Annual trip to dentist/ lowlight of my year...

So recently I made my annual (if that) trip to the dentist; spending as little time as possible with someone's fingers poking around my mouth just seems logical to me. Have you ever stopped to think where those evil metal tools have been minutes before they're used on you? Yep. Covered in someone else's saliva. I mean WOULD YOU SHARE A TOOTHBRUSH?! Anyway, I digress.

My dentist is pretty much a grumpy bastard. Probably because he can sense he's the lowlight of my year. And even if he can't sense it I'm sure he knows because well, I've told him. (And also bit him one time since in my opinion when someone needs to swallow and someone else won't let them shut their mouth, that someone else absolutely deserves to have their finger gnawed off).

Anyhow, he usually makes polite conversation,I make agreeable noises (as far as possible with my mouth wide open and dentist onset lock jaw) and we get the job done.
This time however, those 'agreeable' sounds just would not come out. Now when it comes to ehem 'faking it' I'm up there with the best of them...but this REALLY wasn't doing it for me and I couldn't keep my mouth shut (well open in this case... I was at the dentist...) a second longer. 
'My daughter isn't allowed to speak to boys.' Mr. Grumpy announced proudly.
'She goes to an all girls school and any parties are avoided - don't want her getting bogged down with any worries other than her school work. She's going to be a doctor' he went on. 

I laughed awkwardly. Could I bite him again? BOGGED DOWN?! Yes, she might be shielded from a little bit of old fashioned teenage heartbreak, but this poor girl was missing out! No crying in the school toilets over that boy who text her for a month and then went out with *Stacey Moore* instead (that bitch works at TGI Fridays now so I'm not even bitter), no squealing over that friendship request or shrieking with your friends on the receipt of a 'dick pic'.
Okay, I guess I can't exactly begrudge Mr Grumpy for objecting to that last one. But the crux of the matter is that yes teenage years are often difficult, somewhat silly, and always self absorbed but everyone has the right to live and learn.

'Spit' Mr grumpy commanded. 
'Um, do you mind if I just...' I trailed off. This man was dangerously close to my mouth and had access to power tools. I'd better shut up.
'Go on..' My Grumpy challenged. 
'Well, don't you want her to integrate with... I mean... Sometimes girls and boys are just... Well my best friend's a boy' I babbled.
'Thats nice' Mr Grumpy looked at me mockingly.
'Its nice to hang around with boys from a younger age so they're not a shock to the system' I continued defiantly with a quote I'd come across in my sisters psychology book. 
'Hm. Right. You're all done. No problems'.
Well that was me told. I glanced over at Mr Grumpy's scarf hanging on the back of the door - that SAME bright red monstrosity had been brightening up his office since my first ever fateful visit God knows how many years ago; He was beyond help.
I slid down off the death chair obediently, feeling rather like a fish escaping the fishing boat (Yes. I really hate the dentist). 
'Its a dad thing. A man thing even. Ask your boyfriend how he'd feel about same sex schools'. 
'Oh I don't have a boyfriend' I explained. Not that it was any of his business... Nosy bastard.
'Oh? So all that integration practice hasn't come in handy so far' he winked. YES WINKED.
Ouch. Touché Mr Grumpy, touché. I probably deserved that.

'I suppose not. See you next time' I forced one last smile, waved and proceeded to get my boyfriend-less butt out of there.

Lesson of the day: keep all opinions to yourself unless asked. Especially when your dentist is an ass.

*name changed to avoid awkwardness.

Food and Feminism...

It's a typical Wednesday night, I'm tweeting a selfie, debating what flavour pesto would best compliment my salmon, and BBC news is on in the background (because there's only so much 'Friends' a girl can watch). Hmm let's see, there's like, gallons of pollution dust all over England, (apparently- can't say I've noticed), conducting an orchestra is too physically demanding for women, Holly Willoughby's preg.. Wait, hang on, go back one? Suddenly distracted from hashtagging my selfie I rewind. And yes, it seems I did hear that correctly.

On prime time TV, in the 21st century, TWENTY-FIRST FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, women conductors are being told they're just not 'strong' enough to hack it. The fact that they're perfectly qualified and talented in the art does not seem to distract classical music's resident chauvinists from the fact that they have a vagina and are therefore obviously incapable. Did I mention we were in the 21st century? My stomach is turning - rather like Emily Pankhurst in her grave, I'd imagine.

Granted, Bruno Mantovani composing some sort of positive correlation between conducting talent and physical strength is downright ludicrous (stick to composing music mate). But he did not make me want to be sick on myself quite like Vasily Petrenko did, his comment rendering me uncharacteristically speechless: 'A sweet girl on the podium can make ones thoughts drift towards something else'.
Fucking. Pervert.

This notion of a women's sexuality hindering her ability to conduct an orchestra strikes me as bullshit of the highest order, projected as a viewpoint in order to detract from Petrenko's obvious inability to deal with a women in charge.  Truth of the matter is, no matter how much we preach equality, no matter how many token females we place in the House of Lords, no matter how many women are judges in the highest court in the land (which us girls should shut up and be grateful for by the way, so I've been told), there's clearly dicks still out there with the audacity to voice their outdated opinions - not a hint of embarrassment, no explanation necessary.

Yes we can wear short skirts and have pre-marital sex yada yada yada, but we're sure as hell not equal. Not yet, anyway.

Feeling rather dejected by the realisation of my previous naïvety, my mind wandered back to food (as it often does). At least the pesto conundrum was solved. I put my salmon back in the freezer replacing it with a big old pizza. Because SOD MEN I CAN GET FAT IF I WANT TO.
And I'm having a Yorkie bar.