In which our intrepid blogger experiences street harassment...

Today I got honked at as I was walking home from the high street. It was not awesome. I would even go so far as to say that it was uncool. Because it genuinely scared the crap out of me and I was left feeling jumpy and on edge for the rest of my journey home. I haven't felt like that in my home town for a long while. I hated it.

So yeah, I just experienced street harassment. And it's a reality for a lot of women, every day. And it made me mad because this is not my first introduction to the charming world of strange men scaring the bejeezus out of me because my being female and in their general vicinity apparently gives them the right. 

I first got cat-called when I was about 15 years old. I was walking down the very same road I was walking on today, on my way to the high street, and I was wearing knee-length denim shorts. (I know. Sexy.) 

Suddenly a lorry driver thundered past and wolf-whistled at me. I know it was me he was whistling at because I was the only person on that path, and once I'd stopped jumping out of my skin at the sudden loud noise I remember feeling this heady rush of flattery, because I didn't really get an awful lot of male attention as a teenager and at the time it felt like validation. All I wanted was to be attractive and it felt like I finally had proof that I was (and god just remembering this I want to shake my past-self by the shoulders and scream at her naivety I really do).

After that it would happen a couple of times a year, usually in summer (although not always) and that first time was the only time I felt flattered. After that initial exposure it felt like exactly what it was: an aggressive demand for my attention. Because cat-calling from a moving vehicle is not a compliment. I don't feel complimented when my heart's in my throat because some douchebag just screamed something unintelligible at me from a van window, or honked his emergency horn right in my goddamn earhole, and then continued driving past while I figure out what the hell's going on. When that happens I feel scared, because that's the natural response to sudden loud noises. And even if it is meant as a compliment (and it's not, it's really really not. Re-evaluate your definition of the word 'compliment' if you think that's the case) then I don't care. 'It's a compliment' is a blanket statement used to cover a multitude of sins because it makes us look ungrateful for objecting and I'm sick of it.

My sister works at a local pub that has a widely acknowledged, unspoken policy of only hiring good-looking bar staff. She took that as a compliment when she got the job. I took it as a sign of how the management there sees their employees - as little more than meat. Sure enough she's regularly trussed up in a variety of titillating outfits, ranging from 'Sexy Santa Shot-girl' to 'Booby Girl In Football Kit' - all in order to 'get the punters in'. She's regularly groped by colleagues and customers. The other night a guy backed her into a corner, tried to kiss her and shove his number into the waistband of her skirt, all after he and his mates had grabbed hold of her at the bar and refused to let her go until the bouncers stepped in. She is encouraged to dismiss all of this as 'banter' or 'just blokes being blokes'. And she does, because she considers herself one of the boys and she just wants to fit in. She doesn't want to seem like she can't take a joke. She doesn't want to be labelled as the bitch who ruins the party for everyone else. 

And that's how we're made to feel when we speak up about things like street harassment or workplace harassment, or any kind of harassment. Because these guys are only bothering us because we're pretty, right? And we're supposed to appreciate that, aren't we? After all, it's just a bit of fun.

Well, no, actually. It's not. It's a deliberate act of intimidation, and I'm sorry but I'd rather feel safe walking around my home town at eleven thirty in the fucking morning than be considered attractive by the kind of moron who hangs out of his car window like a baboon while his mate honks the horn. It's not funny, it's not flattering, and it just makes the world that little bit worse to live in. So kindly fuck off.

Now You See Me

Oh boy oh boy, I love it when a movie practices what it preaches!

I've been excited about Now You See Me ever since they released the promo clip of Jesse Eisenberg (or more specifically, his character, J. Daniels Atlas) performing the flashy, close-up card trick that ended up with your card lit up on the side of a building. It was smoothly done, and it was clever, and it made the promise of more to come. I have a weakness for magic tricks, and also for a good caper movie, so the fact that this movie was combining the two practically guaranteed my butt being parked in that cinema seat when the time came.

It did not disappoint.

The trailers all imply that The Four Horsemen are the main focus of the story, but this is not the case. For the majority of the movie, we follow Mark Ruffalo's Agent Dylan Rhodes as he desperately tries to catch them. This means that the audience is put in his position, watching the stunts from the outside, wondering how they did it, and wondering who can be trusted as it becomes clear that there is much more going on than a simple string of robberies.

If you're the kind of person who likes feeling smarter than the movie you're watching and enjoys picking it apart as it goes so you can guess the twist before it comes, then you and I are fundamentally different people and I don't understand why you hate that sense of wonder and surprise when a twist is genuinely unexpected. Also, this movie is not for you.
Personally, I found the final reveal at the end to be genuinely surprising and it made me grin so much that my cheeks hurt. There is a scene where Interpol Agent Alma Dray (played by the charming Mélanie Laurent) performs a card trick on Rhodes and asks him whether he felt exploited by the deception or whether it brought him a small hint of enjoyment, and this of course is the whole crux of the movie. The entire thing is permeated with set-ups and misdirection. If you think you know where a scene is going, it's because you're supposed to. Significant details are placed in view long enough for us to notice but not so much as to seem conspicuous. Clues are just obvious enough to slip under the radar, ready to pop back into your head after the event as you wonder what you missed, and it's clever without being obnoxiously clever. This movie is not afraid to make you think, and I love that. I really really love that.

Most importantly of all, this movie is fun. It's a really fun ride, thanks in no small part to it's pitch perfect casting. Jesse Eisenberg is surprisingly charismatic as the cocky J. Daniel Atlas. Woody Harrelson brings his trademark laid-back charm to mentalist Merritt McKinley, Isla Fisher is gorgeous and whip-smart as Henley Reeves, and Dave Franco gives Jack Wilder an almost terrier-like quality that serves as most of his characterisation, unfortunately. There are, of course, the behemothic talents of Micheal Caine as financial backer Arthur Tressler and Morgan Freeman as magic debunker Thaddeus Bradley, and rapper Common even makes a brief appearance as one of the Feds, but I think this movie undoubtedly belongs to Mark Ruffalo and Mélanie Laurent. I could wax poetic about the subtleties of each of their performances, but in the interests of keeping this short I'll just say that they're both wonderful. As they always are.

So yes, you should go see Now You See Me. It's a really good, enjoyable movie and we could do with more a lot more like it in cinemas.

Vampires, Werewolves and Parasols - my latest obsession.

I've just finished reading The Parasol Protectorate series by Gail Carriger, and now I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. It's been a fair while since I've experienced such severe book-hangover and I've suddenly become that friend, compulsively pushing it on everyone I know just so that I can talk to people about it.

I picked up Soulless on a whim from my library a few months ago and was completely charmed within the first few pages. The story follows heroine Alexia Tarabotti, a half-Italian Victorian gentlewoman, who has just been unexpectedly attacked by a vampire. The unexpectedness is not a result of it being a vampire - this Victorian England has embraced the supernatural enough that they form the cultural elite - but because it is such a shocking breach of etiquette. Luckily, Alexia just happens to be preternatural - without a soul - and this grants her the ability to turn supernatural creatures temporarily mortal by touching them. She thus de-fangs the vampire and overcomes it, and the subsequent investigation into why it attacked her proceeds to thoroughly upend her life as she knows it, not least because it forces her into contact with Lord Conall Maccon - head of the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, Alpha of the Woolsey werewolf pack, and an all-round insufferably abrupt Scotsman. I think you can see where this is going.

Fortunately, at no point does the book descend into merely a soppy paranormal romance. Carriger writes with her tongue firmly in-cheek throughout the series, giving the narration a strong flavour of high-camp humour and saturating it in an inescapable sense of jolly good fun. The focus is very much on the mysterious disappearances of supernaturals within London and Alexia, like all good heroines, is too nosy to let propriety get in the way of a good investigation. She is also quite prepared to wade into dangerous situations, so long as she has her trusty parasol at the ready to thwack any threats over the head. She knows her own mind - having no soul, she is indeed ruled almost exclusively by it - and she is not going to stay away from a potential lead because 'she might get hurt' or 'this is man's business'. She has an unladylike fascination with all things mechanical and the intelligence to understand the most cutting edge scientific theories, which stands her in good stead to help figure out what the devil is going on. She also, like any good Englishwoman, appreciates the miracle of a good cup of tea, and she is forever endeared to me because of it.

One of the most delightful parts of the series is the distinct threads of steampunk-inspired technology running through it. While not quite substantial enough for some purists, there is just enough present to indicate that this Victorian era is slightly different to ours (as if the supernatural population running about wasn't distinction enough) and even better is that as time progresses, we get to see the technology progress as well. Aethographers - machines that transmit telegraph-like messages via aether frequencies - are introduced as a brand new luxury technology in the second book Changeless, and are so new that they are essentially fancy toys for the rich. By the fifth book Timeless they are slightly more commonplace, with public aethographers existing as far out as Egypt. The inclusion of dirigible travel, the rising popularity of 'glassicles' and the mysterious inventor Madame LeFoux all add to the steampunk side of things, and enough detail and explanations are provided to help immerse the reader into this living, breathing universe of Carriger's creation.

My absolute favourite part, though, is the characters. That's where the true vitality of this series lies, because a nice little romp through a supernatural steampunk Victorian London is all good and well, but it's not going to matter much if you don't care what happens to the people in the story. And you do. Carriger infuses them all with their own brand of charm so skillfully that often I didn't realise a character was my favourite until they'd been placed in a position of peril and I suddenly found myself very, very scared for them. Lord Akeldama's drone Biffy was a stellar example of this, and don't even get me started on Professor Lyall (except do, because I have an awful lot of Lyall feelings that I need an outlet for). With the exception of a few downright nasty pieces of work, I fell in love with almost every character introduced for some reason or another. Ivy Hasselpenny with her bad taste in hats and tendency towards malapropisms, Lord Akeldama with his razor-sharp wit and even sharper fashion sense, the ever-stalwart and obtuse butler Floote - each was endearing on some level. I even liked the rather unlikeable Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings, although in his case I think my affections are reserved for his ridiculous name more than anything else. Still, the series is carried on a solid framework of good characters, who change and grow as events progress. Carriger writes them with such skill and subtlety that when secrets do come out, they manage to hold the appropriate element of surprise and yet nothing feels like it came completely out of the blue. There is a sense that clues were there, but you were too focused on other things at the time to notice. I'm actually quite eager to read them all over again and look for all the unassuming signs of things to come that I overlooked before.

In terms of pace, some may find the series to be a slow starter. I was fond of the first two and it wasn't until the third that my fondness was upgraded to frenzied adoration. I can't really hint at why without giving away key plot points (although the blurbs tend to be annoyingly spoileriffic if you haven't read the previous books) but the third book Blameless is where events start transpiring from which there is no going back, and suddenly no one seems safe. The pace picks up significantly from this point on and does not slow down until the very end, which is somewhat of a double-edged sword as it ups the sense of excitement but brings the finale forward much too quickly for my liking. However, the last three books are also where you can feel all the threads of the series being deftly woven together, and when it does end there is a satisfying sense of all lingering questions being answered, even if there is a bitter-sweetness to having to say goodbye so soon. Thankfully, reports indicate that Prudence, the first installment of The Parasol Protectorate Abroad, is due for release this Autumn, so those longing for more from this universe (such as my frantic self) will soon have their wishes fulfilled. I just hope it can live up to my expectations. The legacy of Alexia Tarabotti will be a tough act to follow...

Bitter coffee

Job hunting is hard.

I can't imagine it's ever been particularly easy, but right now the odds are definitely not in my favour. I'm in competition with an average of forty applicants for every position I apply for, and the first class degree I earned in July means absolutely diddly squat to most employers without any actual work experience to go with it. It has been, and continues to be, a very frustrating situation, and after just over six months of unemployment I'm finding it hard to stay positive.

The most disheartening experience happened last Saturday. I'd responded to an ad for a local cafe and, despite admitting that I had no experience, I was invited along for a trial day to see how I went. I was so excited. I love that cafe, and I was so sure I was going to do well. The prospect of learning how to use an industrial coffee machine in front of paying customers was daunting, but I was confident in my ability to not be too much of an idiot and had been given the impression that the owners were prepared to train me up. More fool me.

I turned up early with a big smile and a stomach full of nerves. My first job was replenishing the milk supply, and that went off without a hitch. Then came time to make the staff their morning beverages, and I was walked through a grand total of two drinks before customers started trickling in and I had to help deal with them. Obviously, I still didn't know how to make various coffees without double-checking I was doing it right, and I didn't know the menu so it took me a while to price up orders. Once the customers started coming in, they didn't stop and the first hour flew by in a rush of stress and confusion. I was struggling, and it was showing. Then someone ordered a cappuccino and as the owner watched me steam the milk, I failed to check that the jug was hot enough by touching it (which no one at any point had told me to do), and this was apparently the final straw.

'You know what, this isn't for you,' he said, 'Go and help the girls with the clearing up instead.'

And with that, I was dismissed. To my horror, I realised that it was only 12 o'clock. I'd agreed to work until 5, and now had to get through to the end of the day with the stinging humiliation of knowing that I'd failed to impress. It was awful. All I could do was throw myself into the tasks I had been deemed capable of, and so I cleared tables, served tables, washed up and mopped up spillages until I was dizzy. I kept myself as busy as I possibly could without getting underfoot, because I was so mortified by my own ineptitude that I was desperate to prove I wasn't a total waste of space. There was also the tiny hope that if I worked hard enough I'd get a second chance, but that wasn't the case. They wanted someone to do the job immediately to their specifications, and I needed too much teaching.

I did get paid £50 for my work, and the owner said that even though he couldn't offer me a job as a server, he'd keep me in mind if he needed anyone to help out in the kitchen but honestly, I think he was just saying that. I'm ashamed to say that when I left, I was so disappointed and angry with myself for not being good enough that I cried the entire way home. It felt like a monumental set-back in my quest for employment, because who the hell wants to hire a girl too stupid to work in a cafe? It had taken me six months to get this close to a job - let alone a job I wanted - and I'd blown it. I was clearly useless and hopeless and doomed to be unemployed forever. I was absolutely pathetic.

Now, obviously, I've picked myself up since then and shaken off the drama-queen self-pity. My confidence is still pretty shaken but I'm getting there, because of course I'm not useless. Of course I'm not stupid for not picking it up quickly enough. They were expecting too much of me! My sister works in a pub that offers a range of coffees just as varied and complex as the ones in the cafe. Serving coffee is one tiny section of her job and her managers still set aside an entire day to teach staff how to do it, where they practiced until they got it right because it takes more than an hour and a half to master. It's not my fault that the cafe owners were either unwilling or unable to give me that time. It's not my fault that I didn't instinctively figure it out like I'd just plugged into the Matrix and downloaded the 'expert barista' programme. It's not my fault.

One day I am going to be successful in getting a job and I am going to thrive in it. I just have to keep trying, no matter how much it feels like I'm bashing my head against a brick wall. Failing at one thing does not means I'm a failure, and I'm going to be okay.

In the mean time, I'm going to be happy with my very first set of wages. That's a trip or two up to Colchester that I couldn't afford before :)