I’ve been ploughing through legal documents this evening (in aid of my current “Judges on Rape” theme) but I need a break now! So I’m going to blog a short story of itsy bitsy activism and then go to bed with a book. πŸ™‚

For the last couple of weeks there has been a poster up in our office canteen advertising the baked goods of a certain cake retailer whose name shall not be mentioned on this blog. The poster features a black-and-white photograph of a 1950’s-style, perfectly-made-up housewife, bending over at her oven. The caption reads: “Our muffins are moist and sticky, just like Fanny’s”. I’ll say that again. “Our muffins are moist and sticky, just like Fanny’s”.

That might be just the sort of crapulent pun you might expect to see in a lads mag, but it is not something I wanted to be subjected to when I go to get my wake-up tea at 9am in the morning.

Everytime I saw it, I just wanted to SPIT. I don’t even know where to begin in detailing the miosgynist ideas perpetuated and referred to by that image next to those words. Especially not at 9am in the morning when I’m trying to get my head out of the nappy-centric fog of motherhood and ready for a day of being the damnably sharp tool of the patriarchy that I get paid to be.

So yesterday morning, I was unavoidably overhearing the wisecracks of some button-pushing lads in search of coffee, who felt the need to share their views very loudly on the subject of how wickedly funny and clever this poster was… interspersed with ejaculations to the effect that they couldn’t believe that anyone had got away with putting up in the staff canteen… See, they knew it wasn’t really on; that it wasn’t really appropriate; that it was bloody offensive to all women in the building: but what the hell – it’s funny, right?

And I just snapped.

Enough! Nine to five may well be my tool-of-the-patriarchy time but some things are beyond the tolerance of tea-deprived warrior… Some things just Will Not Stand. To cut a long story short, I picked the “right” person to speak to and put in a complaint. The poster was gone by lunchtime.

One small step. But, oh, it was nice.
I felt like a rebel, in patriarchy’s own toolshed.

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