BABY ON BOARD | Senators and CEOs

Let’s Talk Opinion in conversation with genderneutrallanguage

This is the 2nd part of BABY ON BOARD | Discrimination

“Something was really lost taking this post out of context.  That context really addresses most of your points. What we where discussing was if women deserve special treatments in the work place because many women prioritize family over income, and that results in very few women CEO’s and Senators. The question was not if there should be any considerations given to people that prioritize family, but should people that prioritize family over work be promoted over people that prioritize work over family.

We most decidedly live in a society, and this is a good and important thing.  It is not exclusively about the individual, but we do need to balance the individual good against the social good.  It would be a great “Social good” to pay each mother $50,000/year per child for the job of raising children.  The kind of taxes, taking money from other individuals, needed to support this would be enough to break the economy.

I choose to not have children, but I really need to subsidize your children in some ways.  I need to support society.  The only question is extent.  I pay my taxes that fund your children schools.  I pay my taxes that provide school lunches.  I pay my taxes that fund food stamps.  I pay my taxes that will now be used to subsidize your health insurance.  I think many of these programs should be expanded and improved.  We need better schools, and a single payer health care system.  Paying my fair share to be part of a moral society is important.

Where I draw a solid line is when having children is a workplace benefit.  Extra paid time off *because kids* when I’m already paying my taxes to subsidize your choices is just to far.  When we start talking about paying women the same dollar amount for 36 hours of work that men get for 44, we have a real problem.  When we start talking about creating special, lower, standards for women to become CEO or a Senator, we have a real problem.  We need the best candidates as CEO’s and Senators regardless or race, gender, orientation, religion (laundry list of irrelevant things).  When there are mandates to include women, regardless of merit, we have major problems.” genderneutrallanguage


I do agree with your argument. You are right in the points that you make, I find little to quibble in the issues you raise, and yet… I am uncomfortable with the outcome of such an attitude when implemented and applied in practice.

I would fully support it if it were the case that it applied equally to men and women. The comment does mention that it does, yet in reality it is more of an “it ought to”, as unfortunately we do not live in egalitarian societies, and therefore this affects women disproportionately more than men.

Men also choose to have children, yet their careers seldom suffer as a result. All these examples you mention, when people get time off work with pay because they have a baby – well, as a matter of biology, it does affect women more than men.

When children are sick, the primary carer is more often than not the woman, and it is her who has to find a way of getting time away from work. The same goes for taking time away from work when the child’s school calls, when day care closes unexpectedly, when the babysitter doesn’t show up.

The brunt of the responsibility for raising children falls on the woman.

I am aware that there are exceptions, but these are exactly that: exceptions. So, until men and women take a 50/50 approach to sharing the responsibility of raring children, I do believe that it is women who will suffer most, and it is their opportunities and careers that would be curtailed as a result.

And all these things you mention are not workplace benefits. This is the life of a jobbing parent, who try as they may, cannot stop their child from being sick sometimes, or prevent a baby-sitter from not showing up.
I am sure they don’t see it as a benefit, and they’d much rather not have their work interrupted by domestic emergencies either.

Since we reached the topic of benefits; there are many benefits that others have and that I have to pay for that I would rather not – but at the end of the day, I’d rather pay my share and live in a compassionate society, where those who need help and assistance get it, rather than a society that punishes people who fall on hard times.

As for the corporate ladder climbing: somehow I struggle to believe that the childless those who work hard and put in the hours are constantly overlooked in favour of their mothering counterparts who somehow have fallen short of doing their job.

Is it possible that these career mothers have simply been more effective and efficient, taken work home and put in extra “invisible” hours precisely because they know that having a child can work against them and they did everything they could to outbalance that particular potential drawback for their careers?
Is it possible that they actually deserved the raise, the bigger pay-packet or making partners?

I do not know how useful it is to talk in terms of hours worked when it comes to getting the job done either. Some people may need longer for the same project than others. It doesn’t necessarily make them more hardworking. It could be a matter of lesser talent=more hours needed.

Perhaps this is a matter to be raised with the employers themselves. They would not discriminate against mothers, but I am sure they would equally not discriminate against talent either.

Incidentally, I assume the “you” in your reply refers to the “you, woman who chose to have children”, rather than “you, woman who wrote the comment.” I know I did not mention it, but perhaps I ought to just in case: I do not have children.

You say: “When we start talking about creating special, lower, standards for women to become CEO or a Senator, we have a real problem.”

The problem I think lies in those who think it necessary to create lower standards in order to get female CEOs and Senators. Being a mother does not automatically make someone incapable of successfully discharging their duties in a job. It may require flexibility, but I do not see why that would in any way equate with lowering standards.

Women should not be made to feel like it’s an either or. They should be empowered to do both.

There is also altogether an ambiguity regarding what this lowering of standards entails.
Women do not need to be men in order to have high standards, a good work ethic and the capability to do high powered jobs. They can choose not to have children, but that ought never be a choice made based on career progression.

If a career demands of a human being to give up everything else in their lives in order to follow it, then the problem is the culture of that career and it is the demands of that career that are substandard, not the people attempting to make a go of it – parents or not.


Let’sTalk Opinion posts engage with issues that are important to other bloggers, connecting with others on matters close to their heart. If you like a topic and would like to contribute, please feel free to add to the comment box, reblog, share, email or message me on Twitter @shardsofsilence.

Or if you happen to be a fellow Hogwartsian send me a letter by owl. ;)

SMOKE… Act II/Scene 2

Age and youth. Their concerns are disparate. Where youth sees the promise of love and a bright future ahead, age has the wisdom of the past to forewarn of the dangers of such optimism. I wasn’t sure whether this was the right place to go. It may not be apparent in this scene as yet, but I am going back in time to revisit the theme of the first act, but from a somewhat different angle. This scene opens the door a little only. It announces without revealing. What do you think will happen next?

young-vs-oldSmoke… by Vic Briggs

SMOKE… Act I/Scene 1

SMOKE… Act I/Scene 2

SMOKE… Act I/Scene 3


SMOKE… Act II/Scene 1


Same room as scenes 2 and 3 Act I. Emma now fifty-two is sitting at the table typing away on her laptop. Laura, nineteen, is sitting on the bed reading a book. She is distracted, She keeps looking up from her book and towards her mother. Eventually she puts her book aside and walks to the window.

Laura. Mum?

Emma. (not looking up from her computer) Yes dear?

Laura. Mum, I need to talk to you.

Emma. (continues to type) I have a deadline. Can’t it wait?

Laura. I suppose.

Laura. Returns to the bed and takes up her book. Leafs it for a few moments as if searching for a specific page. Gives up and puts it back down. She fidgets trying to get comfortable then gives up on that too. She stands up and walks back to the window, looking wistfully towards the audience.)

Laura. (to no one in particular) What a beautiful evening.

Emma. (typing away) What did you say dear?

Laura. (turning her head towards her mother) It’s nice outside. I think I will go out for a walk.

Emma. It’s going to rain. (stops typing and looks in the direction of her daughter) They said it was going to rain tonight.

Laura. I’ll take an umbrella.

Emma. You lost our last one.

Laura. (sighs) Oh, never mind. I don’t think I’ll go. (turning towards her mother) Can you talk now?

Emma. Sure. I can talk now. (indicates for Laura to approach) I’ll take a break. Do you want some tea?

Laura. No, no. I just want to talk to you. (takes her mother’s hand and brings her to the bed. They both sit down).

Emma. Well?

Laura. Mum.

Emma. Observes her daughter. Begins to look apprehensive..

Laura. (exhales loudly) I met someone.

Emma. Is that all?

Laura. (tentatively) We’re in love.

Emma. (laughing) Already?

Laura. (stands up from the bed, looks offended). Yes, already. How else do people fall in love?

Emma. Fine. Fine. So who is he?

Laura. (sits back down.) How do you know it is a he?

Emma. (a little surprised) Isn’t… this person a he?

Laura. You don’t have to look so worried. Yes. A he.

Emma. It wouldn’t have mattered, you know.

Laura. I know.

Emma. (waiting) I’ll make us some tea…

Emma disappears through a lateral door into an adjacent room. The sound of a kettle being filled up and some clattering of china is audible. Laura paces from the bed to the door of the kitchen, peers through about to say something, but then changes her mind and walks back to the bed. She sits down. She stands up again. Emma appears in the frame of the kitchen door, leans against it and crosses her arms on her chest, watching her daughter. Laura smiles and sits down on the bed again.

Emma: So?

Laura. So what?

Emma. Well! Are you going to give me any details? Who is he? How did you meet?When do I get to meet him?

Emma walks over to the bed and sits down again, next to her daughter. They hold hands as Laura confides.

Laura. He is someone from uni. We met at a party. You won’t get to meet him any time soon.

Emma. What do you mean ‘someone’? What bloody party? You’ve never been to any!

Laura. (lets go of her mother’s hands and stands up, incensed) I knew it! You don’t like him already and you don’t know the first thing about him!

Emma. Laura…

Laura. Mother!

Emma stands up from the bed and faces her daughter.

Emma. (now sounding worried) Answer my question. What do you mean ‘someone’? Is he an OLDER man?

Laura. (laughing) What if he is?

Emma. Don’t play games with me. This is serious. Who is he?

Laura. Oh! Stop worrying for nothing. He’s a student.

Laura catches her mother’s hand and draws her near. Emma looks relieved and embraces her daughter. The sound of the kettle from the back room announces that the water is ready for tea, so Emma goes into the kitchen. The audience cannot see her, but they can hear her voice clearly as her conversation with Laura continues.

Emma. So why don’t I get to meet him?

Laura. Because you’re going to scare him off.

Emma. I’ll do no such thing.

Laura. Promise?

Emma, re-enters the room, two steaming mugs in hand. She walks over to the bed and holds one of them out for Laura.

Emma. (mocking) I solemnly swear!

Laura. On your job?

Emma. Do I have to?

Laura nods.

Emma. Alright then.

Laura. Takes the extended cup and sips from it. She burns her lip slightly.

Laura. I’m meeting his parents on Sunday for brunch. Wanna come with?

Emma does not answer. She takes her mug over to the window and sets it on the windowsill. She retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the inner pocket of her cardigan and opens it up slowly, all the while looking into the distance.

Laura continues to stand in the exact spot as when she asked her question, unmoving.

The light dims on the entire scene, with the exception of the window where Emma lights up a cigarette and draws the smoke deep into her lungs before exhaling. The lights go out.



Theatre is one of my great loves, rediscovered after many a year of silence. In a strange twist of fate, it was an unexpected obsession that triggered a return of this passion: I don’t fancy Benedict Cumberbatch. Daily Prompt: Pants on Fire.

It seems that I can never do things by halves, and whilst others would’ve been content in the role of spectator, I ended up on acting courses at RADA, and have even tried my leg on the West End stage as an extra in The House of Bernarda Alba. It was an experience like no other and for months after, I walked in a daze, unable to believe that it had happened to me.

I am not a playwright. The only play I ever wrote was in collaboration with my best friend, our little project for an afternoon when we skived off from a test and created our own surrealist version of Iona – the man trapped inside the bowels of a fish.

What I will share with you today is my first mature attempt at playwriting. It is an on-going project, so I will share one scene at a time in the hope that your insights and feedback will help bring it to a conclusion.

Fuegp Rojo


By Vic Briggs


Complete darkness, silence, then a giant clock ticks away. The light flashes on and off with every stroke. At the seventh stroke a woman appears in the middle of the room in the centre of what appears to be a giant womb pulsating with a dark red light.

The light outside the womb continues to flash on and off, but it is now more localised and subdued. The woman appears to be completely naked and looks disorientated. She tries to get her bearings, unsure of where she is. Her hands feel for the walls of the womb, examining, attempting to make sense of her surroundings.

Suddenly panic takes over and she wants to get free. She throws herself against the walls of the womb, trying to rip through. Her body is attached to what looks like a giant umbilical cord. After struggling to pierce through in every direction her neck gets caught in the cord and she hangs from the ‘rafters’ of the womb.

She scuffles to get herself free, but fails and after a little while her body is motionless. The red light flashes outward strongly, followed in near synchrony with the white and then the space is enveloped in complete darkness once again.

You Are Not White Enough!

Let’s Talk Opinion in conversation with Jezebel

“Good news, ladies! Society has discovered another new thing that’s wrong with you, which means another opportunity for you to make yourself more attractive for your man. Score! Turns out, the colour of your vagina is gross and everyone hates it. So bleach that motherf***er. Bleach it right now!”

I must’ve knocked my head and woke up in some parallel dimension universe where the world has been taken over by the Racist Vagina Police. This is a hoax, surely?!

Did you know about this? Not to worry. If you didn’t, you will now.

I’ve searched the blogosphere to see whether any of you have written about the latest in demented “fairness” trends.

The burden of guilt lies of course with the female population of this planet. Apparently, fair ladies, you have come short in one key area. Your privates are not white enough!

This is no joke. Serious stuff. It threatens the very survival of the human species. So take note and do something about it. Pronto.

Ever wonder why your boyfriend or hubby has been giving you a wide birth lately? Or perhaps it’s your “friend with benefits” who is a no show yet again? I’m certain that after the last half dozen “headache” excuses for a distinct lack of in-between-the-sheets action, you must have questioned it.

Experts to the rescue! It turns out it is not them. It is you. Or to put it bluntly, your vagina has lost its allure. If you are still in doubt, watch this video.

Disgusting, right? I really feel for the man. I mean, come on.

They sit down for their morning coffee. It’s another beautiful day in whiter-than-thou heart of India. But something is very very wrong.

You can cut the tension with a hatchet. The poor guy can’t even bear to look at her. It is all too much. The HORROR. After everything he’s had to put up with, and now THIS?

How could she let him down like that? Go and scrub that thing, girl! He looks like he’s about to retch. Can’t you see what you’re doing to his coffee? It’s all ruined. So brown. Just like your… Too much of a gentleman to bring up the subject, mind. Although he’s clearly all cut up about it.

But! She has a secret weapon. Lo and behold! Enters: Clean and Dry Intimate Wash. Can’t expect the sexy times to roll without putting in the effort.

Now look at him smile. Oh. Yeah. Result. She was only one wash away from being beautiful, sexy and confident. That’s what a light-reflecting labia will do for you.

Phew. Divorce papers shelved. Disaster averted. She’s definitely getting some tonight. Humanity lives to see another day.


I admit. I’ve known for a while that there is a hierarchy of skin tone within the Indian community. It seems insane to me that this should be the case, but then India, despite being the world’s largest democracy, also happens to be amongst the most unequal. It is not just about an inequality of wealth and social standing, it has to do with the cast system. And yes, skin colour is a big part of that.

Darker-skinned Indians are encouraged to avoid direct sunlight and bleach their skin with products like Fair & Lovely. Should we be troubled by this?

Consumer capitalism seems determined to make us question everything about our bodies, looks, scent, invading the most intimate parts of ourselves for one reason and one reason only: to sell us things we don’t need, at prices we can’t afford.

All I can say is this. Don’t go there. There’s no man in this world who will reject you because of your unbleached Bermuda Triangle, and if there is… Someone who expects you to change your body in order to be with them, is so not worth it. Honestly.

Just say no.

This article was inspired by whence comes the above pic too.


Let’sTalk Opinion posts engage with issues that are important to other bloggers, connecting with others on matters close to their heart. If you like a topic and would like to contribute, please feel free to add to the comment box, reblog, share, email or message me on Twitter @shardsofsilence.

Or if you happen to be a fellow Hogwartsian send me a letter by owl. ;)

Via Lactea

“I wish you were dead.”

“Well at least then I’d be rid of you!”



     The first thing that struck Peter on his return to London was the weather. It was much better than he remembered it to be. Perhaps the weather was always this good and I was too busy or too depressed to notice. The cool air was invigorating and the sunny autumn afternoons calmed his overstretched nerves and poured a new thirst for life in his veins.

Consequently he spent his first weekend back in London breathing in the sanguine mood of the city, visiting art galleries and museums, walking through parks, lunching in beer gardens and engaging in his favourite pastime: people watching.

His second favourite activity was making lists.

Monday: Early breakfast at hotel.

Get morning paper. Half an hour to return phone calls, answer e-mails and finalise schedule for the rest of the week.

Tuesday: Attend induction meeting for lecturing post at UCL.

Wednesday: Give paper at political theory conference hosted by the college.

Friday: Master-class on Marx. Last details still to be ironed out.

All in all it was going to be a very busy week.

He arranged to meet a former colleague for a coffee at eleven o’clock; and because it was such a beautiful day and the air so refreshing he decided to avoid the confines of public transport and walk to the cafe instead.

The company was pleasant, the conversation engaging and the coffee very poor. Accordingly, the meeting was deemed a success. Coffee became lunch.

After lunch however Peter had the rest of the day to himself. He checked his list. There was nothing particular planned for the afternoon. He decided to take another walk.

This time he directed his step to the underground and navigated his way to Hampstead Heath.

He made his way around the park at brisk pace, digging his heels into the softened earth, as if the weight of his feet against the muddy paths could somehow ground him. Every now and then he stopped to admire the views and breathe in the earthy scent of freshly mowed grass and decaying leaves.

At times an unexplained feeling of exhilaration would grip his breast until he wished for nothing more than to jump up and down like a madman and scream at the top of his lungs. What has come over me? There is something afoot. It must be the air or the sun. Perhaps I am getting too much of both.

Peter did feel as if he had overdosed on liquid sunshine or that a bout of viral happiness had got him unexpectedly. He felt a little lightheaded too. Checked his watch and realised that he had roamed for three full hours. Was at a loss to explain where the time went.

A sudden thirst came over him and he headed towards the gates of the park and then to a nearby old pub. This would be just the thing to end the day on: a cool pint of Guinness under the shade of leafy trees in the garden of one of the oldest pubs in London.


     Cynthia woke up very early on Monday morning sweating profusely. She felt disconcerted, shaken even: a nightmare. It was a recurring one.

She was adrift at sea on a small boat. The waters were a dark blue and had the consistency of gelatinised ink. The air was denser still and this made it very difficult to breathe. The light was very poor. This liquid universe appeared to have succumbed to a continuous dusk. There was no land in view and days disintegrated into nights without any change of scenery. After an eternity of nautical travel the boat reached a wall of a very strange constitution. It had no sharp edges and it felt soft and sticky to the touch. Somehow Cynthia knew instantly upon inspecting it that it was not a wall, but rather it was flesh, the innards of a giant fish.

     How she could know this was another mystery entirely, but this realisation came with an immediate sense of purpose. She had to cut the fish open in order to escape. As soon as she thought this, a hefty knife materialised in her hands. She dug its jagged edge into the fleshy tissue, digging deeper and deeper, panting and sweating, determined to make her way out of this grotesque organism. At long last, after a super-human effort she broke free. The wounded fish dived deep into the murky waters at some distance from her boat. She watched for a while the patch of sea into which the monster had disappeared and then set sail once again.

     At times she thought she could distinguish the contours of an island against the gloomy line of the horizon. These visions kept her hope alive. She thought it was only a matter of time before she would reach civilisation, but then the story repeated itself. Once again she would be cutting flesh. Once again she would break free; once again she would find herself confined to the bowels of a giant fish.

     What could all this mean? She got out of bed, threw on an old baggy robe and headed for the kitchen. She lived in a small ground floor flat in North London. It wasn’t much, but it had a beautiful fireplace in the living-room and a perfectly formed (if miniature) garden where she liked to take her morning coffee and did so in all weathers.

She had furnished the rooms lovingly with old, comfortable pieces of furniture. Soft rugs, bought on impulse on holidays abroad, or discovered on some stall in Camden market, showcased the original floors. A few original paintings by little known local artists adorned the walls that had escaped the colonising inroads of her books. Of these she had a considerable and very eclectic collection.

The water boiled. The coffee made. The mug in her firm grip and the packet of cigarettes secure in the pocket of her shaggy robe, Cynthia opened the French doors and stepped out into the garden.

After an unpromising start, the day turned out rather well. By noon, Cynthia finished the final version of her article critiquing the coalition governments’ new education policy, had a meeting with the editor to discuss the next assignment over lunch, spent most of the afternoon researching and drafting the article for the following issue and set up an interview with a top government official for the following morning.

By the end of the day she was exhausted, but had completely forgotten everything about the bizarre dream that had unsettled her sleep during the previous night. She decided to reward herself for the successful completion of a demanding working day by taking a detour on the way home to dine at the Spaniards Inn.


     A smile etched in the corner of his mouth as Peter entered the pub. It wasn’t as busy as he had expected, but then it was only a Monday afternoon. He ordered a pint of Guinness and asked for a menu. The long walk had taken its toll and he was famished.

A few minutes later, cold pint in hand, he exited through the back door into the beer garden. It had been years since he had last had a drink here, but the place felt somehow frozen in time.

He navigated his way around a few tables towards his favourite spot. As he got nearer he noticed that it was already occupied. A young woman, not yet in her forties was enjoying the evening air and a glass of Chardonnay.

He stopped in his tracks, standing unnaturally still for a moment, struck. With some determination he continued his way towards the table. As he approached, the young woman looked up from her book and in that instant their eyes met.

At first she looked baffled. It took her another split of a second to come to the same realisation to which the man advancing unwaveringly towards her had come to moments before. She observed him as he drew nearer and at last he stood erect, in his full height, which was considerable, before her.

“Hello, Cynthia,” said Peter now smiling broadly, “Fancy meeting you here! May I join you?”

“For a moment there I thought I was hallucinating,” Cynthia indicated the seat across from her.

“Flesh and bones, grey hair and all,” Peter catalogued the subtle changes that familiar face underwent in the ten years since he had seen it last. She was thinner now, slight shadows framed her almost-oriental eyes. Her hair was tamer than he remembered it, but otherwise she was the same Cynthia. No doubt about that. He would have known that stubborn chin anywhere.

Cynthia was similarly occupied. He had aged well. One could not have guessed him to be in his forties. Faded jeans, retro t-shirt and trendy Converse trainers contributed to this youthful image. His eyes still had that playful hazel glint, and besides a wrinkle or two, his appearance was unaltered.

He blinked. She tried to smile.

“When did you get back?’ she asked.

“I would have called, but…”

She didn’t say anything.

“I do not have a UK number yet. I was going to sort that out at some point this week,” Peter added weakly.

She continued in silence.

“I’m back for good,” he said, paused, then added, “certainly for a while.” When Cynthia did not engage once again, he felt compelled to continue: “I’ve accepted a post at UCL, so…” he shrugged. “How about you? Still a writer of fiction?”

“That was a stupid dream. One of many I cherished back then.” Her tone was bitter. She couldn’t help it. She tried to make light of it: “Full-time journalist now. Still writing fiction: British politics.”

Their food arrived and for a few minutes they ate in silence. It was vaguely surreal and concurrently natural that they would be sitting here, in an old pub in Hampstead Heath, sharing a lot of dinner and a little conversation after a decade apart.

Peter wished they could pick up where they left their friendship ten years before.

Cynthia knew it to be impossible.

On women being crazy

On women being crazy

I enjoyed this post so I thought I’d share it with you.

Below, you can read my reply to every point made by the author.


Women pick arguments on purpose.

True. The only reason I got my degree was so that I would get better at it. It worked. Have a masters in it. One day I’ll even be a doctor in it.

And yes, I picked arguments with everyone that seemed a candidate for a relationship. If they couldn’t argue, I wasn’t interested. I like people who are opinionated. They don’t have to agree with me. In fact, I don’t much like it if they do because where is the fun in arguing with someone who keeps saying “Yes dear”?

It is the same way I make friends. I don’t walk around people on eggshells. I challenge their views. It might not be relaxing, but at least it’s not dull.

Women ask questions that they know the answers to.

I do that too. I don’t think that there is only one answer. I want to test the waters see if I can find something new to get my teeth into. Usually I do. It keeps me going. It feeds my ever-growing curiosity. I’m curious about life, the world, people. I want to get into their heads, figure out how they function and why.

Women really don’t care about your opinion most the time.

I’ve been guilty of that. When I catch myself doing most of the talking I just shut up. I make a point of saying as little as I possibly can without coming across as Mrs Darcy. This was an amazing discovery. People seem to want to fill the silence. It makes them nervy, so nowadays I listen, and listen some more. I am still astonished when at the end of an hour after meeting someone for the first time I have their whole life story.

I write fiction, so I love stories. My world is a novel populated by chatty people. I may not always agree with their opinions, but I do care. I want to know. And they are willing to share.

Women quickly grow bored with topics that don’t interest them.

There are no boring topics, only boring people. The most interesting of topics can be rendered boring by a drone.

If you have a good story to tell, I don’t care what it is about. I’ll listen. I’ll let you grab my attention, but it is your job to hold it. With a little luck: I leave satisfied.

From a proudly crazy woman


The face of feminism

I don’t think I have a funny bone. At least not funny enough to do stand up. However, that’s never stopped me from trying so… here’s a joke (the only one) I’ve come up with. A little nod to Rousseau and Feminism. Seems fitting.

JJR: “Man is born free, yet everywhere he is in chains…”

ME: “And Woman?”

JJR: “Woman should be satisfied with the chains she is born into.”

ME: “Is Woman not born free?”

JJR: “Not if Man has anything to say about it.”

Do you have a favourite joke on the subject? Feel free to share. Would love to hear what you have to say.