Let's not forget the peaceful majority whose rights have been abused

Midday, Thursday 9^th December. Crowds of students, teenagers and lecturers, bussed in from all over the country, gather on Malet Street, at the University of London Union.

They are here because today is the day that MPs will vote on the most talked-about policy in recent months: the changes to university tuition fees. They are here because today is an historic day that will determine the course of countless futures. They are here because they believe that education is a right, not a privilege, and that it should not be turned into a commodity, available only to those undeterred by the prospect of leaving university in tens of thousands of pounds of debt.

I am a finalist; the friend I am with is a recent graduate. The cuts to education are unlikely to affect us directly, but solidarity is the word of the day. I am fairly pessimistic about the effect today’s protests will have on the government, but I couldn’t not come. We might not hold out much hope of changing anything, but we will not take this lying down.

Before we are allowed to march, there are the speeches. There are speakers from everywhere – from schools, colleges and universities, and from the unions. Some of them are minors. There is even a Booker prize-winner, Ben Okri, who reads us a poem written especially for the occasion.

‘This country has turned a corner in spirit,’ he says. ‘You are the turning of that corner.’

From Malet Street, we march the agreed route: through Russell Square, down Southampton Row and Kingsway, along Strand, through Trafalgar Square and past St James’ Park, before eventually arriving in Westminster. On the way, the atmosphere is lively, but peaceful – we walk briskly, enjoying the winter sun, waving our placards as we chant. No ifs, no buts, no education cuts! is by far the favourite. On the sidelines, people watch us go by, some of them with cameras; above us, they peer out of windows and lean over balconies, pointing and waving. We pass a man in a suit giving out ‘sweets for the protesters’.

When we arrive, things are busy and cheerful. If there is violence, we see none of it. On the northern side of Parliament Square, people are milling about, talking in groups, sitting on the ground, waiting for something to happen. There is an Italian sandwich shop open on Parliament Street with a long queue outside; on a traffic island just off the square, people are giving impromptu speeches into a megaphone. A group of percussionists with the widest grins I have seen all day forms a circle and plays samba. The closest anyone gets to doing anything illegal is shinning up a lamppost or climbing the wrought iron sign above the entrance to Westminster tube station.

The atmosphere starts to turn sour as the afternoon wears on. My friend and I wander around Parliament Square at about three: barriers have been broken down and trampled on. Walls and statues are covered in graffiti, and in the centre of the square, someone has set fire to a pair of wooden benches. At one point, there is a sudden wave of panic and people start running in all directions. I find out later that there have been clashes with police officers on horseback.

As darkness falls, we decide to go home. We came here to march, not to fight. The violence will only get worse, especially when the government announces its inevitable victory, and we want to leave while we still can.

But we can’t leave. We can’t get out. Every entrance to Parliament Square is blocked by a line of riot police, reinforced by vans and further rows of shielded officers. We approach the barricades cautiously. When will we be allowed out? we ask.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ says a policeman.

Eventually they tell us that the exit is at Whitehall. There they are letting people out, one by one. One by one! There are hundreds of people – thousands – in Parliament Square. But to Whitehall we go. In the smallest, tightest corner, in between a large stone wall and the iron railings of the underground entrance, people are waiting to be allowed out. The wait looks to be a long one, but we join the queue nonetheless.

We are crammed into a space that is barely more than three metres wide. People start chanting: let us out. As frustration levels mount, the possibility of getting crushed against that wall or those railings starts to seem scarily immediate. It would only take one person with a brick, or a snooker ball, or a firecracker (and there are plenty of them about) to cause someone some serious damage. A couple of metres away, on the other side of the entrance to the underground, is the empty security box that will later be engulfed in flames. I would rather be out in the open, away from this space in which we are cornered and helpless. But if we leave, it could be hours before we get out. It might be hours anyway.

But after a tense twenty minutes, they let us through. There is another line of police to get past, and then we are free.

We discover later that we got out just in time. Shortly after we leave, the police close the barricades completely, trapping the protesters, peaceful and violent alike. A little later, when I am safely at home, I receive a text message: ‘Thousands and thousands of young people, workers and lecturers have been kettled for 6 hours and up, in parliament square and now on westminster bridge for more than an hour. No access to toilets, water, food. V. cold. Please spread.’

The police, refusing to discriminate between the peaceful, law-abiding protesters and the perpetrators of the violence, punished them all, despite the fact that the vast majority no longer wished to be on the increasingly apocalyptic front line, and wanted little more than to go somewhere warm, to eat something, to go to the toilet. They were not there to cause trouble, or to hurt anyone, or to damage anything – they were there because they wanted to make their voices heard, or because they wanted to be a part of the story, or because their consciences simply wouldn’t let them stay away. By the time they were allowed to leave, shortly before midnight – twelve hours after the start of the protest – they had been denied their basic human rights for hours on end.

We must not forget this, even if fires and chaos make better television. Just as much as the surging crowds, the running policemen and that picture of Charles and Camilla, it needs to be remembered.

Born in the wrong body: living with gender dysphoria

Julia Ford: 'I've never been so happy
as I am now.'

When I talk to 53-year old Julia Ford, I have little trouble believing her when she claims to be as 'mad as a bag of spanners'. She is lively, funny and extremely talkative; our conversation lasts for over two hours. Her stories have me in near-hysterics, and even at her most serious, I never have to wait long for a joke. But a few years ago, she was so severely depressed that she was losing one or two pounds in weight a day. If I had phoned her back then, she assures me, we would have had a very different conversation.

Julia was born male, and until relatively recently was known as David. Despite having identified as female since her early childhood, she spent more than two decades in a relationship with a female partner whose children looked upon her as their father. But six years ago, her partner – the only person aware of her true gender identity – died suddenly. In the months that followed, Julia began feeling unable to continue living as a man.

When, after months of unsuccessful treatment for depression, she eventually broke down and admitted the truth to her doctor, Julia was diagnosed with gender dysphoria – the condition where a person's perception of their own gender does not match up with the sexual characteristics of their body. Some individuals identify as transgender, or gender variant, without wishing to medically change gender – they may cross dress, or take on a role traditionally perceived as belonging to the opposite sex. But in severe cases, the discomfort that arises from the condition is so extreme that the individual is left no option but to go through a process of gender reassignment, ending up with a new body and a new identity.

It is impossible to know exactly how many people in this country are living with gender dysphoria, for the simple reason that many of them keep it a secret. In a 2009 study, the Gender Identity Research and Education Society (GIRES) reported that although only 10,000 people have so far presented for treatment, a further 50,000-90,000 may yet do so. The number of people seeking treatment for gender dysphoria is rising by 15% per year, perhaps an indication that attitudes to transgender people are gradually becoming more tolerant.

According to Rory Smith of The Gender Trust, a national charity that supports those affected by gender identity issues, many of those who seek treatment go on to integrate seamlessly into the wider community. 'Most people just want to transition and get on with their lives,' he says. After transitioning, many people go into 'stealth', whereby they live as their new gender without making it known that they have gone through a process of gender reassignment (although this, Smith says, is easier for trans men than for trans women, who despite hormone treatment and voice therapy are often unable to entirely cover up their masculine bone structure or to 'unbreak' their voices).

Despite this, transphobia is still, he says, 'something that really needs to be tackled.' Since she came out four years ago, Julia has been not only rejected by the children she brought up as her own, but threatened by them. She is nonetheless admirably self-confident – and while the inhabitants of her small village were predictably shocked when she first began living and dressing as a woman, she has become a well-known and well-liked figure in her local community. Others, however, find it significantly more difficult.

'Lots of people go out at night rather than the day, which is a lot more dangerous,' she says. 'Who's going to attack you in Tesco? There are all these people who can't or won't go out – it drives some of them to suicide because they don't know who to turn to or who to speak to.' In a report by the Brighton-based LGBT research organisation, Count Me In Too, 58% of trans respondents felt marginalised because of their identity. One woman described being transgender as 'a continual process of exclusion, pain and suffering.' Trans people are over five times as likely to have attempted suicide than non-trans people, and are 'significantly more likely' to have been affected by depression, anxiety, isolation, insomnia, panic attacks and addictions and dependencies.

For all her confidence and humour, Julia is certain that continuing to live as a man would eventually have killed her. 'If I hadn't made that choice to become my real self,' she says, 'I wouldn't have survived much longer. I used to sleep with a razor blade at the side of my bed every night. I wasn't afraid of dying, but I didn't want to die, so that was why I made the decision to talk to my doctor.' Doing so, she says, 'was like someone had lifted a ten-ton weight off me.'

Nonetheless, Julia regrets waiting so long before seeking help. 'I just wish I could press rewind, go back and start again,' she says. It is by no means uncommon for transgender people to wait until later in life before coming out. Countless trans people settle down and raise families before they make their gender identity known; indeed, the median age for transitioning is 42.

'Most people hate themselves for it and hide it for years on end,' says Smith.

Today, Julia is determined to do all she can to help others struggling with gender dysphoria. 'People are ashamed of it, and you should never be ashamed of who you are. That's why I want to raise awareness ... I can't do much, but every little bit helps.' She encourages anyone dealing with a gender identity issue to speak to their doctor as early on as possible.

Julia grew up in a pre-internet society, and was forced to read the majority of the dictionary before she learned of the existence of the word 'transsexual'. But today, information and advice are available at the click of a mouse. 'Hit the internet,' is Smith's advice to people coming to terms with gender dysphoria. 'Start talking to people – even if you can't talk to family and friends, you can talk to people on forums. Look at Youtube blogs … You're not alone, and you see that if you look on the internet.' Finding out you are one of many, he says, is 'amazing'.

Currently undergoing a gruelling process of hormone treatment, Julia hopes to complete her transition next autumn. 'I've never been so happy as I am now,' says Julia. 'I want other people to feel what I feel now – I'm living proof that it's possible. All it takes is courage.'

For information and support about gender dysphoria and other gender-related issues:

www.gendertrust.org.uk

www.gires.org.uk

www.transgenderzone.com

www.beaumontsociety.org.uk

www.genderedintelligence.co.uk

Racism's last stronghold: why are Gypsies and Travellers so universally hated?

In 2006 Jon Blunkell, the Travellers' Liaison Officer at Norfolk County Council, received an email. 'Why do you pander to these pikey rats,' ranted the sender, 'when what is actually needed is for them to be exterminated like the vermin they are; you are a disgrace to every decent human in this land.'

It comes as a shock to be faced with such vehemently neo-Nazi sentiment, exposed in all its ugliness, far removed from the political rhetoric that often dilutes it. Britain has become so accepting of other cultures – relatively speaking, at least – that it is sometimes easy to forget that such attitudes are still prevalent. But discrimination against Gypsies and Travellers has been a problem for centuries, and it shows no sign of abating now.

Compared to many other European countries, Britain's record is fairly clean. But the belief that Gypsies and Travellers are all deviant, tax-evading layabouts with scant regard for the law is worryingly widespread for a country that prides itself on its multi-ethnicity.

'I don't particularly like them,' says Derek*, 'because of the mess they normally leave in the areas they inhabit, the fact they don't pay tax, they camp illegally ... why should any normal person have to pay rates … when they can just jump on a piece of land?'

What he fails to point out – and indeed, may well not be aware of – is that many Gypsies and Travellers live on clean, tidy, legal caravan sites, working as hard and paying as much in taxes as their house-dwelling neighbours. 26-year old Dina lives on a small Traveller site near Norwich. It is neat and well-kept; the interior of her caravan is spotless. It annoys her, she says, that a minority of anti-social Gypsies and Travellers give law-abiding people like herself and her family a bad name.

'We all get judged for what one set of Travellers do. It's hard. You're never going to get out of that, I don't think.

'I pay my taxes,' she continues. 'Not all Travellers are signing on. Half of us are working ... I've worked since I was 16, I've never been without a job.'

But discrimination because of her ethnicity is something Dina must put up with on a regular basis.

'If we want to go out for a night and we phone for a taxi, they say they're fully booked. They won't come down here because it's a Traveller site,' she says. Her husband was recently called a 'stinky rotten pikey' by a colleague, while her own employer claims that 'all you Gypsies are the same' and threatens to set 'her Gypsy girls' on anyone who causes her trouble.

The media does nothing to temper this kind of prejudice. Much of the coverage given to Gypsies and Travellers serves only to exacerbate existing tensions and create further stigma around an already stigmatised people. In a society obsessed with political correctness, it barely seems credible that an entire ethnic group is still hounded by the press with no fear of retribution. But headline archives reveal prejudices that simply would not be tolerated if they were targeting any other group.

'Gypsies ruined our kids' school,' claims one; 'Gypsies invade park and ride,' says another. It would be unthinkable to write 'Muslims ruined our kids' school' or 'Gays invade park and ride'. The media tries desperately to avoid making comments that could be construed as offensive to minorities, so why do libellous claims about Gypsies and Travellers appear so frequently in the right-wing press?

Part of the reason, says Blunkell, is that many people are unaware that Travellers are a recognised ethnic minority, and therefore do not realise that hostility towards them counts as racism. Another important factor, he says, is that no one is fighting their case – travelling communities are not organised to make legal defences themselves, while low levels of education mean many Gypsies and Travellers aren't aware of exactly what is said about them, and wouldn't know how to go about making a complaint if they did.

'They are by far the least educated group in society,' says Blunkell. 'A lot of our adult Gypsies are illiterate, so they don't know what is being written about them.'

Worryingly, discrimination against Gypsies and Travellers is often institutional. In 2005 the deputy leader of Dartford Borough Council spoke of his support for The Sun's aptly-named 'Stamp On The Camps' campaign, despite it having been described by one Traveller group as 'misleading, discriminatory and likely to incite racial hatred'. Many local authorities, Blunkell says, do all they can to assimilate groups of Gypsies and Travellers, forcing them into 'bricks and mortar' housing rather than providing them with legal caravan sites.

Things do not look likely to improve under the new government. While local authorities under Labour were required to provide a specific number of legal Traveller sites, the Lib-Con coalition has given district councils back the power to decide how many pitches are necessary, and Blunkell is certain that some of them will refuse to provide any sites at all – particularly since funding for doing so has been cut by 100%.

'I don't know any other sector that's been hit that hard,' he says.

But more legal sites are exactly what is needed in order to narrow the divide between Travellers and non-Travellers. Without them, Travellers are forced to set up illegal camps on private land, where their presence is usually unwanted and often prompts horror stories to be published in the local and national news. If more were able to integrate into their communities and live peacefully alongside their neighbours, the deep-set, age-old prejudice might eventually start to wane. But while the current situation continues, Gypsies and Travellers look set to face discrimination for many years yet.

*Not his real name.

The luxury of modern times

The wonders of human innovation were hammered home to me this week when it came to my attention that I was sharing my shower space with a bottle of shampoo that purported to smell like 'whipped silk'. It took me some time to comprehend the enormity of such a claim, but once it hit me, I was quite overcome. Oh, humanity! I thought. Once again you prove yourself to be a species of limitless talent! Somewhere in the world exists a genius who has not only invented a method for whipping silk, but has discovered how to bottle the delicious odour emitted by the said process. Do miracles never cease?

So affected was I by this discovery that on my next trip to Tesco I found myself lingering idly in the cosmetics aisle. Well! I don't mind admitting that I was bowled over by the extent of human ingenuity. The range of options with which to enliven one's bathroom experience is nothing short of astounding. Such an ample supply of heady infusions! Such a vast array of sensuous delights! There are lotions scented with passion flower and potions scented with mulberries. There are tantalising combinations of tiare flower and wild violets, of jojoba milk and liquid amber. Nivea have even produced a deodorant containing 'extract of pearl', which is a fine example of human endeavour if ever I heard of one. I cannot but commend a company that succeeds not only in extracting pearls from the depths of the ocean without a peep of criticism from Greenpeace, but in liquidising the said pearls, pumping them into cans and selling them for a mere £2.50.

I will even go so far as to say that my heart swells with pride when I contemplate the achievements of 21^st century science. For is it not a fine thing to be able to bottle 'morning paradise'? Or indeed, the 'African savannah'? And is it not a stroke of genius to produce a shaving cream made from 'radiant apricot'? I simply cannot think of anything more beautiful than a radiant apricot. Picture it! A ripe and sumptuous example of this fine fruit, ablaze with light as if touched by the hand of God Himself! And to think that I, in my ignorance, had previously assumed that the only kind of radiant apricot was one that had been dusted in nuclear fallout! Admittedly, I am unsure that radiant apricots smell noticeably different to ordinary ones – unless, of course, they give off a faint odour of burning sugar – but such concerns pale into insignificance when one contemplates the magical notion of canning light and using it to shave one's legs. It is equally as captivating as the idea of coating one's armpits in liquid pearls. Oh, but these are exciting times!

Over to you, reader. Go forth! Spend lavishly! Reap the benefits of this age of decadent luxury in which we are privileged to live! And now I fear I've no more energy for fawning, so I hope you'll excuse me as I retire to the bathful of simmered organza that awaits me upstairs.

Experiments with retro technology

At a certain point in the worryingly recent past, my fashion sense ceased its journey through a series of short-lived phases that had previously led me to consider the Sum 41 hoodie, the hot pink cords, the tie-dye maxi-skirt and other, similar horrors to be uncontested wardrobe staples and therefore suitable for wearing in public. After that point, my taste became more refined. I started to appreciate old things. I developed a penchant for rummaging in flea markets and antiques shops; I lusted after silk shirts and pearl earrings, pencil skirts and old-fashioned suitcases. Above all, I lusted after an old bike. I longed to sit atop a leather saddle, belongings tossed into a wicker basket protruding from charmingly curved handlebars, and I began to harbour a fantasy in which I pedalled down the uneven streets of an anonymous but picturesque town on a gleaming Pashley Princess, dressed in a decadent ensemble involving red lipstick, a high waistline and a patent snap-clasp handbag.

A naïve attempt to realise this fantasy ended in me making a whimsical Ebay purchase one day last year. Before I knew it, I was in possession of my very own 1960s 3-speed Triumph bicycle which, though burdened with a number of less-than-desirable retro features including absent-minded brakes and an endemic rust problem, melted my tender little heart. Oh, but she was beautiful – battered, but exquisite. I was enchanted. After a test run or five, I armed myself with some wire wool and a can of WD40 and set about restoring her to her former glory. I was forced to accept the impossibility of this task after several days and approximately thirty-seven old toothbrushes, but my enthusiasm was nonetheless not to be dampened, and I remained hopelessly in love.

Regular use, however, soon began to put our relationship under strain. My daily route took me through the tired council estates and uninspiring alleys of Englefield Green – a far cry from the shady boulevards and cobbled back streets I considered to be this bike's natural home. Out of context, she seemed pretentious and showy, a sad misfit among the BMX monstrosities and skinny racing bikes that always seemed to be overtaking us. Nor was the general ensemble quite so romantic as I had previously envisaged. No kid gloves ever graced my darling's handlebars; no silk scarves ever fluttered in her wake. The leather on the saddle was forlorn and peeling, and the role of wicker basket was filled, I am sad to say, by a practical but somewhat less fetching green rucksack.

Then there was the Sturmey Archer gear box, which offered but three choices: easy, medium and hard. Easy sent the pedals spinning so fast that my legs blurred out of all recognition. Medium made for a pleasant ride until the road sloped upwards by more than three degrees, and hard was like trying to pedal five bikes at once. In the end, I concluded that walking would be easier on both parties, and my poor dear bicycle was consigned – momentarily, I promised myself – to the garden shed.

But my experiments with retro technology were far from over. My next acquisition was a 30-year old film camera – nothing fancy, you understand, but still pretty enough to double most conveniently as a fashion accessory. Whenever I lifted it to my eye I was struck by its simple charm. How quaint it was to peer through a view finder! How delightful to wind on the film! Those poor fools with their 'retro camera' apps, I thought. I've got the real thing! I happened, at this time, to be on a year abroad in Paris, which seemed to me very appropriate (more so, certainly, than Englefield Green). I prowled street, park and quay à la Cartier-Bresson, the camera slung casually around my neck, in search of starry-eyed lovers, old pétanque players, elegant espresso-sippers and jovial waiters, and other, touching moments of cultural significance crying out to be immortalised in 35mm.

A few weeks later, after paying a princely sum to have the film developed, I awaited the finished pieces with baited breath. They would need naming, for sure; titles such as 'Lost in thought', 'Little boy laughing' and 'Hannah, caught unawares' were perhaps to be considered. But when they arrived, the pictures were not quite everything that I had hoped. In some, the subjects were blurred out of all recognition. In others, they were obscured by shadow, or by large patches of pink I took to be stray fingers. Some were even missing bits of their person. It was very disappointing, and brought a short-lived hobby to an abrupt end.

These days, the camera sits filmless and forgotten in a bottom drawer and the bike awaits its pending re-sale on Ebay. The story is not over, for a typewriter may be my next purchase, or perhaps, when I have earned my fortune and learned to drive, a Citroen 2CV. But in the meantime, I am learning to accept that soulless modernity is perhaps no bad thing after all.

Equestrian exploits in Swansea = art on the brink of revolution

It was with interest that I read, in a moment of procrastination, of the Swansea joker who recently ordered a Big Mac and fries at a MacDonalds drive-thru, not from his Renault Clio, nor from his Yamaha, nor even from a humble bicycle, but – and this is entirely true – from the saddle of a horse. I welcomed this news with a mixture of trepidation and delight. Trepidation, because MacDonalds drive-thrus are rarely far from busy roads, and having been inclined to suppose that horses and busy roads went about as well together as, say, aeroplanes and explosive devices, I could not but picture a traumatic sequence of events in which the frantic steed deposits its unfortunate rider into the path of an approaching juggernaut and leaves him to certain death between tyre and tarmac.

But amid such cynicism there was also, as I have said, delight. Mostly because it is a rare and refreshing thing to see a pair of warm-blooded creatures, breathing real air, in a place more often frequented by beings so attached to their cars that nothing – not even bags full of ground offal and saturated fat – will entice them out. Further explanation for my delight is, I feel, superfluous. What a gesture. A horse! At MacDonalds! Sir, I salute you.

Naturally, questions abound. Who is this man? Where can I find his address so that I might send him my knickers? And most importantly, what was the driving force (no pun intended) behind so rash and reckless an act?

I have a theory. Our friend, I like to think, is no mere joker. No! He is an artist. An innovator, if you will, or indeed, a cultural pioneer. Let us imagine that this was his debut performance as leader of the Historicalists, a movement that is uniting eccentrics and oddballs the country over and is soon to burst onto the modern art scene with revolutionary fervour. Its aim: to challenge the sterile, corporate modernity of the myriad establishments that, like MacDonalds, may once have been quirky, innovative and individual but are now bland, generic and everywhere. What! you cry – attacking the nasty capitalists that are stamping on independent businesses and turning our towns into identikit replicas? How, pray, are they to do such a thing without sounding like whiny Guardianistas?

Why, with a dash of retro glamour, my dear reader, mixed with a little self-disrespect and seasoned with a pinch of lunacy. Perhaps the next time our friend goes to a MacDonalds' drive-thru, he will not only be on a horse, but dressed in breeches, tails and a top hat. Perhaps Starbucks will report an influx of Dickensian yuppies with ledgers instead of laptops, who scratch away with quill pens as they sip their cappuccinos. Perhaps the toilets at Pret will crowd with ladies adjusting their powdered wigs; East End eel sellers will loiter at the entrance to Primark; Greggs will ring with the sweet music of medieval minstrels and when the Daily Mail reports a handsome cab pile-up in a Tesco car park, the petit-bourgeoisie will rise and say 'They've gone too far! This must stop! Art has gone mad!'

What better way to highlight the madness of modernity than with a little historic charm? It sounds much jollier than signing petitions and writing letters to oblivious MPs. I don't know about you, but I, for one, have every intention of joining them.

The mystery of the school disco

If you, in spite of your relative youth and long-standing appreciation of bizarre British customs, are nonetheless bewildered by the sight of otherwise rational adults dressing like pubescent schoolchildren of an evening because it increases their chances of getting a shag, you have a friend in me. Why, you ask, does anyone feel the need to recreate a moment of their lives in which they were plagued by crippling paranoia, smatterings of pimples and the fear that they were loved by none but their own mothers? I hear you. And because nothing gives me greater pleasure than assisting my peers in their attempts to untangle the complex and tantalising mysteries that so blight their lives, I have imagined a scenario that may help you to understand the phenomenon known in these parts as the 'school disco'.

Once upon a time, the managing director of Costumez 4 U Ltd entered the conference room looking grave.

'Business is bad, my friends,' he said. 'Customers are bored. The nurse and the policewoman are not enough for them. The French maid is old news. We need something new, something better, something... cutting edge. Let me hear your ideas, my friends.'

And so brows were knit and brains were racked, and lo! there was an idea.

'I have it!' cried a be-suited yuppie. 'Let us celebrate the glory of youth with a smidgeon of adult naughtiness. Let us sex up the secondary school classroom!'

Heads turned in amazement.

'Fool!' spat a colleague. 'Do you want to get us sued?'

'On the contrary, it will be a triumph!' the yuppie continued. 'Sex and nostalgia! A more successful combination there never was! What woman doesn't remember a period when she wished with all her heart that she could expose her buttocks to her slavering male classmates without a pasty spinster giving her detention? What man hasn't, in his time, dreamed about taking the hand of a freckled sex-bomb in a Tipp-exed blazer and holey stockings and whisking her away from the restrictions of corridor decorum? For the sake of all that is good and profit-making, let us reawaken those torturous hormones and put them to good use! And this time they shall be heeded. This time their demands will be met. No more the suppressed urges of yesteryear! No more the regulation skirt lengths that once impeded our pursuit of happiness! This time there will be micro-skirts and non-existent blouses, suspender belts and six-inch heels, and when it is all over everyone will go home and have sex!'

There was a stunned silence, and then the conference room resounded with deafening applause.

And there, readers, is your answer.

On house spiders, newspaper and window boxes

I was sleepy, pyjama-ed and climbing into bed not long ago when a fearsome sight met my eyes. Crouching in all its octopodian majesty on the wall at the foot of my bed was a house spider of epic proportions. There are, in my view, two types of house spider, the first of which I have no objection to: they are sedentary homebodies who bask away their lives in celestial havens of bouncy silk, moving only when unsuspecting bluebottles disturb their reverie and subsequently require mummification. The second type I find more perplexing. The gap-year backpackers of their species, they are errant wanderers prepared to risk their lives trekking across vast plains of wallpaper and challenging deserts of carpet, all the more formidable for their tendency to materialise out of nowhere and ability to cover four times as much ground per second as a creature of their size realistically should. The spider on my wall fell firmly into the second category. It was clearly mid-voyage, trying to decide on the route for the next leg of a journey which, for all I knew, could have led it over my pillow and into my hair. Into my throat, even, if – as is, admittedly, doubtful – the widely propagated claim about spiders crawling into open human mouths as the latter lie in slumber has any basis in fact.

Something had to be done. I generally favour humane methods of dealing with unwanted spiders, repatriation being my usual way of taking care of those that get too close for comfort. But even if I had had a glass jar and some junk mail to hand, this one was so high up the wall that any attempt to capture it came with a serious risk of it falling onto my head, which would have been a traumatic experience for all concerned. And it was late. Bed was calling. Sorry, spider, I thought. Your time has come.

The weekend newspaper was my weapon of choice. In order to avoid getting spider remnants all over something I was likely to want to read later, I carefully extracted the sports section and fashioned it into something vaguely cylindrical that could be wielded with a flick of the wrist. I gave it a test run, smacking it into the palm of my hand like a riding crop. It crumpled in the middle and bent in half. With the crucial part of the weapon flailing about like a limp wrist, the spider would survive the ordeal with nothing more than a set of bruised knees, its natural self-defence and/or revenge mechanisms nevertheless compelling it to scurry towards me at 50 mph and perhaps to launch itself at my face. Anxious to prevent such a freakish turn of events, I reinforced the weapon with the more meaty finance supplement. Happily, subsequent testing showed it to be ready for deployment. I took up my position of attack on the end of my bed, brandishing the improved weapon. Whoosh! it sliced through the air, making a breeze that stirred my hair from roots to unkempt ends, and – whack! met the wall with a slapping noise I felt sure must have woken the neighbours. Alas! I hadn't accounted for my poor sense of spacial awareness, which now came spectacularly into play. It was the fault of my subconscious, perhaps, trying to stay my hand in protest against these hitherto unnaturally sadistic urges, but in fact only managing to make everything worse. The weapon landed off-centre. It was the wall, not the target, that took the full force of the attack. Instead of the neat clout over the head that I had pictured flattening the victim to the wall in a gory but instant death, the unlucky arachnid nose-dived intact towards the carpet with starry vision, concussion and several broken legs. Its fall was broken by the corner of a picture frame, from which it dangled, stunned, hooked into place by one of its four pairs of gnarled limbs, twitching in agony, until – whack! a gentler attack this time, so as not to dislodge the picture frame. Its legs folded beneath it as it plummeted, helpless, to the floor, where it lay consumed in death throes until – whack! a final battering brought its misery to a belated end.

Throughout the proceedings my overwhelming feeling had been one of cruel determination. I had been focussed and single-minded. I had had one purpose, and one purpose only: to kill the damn thing. Yet as soon as the deed was done I was consumed by guilt. I stood over the mangled little body thinking remorsefully of Charlotte's Web, and thought, you did this. You just bludgeoned a spider to death because it was easier to dispose of it than to find it a new home. This is not okay. And resolving to never again rob an honest arachnid of its right to roam wall and carpet as and when it pleases, I picked up the corpse (with my bare hands, to atone for my sins), shrouded it in a tissue, and buried it gently in the window box.