My main beef with blogging that, a lot of the time, I can’t say what I’d like to say.
Why, often, can’t I say what I want to say? Because I am a coward. That’s why. I tell you: If I let my river flow the Niagara Falls would have nothing on me. And hitmen would be paid. Not least by Madonna. Because, as the L’Oreal advert goes, I am worth it – and she has the means.
If there is one woman I have nothing but disdain for it’s her. She is a cold fish, calculating, manipulating. I could now go to town elaborating. But I won’t. My son still needs me.
Yes, Madonna and muscle. Neatly linking into the Olympics. Unless you move to Mars, with the best will in the world you will not escape the Olympics. I can’t open the daily broadsheets without needing to skip the first eight to twelve pages before there is content.
However, not to be disingenuous, my eyes were arrested the other day by a photograph. Women athletes. I am not saying bring back Rubens or Twiggy but for heaven’s sake: Muscles are for men. Six packs are NOT for women. I find offensive that which should be pleasing to the eye. The order things should be in. As not to give the wrong impression: I, woman, am as strong as an ox and have stamina. But that’s not the same thing as competing with men on playing fields we shouldn’t be seen on.
And yes, as some of you know, I am a fast runner. When I run I fly – and I love it for the joy of it. But, ladies, don’t model yourselves into men with thighs as big as tree trunks. It flies in the face of everything woman is.
U
