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| Handicapped in the three legged race? |
When I first saw the British hit series Life on Mars, I was
convinced it was a documentary. Obviously, these guys were the 1970s
Northern police force I had first encountered as a cub reporter up in
Yorkshire; but the big give-away was the lovely fictional PC Annie, by equal
measure ignored, victimised and goggled over by the men.
Once upon a time I might have been a police officer. Careers
advice being what it was at the time, the most inspirational piece of
role-modelling I saw was a police dog at a jobs fair...seemed like a good way
of earning money to me. What put me off, however (besides the fact that I
would have immediately poked out the eyes of my first commanding officer) was
the fact that women PCs could be seen, but as far as I could tell, not heard.
(Valerie Singleton, on the other hand, my childhood idea of
a "journalist" managed to travel to the Ganges, interview interesting
people and make useful household items with sticky-back plastic)
With the commentariat over the past few weeks making much of
whether rape is rape, and whether Naomi Wolf is a fake feminist now she has
stopped faking orgasms, I decided it was time to do a proper review of my life
so far.
1970s - blonde cub reporter with large breasts. Police
believe me dim. Consequently get shitloads of scoops.
1980s (early) - blonde hair cut short. Shuffle around in
large mac covered in badges. Picket the porn shops in Leeds and join the
reclaim the night march, narrowly miss being murdered by the Yorkshire Ripper.
1980s (middle) - live in Toulouse, France. Cannot find bra
large enough to fit me. Apparently I "trouble" the local menfolk.
1980s (late) - serious job with Labour-oriented local
Council. Everyone swears themselves to perfect equality. Get huge amounts of
male attention and a frisky social life as a result.
1990 - cut hair very short. Get the job.
1994 - move to Strasbourg, join team of French women who
spend their lunchtimes (and most of the afternoon) at the beauty salon. No
prospects of either interesting conversation or promotion.
2000 - live in Kosovo. No need to wash. In fact, no
possibility to wash. Feel at one with the male sex.
mid 2000 - get female boss with high maintenance whims. Get
promotion.
2010 - get male boss. Make coffee.
So, on the strength of my own Lebenslauf ( as the Germans
say) I guess that the march to equality is not so much that of an army of
soldier ants, but more like trying to do the shopping after a heavy session at
the pub. Wander into the supermarket, pick up something that looks good, try to
remember what you put on the list that you accidentally left on the kitchen
table, get diverted into the chocolate department and end up coming out with
nothing that is a. what you need b. of any use whatsoever.
Still, I suppose it could be worse. At least now I have the
distinction of being invited onto the women's senior management group at work.
Main agenda item: how do you get that promotion?
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