It's Hard To Find A Title For This One

England does tend to express ideas we don't in the former colonies.  Remember quite a few months back there was some whacked out editor for a women's magazine who found it creepy to breast feed?

Now we have Virginia Ironside speaking up on sexuality.  I wouldn't be fair to you if I didn't point out that she also said this "If I were the mother of a suffering child – I mean a deeply suffering child – I would be the first to want to put a pillow over its face . . . If it was a child I really loved, who was in agony, I think any good mother would." a couple months ago.  Read about it here:  The Gruniad

The ease with which she assumes "any good mother would" is shocking.  And I'd say no.  Good and mothers who kill are words that don't belong in the same sentence.

This is a strange concept to me. I don't believe in killing people for convenience sake.  Life is precious.  You're supposed to prolong life, not take it. 

So when Ginny's latest stunner came over the intertubes today, I was reluctant to even look but I skimmed.  Here's the link

We Paid The Price For Free Love

I'll give you 2 pull quotes from this "reflective" "thought piece"

To be honest, I mainly remember the 60s as an endless round of miserable promiscuity, a time when often it seemed easier and, believe it or not, more polite, to sleep with a man than to chuck him out of your flat. I recall a complete stranger once slipping into bed beside me when I was staying in an all-male household in Oxford, and feeling so baffled about what the right thing was to do that I let him have sex with me; I remember being got drunk by a grossly fat tabloid newspaper journalist and taken back to a flat belonging to a friend of his to which he had a key, being subjected to what would now be described as rape, and still thinking it was my fault for accepting so much wine. I remember going out to dinner with a young lawyer who inveigled me back to his flat saying he’d got to pick something up before he could take me home, and then suggested we have sex. ‘Oh no,’ I said feebly. ‘I’m too tired.’ ‘Oh, go on,’ he replied. ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’ So I did. 

and

The other reason that sex was so grim was that now it was so easy, the art of seduction had flown out of the window. I’m sure this was partly why working-class men became so much more attractive to everyone in the 60s. They’d always found, with less birth control available among the working classes and expensive abortion
not an option, that in order to get a girl into bed they had to work really hard at the
chat-up lines. But as for men considering women’s feelings – why should they?
They continued to satisfy their own needs and never for a moment considered whether the women they were having sex with found it pleasurable or satisfying. Most of us girls, at least those on the London rock scene as I was, didn’t have a clue as to what sex could be like when it was good. When we weren’t crying, we’d giggle, like the schoolgirls we were, about our exploits, without realising how damaging our sexual behaviour was both to our self-esteem and our souls.

Really?  Wow.  Who da thought?  Discuss amongst yourselves.