Tuesday, 20 January 2009

Being Female.

Yesterday, as the day was on the wane, I decided to remain in bed and continue to rest. I like to rest. So I did.
Consequently, as I wasn't rushing round trying to put fires out*, I watched some TV. A rare luxury. Resting and watching the box. Woohoo. Something I or my female counterparts won't have done since ohhhh…childhood *snorts* Anyway, it was interesting. Having never had the luxury to do it, I decided to treat myself by watching a soap opera. I expected to feel 'involved' with the characters because that's...well...what soap operas do for ya right?

It didn't actually work but that was possibly due to the fact that it was a Portuguese soap.

However, that said, I concur that the ‘standard’ is the same as say, Corrie or Eastenders. Lots of infighting, emotion, long stares and drama. Oh, and the sex of course. Not that you actually see any, its indirect sex. Must happen off camera then? Nevertheless, it did turn my mind back to the good old days, back in the UK. Hardly a day went by when a friend or acquaintance didn’t start trilling on about Kevin or Nick, Peggy or I don’t know, some other stock in trade character and oh my God…can you believe what he/she/they/the dog got up to? *yawns*

Ahhhh…now that’s when I started to realise that maybe…just maybe…my brain doesn’t fire quite the same as in other women. Because the answer is no, I don’t believe that so and so’s long-lost daughter finally turned up after 20 years with five kids to different men and oh my gosh she’s thinking of gender re-alignment and she’s already slept with half the square. And that is because I know something.

It’s not real. Honest. Its not. It’s make-believe. Like, ‘let’s pretend’ for grown-ups. Think Mickey Mouse, the Tooth Fairy. Santa Claus. IT'S. NOT. REAL.

And, while I'm on the soap agenda, why the hell are they called soap operas anyway? No-one ever washes their hands or uses the bathroom. And there's certainly no mezzo sopranos that order a G & T down the pub then suddenly burst into a rendition of 'L’amour est un oiseau rebelle'. I wish there was...
Call me a cynic but it's my belief that if S.O.s really did mirror reality, then half the population would be hedonistic, a quarter, crazy and the rest alcoholics, shopaholics and/or drug dependant.

Soap Opera conclusion: read a book. At least you'll know for sure that it's fiction and you won't start boring telling your friends/colleagues/me all about it.

*I’m not a firewoman, that was just an idiom. A practical way of saying “FFS, I haven’t got ten pairs of hands and eyes in the back of my bloody head. Oh, sorry…I have. I’m a WOMAN”

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