensible for going round and coaching the kids individually, even if they don’t speak Swahili. There’s lots of pointing, and basic questions such as “which?” and “how many?” and “where?”. The messages get across just fine. I’m looking forward to next week.

The sewing charity is also going OK, with a line of new bags I’ve photographed on http://wastenotwantthat.com for some market research. Drop over there and fill in the surveys if you would… It was the designer’s last day yesterday, and Tash took the women and Karen out for a slap up lunch in a local cafe. My task this week is to call round coffee plantations and ask them if they’d donate used hessian sacks in return for publicity, and I packed 500 bags for shipping yesterday. The old workshop is covered in Kumbi Kumbi wings – the bizarre insects that seem to swarm when it rains. They are so large that when they invade a house it’s really quite disturbing. They flock to the lights then shed their wings and crawl around. Whether that’s part of their life cycle of they’re just fragile I can’t tell. They’re about 3 inches by 2 inches, and you really don’t want a load of them coming at you. To see the small room carpeted with their discarded wings was pretty creepy. The rains are easing off now, though, and while it still buckets down overnight sometimes the weather seems to be on the turn. With the maize and the trees all gloriously green from the wet season, it’s a good time to wander around the town or sit in a cafe writing. Huge yellow flowers obscure the branches that monkeys swing from, and palm umbrellas offer respite from the sun that turns a Mzungu very pinki pinki indeed.