Sex and Social Media


Sensuality is not easily reproducible.

You cannot take a sensual experience – in all its ready, unready, bluster and breach – and copy and paste it over and over again, ad infinitude.  Oh people try, in long drawn out couplings they slog through the motions of repeated patterns of coitus. Patterns they have  come to the conclusions of, not together, but individually, privately, working around each other like a pair of fishes swimming about a small pool. Their intimacy is based on the fact of their proximity in body, but their heads are half witted, and wandering elsewhere.

Sex is just another in a list of things to get done. In the evening, they flounce in from their grey labours, shoulder down in front of a wide screen, and hand grab their small screens, ready for a long old twiddle. It contains the endless entertainment needed for all the sitting down they are about to do. Sitting down with acid cheap wine, bought because of their acquaintance with the brand. The brand so often used to slice, in advert, between those buddycoms they are so fond of. Because you don’t need actual friends! You have Sit Friends! And industrial grade gut rot.  You can ride right up Jacob’s Bunch of Shit Creek, and you don’t ever have to feel alone.

They, literally of absent mind, flick their fingers along the cracked rim of each glass and glaze over the screen(s). They could sit there for hours, couldn’t they? Watching back runs of that buddycom or that panel show – programs designed to instigate a feeling of familiarity  that they don’t experience with each other. Or anyone else. Depictions of jovial and easy friendship and society repeated day in and out, week and month too, on some channel or media outpost, somewhere, always. These are our simulated fraternities. They half watch, half fiddle, always sit.

Ah but work calls them in the morro. This ‘living’ has to stop.

They trunk up the staircase to their bed (or across the room; its a studio, its all they could afford, we made houses an investment, remember?) and fall in to it and go about their fuck or rub or frottage routine, with all the build up of a tired corporate soldier stepping in to a lift. And they ‘do it’ to completion, wandering their fractured thinkings over whatever slice of pornography or predictable ‘bend over, fuck and cum’ fantasy they can muster, just to reach something like a peak. Enough to get them to sleep without a thwack over the head by an absconded boxer or a stick shoved up the back entrance by a sexual cynic, dressed in cheap PVC.

Oh how I go on. Sauced up? Your goings got? Boots filled? I can barely bang out a question mark, let alone an exclamation.

But I am asking a question, all the same. The question is, where is our sex?

The sanitary, work to just-but live, nature of our daily lives interspersed with an endless array of small-fry digital actions (flipping between screen and screen and screen and screen), lead us inexorably to experience being in entirely fragmented and, ultimately bland cognizance, a set of mind that does not have the scope for sensual exaltation.

No wonder we experience lust as wandering our eyes over pretty pictures of lentil pies. Not lust, we note the prettiness of the spectacle and  sink notionally into “Why are my own pies not as thus?” It is the width, breadth and stretch of our sensuality.

Besides the dearth of sensuality, our cognizance, even, is not raw, let alone analytic. It is not an enthusiastic  and curious engagement with our world, our lives, our bodies, and more importantly, with their world, their lives, their bodies. But for their pretty lentil pies. Yes we live in our heads, heads attached to our digital systems, heads not up to much. Bodies up to nothing. Yes we ‘do it’. And that is about it.

Back to another night, and our lovers, wedged into a sofa like a pair of stationary bikes tied to the roof of a stationary car. Back to those pretty pictures of lentil pies. All stacked up and herb trickled; cute nosh she can’t eat, she won’t make, she probably doesn’t even want. And while she zips through them – chastising herself for your own bland plates of re-hydrated pasta drenched in  heavily sugared sauce  –  the fella sat next to her is scanning through  synthetic depictions of oblate women, greased and buffed by front on lighting, until they score an uncanny resemblance to bratwursts. Not the rich oozing sausages of October Fests even! But the orange tinged pickled dogs of the American jar. Tinged, hard and just, just squidgy. Why do men insist upon gaining their sex from images of women designed to look like projections of their own, very much imagined, hard, throbbing cocks? Why do I even ask.

And he looks up from his small screen, only, to see some hard shouldered masculinite on his big screen. Blowing to smither some sucky, sucky mouthed lizard, with green scales and a pink gob, ripping up from the Deep. You will not be forgiven for that being lost on you. And yes, she is still looking at the pretty pictures of lentil pies.”We’ll make that one day…” she yawns. He isn’t listening. He’s mentally eating his own bratwurst and watching that wet mouthed lizard get blown to a thousand, sticky bits.

This is our sex. This is our foreplay. This is the run up. Are you not entertained?

Yes screens, digitization, provides us with hallucinated-form projections of our own fantasies, extracted from us and sold back to us, so we don’t even have to leave our seats.

Once, at a conference, a male academic rejoiced! in the very fact of the amount – the sheer amount (never has a cliched phrase been so appropriate) of what he called  the availability of free pornography. An academic be hell! I said to him…I said to myself, awkward and tired, in my plastic chair, listening to endless papers of sociological ‘interest’ without analysis…you are not getting it for free! You are participating in a process by which, for every thing you consume you permit yourself to be advertised to! Advertised to along the lines of your own consumption, solidifying you, forever in the process of being catered at, usually shuffled – slightly, slightly – in the direction of your crudest of oils. And when your cock stops working because it is in a lethargic state of over reaction, your free pornography will helpfully point you in the direction of a pharmacological cocktail, that can get it going again. And then you can see to your inter-acted sex rituals with your tired lentil pie obsessing girlfriend, whilst you stew your frazzled dreamscape around images of bent over bratwursts going through the motions of fucking labour.

You haven’t bought pornography with your money. You’ve bought it with your consciousness, your dependency, your obsession, your willingness to consume. Porn. Social Media. Advertisement Television. Billboards in the street.

And the academic, who should be a wit capable of abstracting himself, to some degree, is just another consumer, sucking on his litre box pop of porn. And the activist, the feminist, who should, with thinking bayonet, sharp stick in to the flanks of these consumptive demons, clap their fins like fish breathed seals putting on a  show. Suck, suck, suck, yup, yup, yup.

Warms your fragile heart, don’t it?

And why? Why are we so easily ridden?

Because the structure of payment – which is payment via our attachments and obsessions – render us in a constant state of processing repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, repeated, messages, repeated messages, repeated messages, you get it? you get it? you get it? You do? Like.Like.Like.Like. Dislike!

All platforms work using boxes of messages or images or clips, which we have scanned over like crude algorithmicals, searching for the right ideas (diluted) to which our social, personal, political and sexual ‘identities’ have decided most appeal. Within these same same platforms that spit out an abundance of 140 character messages or clippings of grey eyed bratwursts withstanding vaginal tears, we persist in our search for the new, only in the details, the micro moments, the slight shifts in our digital mise-en-scene.  Gazillions of these shifts wandering like spots of water amalgamated into a thundering along-ness. We capitulate because bantam novelties are easier and more saccharine to swallow than the risks of heavy change. We are willing to sell our everythings for little bursts of novelty.

There Is No Such Thing as Conversation. It Is an Illusion. There Are Intersecting Monologues, That Is All.

Rebecca West

Is it no wonder such a dense political philosophy  as feminism – which ought to be out to flay the monsters of ‘extract from us and sell back to us’ –   can be so thoroughly eviscerated from the internals? Like a cadaver lost at sea – it is being chewed up by micro monsters and in the watery tumult, bloated beyond immediate recognition. Ready for the sharks to jettison it in to the watery nether. Oh it still bobs away, just. From our boats – those of us who are trying to escape – we point, we say, ‘There is Feminism! There it goes!” Its salted and thin skin you can just-but hear implore us to save ourselves. And all those other revolutionary political philosophies that seem to have been trammeled into students hive-minding language policing methods. The age of digital repetitions does not encourage us to think up or out, but in, in, in. Give vindication to ourselves, in our ever increasing shrinkage, in our pokey self obsessions.

The so-called sexual liberation of our time seemed to me then, and seems to me still, to be the intensification of the  focus on self -pleasuring, and is fundamentally masturbatory, hence its reliance on external stimuli which work on sexual fantasy. The appeal of self-gratification as the key to self-realization was and is its adaptability to marketing.

Germaine Greer, The Mad Woman’s Underclothes

Sensuality and critical engagement share a need for scope, patience, dedication (as opposed to obsession) in our choices about how we live as individuals (as much as we can) and as a society. Porn and social media require no such long term commitment to feeling and thinking good. Just as porn can take a tired, angst ridden person and flip them, like a switch, straight to orgasm, so too can social media ignite our political and personal danders in a beat.  Just as you can, in a Pavlovian fashion, become erect (whatever your genitals) – without any previous seduction or participation – when gawking at video of a  just eighteen year old being ripped to shreds by – not one – but several cocks of gargantuan proportions, so too can your frisson be got by the news of a celebrity of some distinction (or otherwise) saying something, like, the wrong words. Developing hunger and working towards the process of being filled, is not the same as salivating the minute someone or something rings a bell.

It really should not come as any surprise that pornography and social media are our most jealously guarded of enterprises. And, particularly in the case of pornography, we talk about it as though it has ever been thus. Just as a child guarding their packet of the same same sweets, tinged with chemicals to give them  saucily different colours, we guard the tedious repetitions of our sexual and thinking lives. Because what good is ecstasy and eureka, when you could have easy?


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Fitting In, Standing Out

In the UK, we have a television program called Room 101. Taken from Orwell’s 1984, the concept is that people of note make the case for things that they don’t like to be obliterated from society, via the subterranean torture chamber, used in the novel to punishingly confront the socially ‘deviant’ with their greatest fears.

The TV faces, in accordance with the values of ‘offend- confront -or-challenge-no-one’ television, never come out with real, painful, human anxieties. Like Ingrid Thulin’s Ester in Bergman’s The Silence finding the smell of semen rotten, as a result of her fear of impregnation, or the fictional author of Notes from the Underground’s fear of social humiliation (leading him to, in affect, seek out social humiliation) or even Peter Pan’s fear of growing old. They usually put in littering, or gum on bus seats, or the assumed pretentiousness of liking herbal tea (I like herbal tea. Happy to lay my cards on the table). Its a way of ‘not liking things’ via the public gallery of courting popularity.

What goes into Room 101 for me this month?

Indeed, it is a society that functions around persuading people to court popularity, whilst punishing those who draw attention to the craven spinelessness of our structured social interactions, by courting popularity poorly.

In social groups, there are often people who have proffered upon them the status of lowliness or ‘not requiring of respect’. Even whose ‘job’ it is to stomach the domineering, aggrandizing, repetitious, hierarchical, conformist and petty elitisms of other people…a person who anyone can lord it over, attack or deride with more or less safety from resentment or reprisal. Someone who tries to fit in, or do right, and is seen to fail… is one of those people.

OK so we live in a society of ‘kiss ups and piss downs’ and more or less unsubtle hierarchies. The extent to which we ‘succeed’ in terms of popularity and social respect depend on our ability to seamlessly – as opposed to obviously – accord ourselves with the wants, wishes and ideals of people who have already been designated as having high status. In other words, studies show that people who are deemed more popular, generally are more astute to the behaviours and attitudes needed to be so, largely because they value popularity in the first place, not because of some other ineffable aspect of their character.

But the idea that popularity is achieved due to sensitivity to social expectation, does not take into account people who value popularity (or at the least being liked) but try imitate its tenets clumsily (often as a result of social isolation or insecurity), in a way that ultimately draws attention to the attempts, and thus the very artifice of popularity – or social currency – as an ideal. People who – to the hive minded – ‘try’ to be ‘cool’ or ‘overestimate’ their ‘attractiveness’ or tell jokes that ‘flop’.

The contemporary talent show is mandated by this tendency, because people who succeed are purported to be interesting or have the X Factor, but are actually just some forgettable, seamless derivation of previous tropes (women warbling a la Maria Carey, white troused boy bands. I’m probably out of date on the specifics) and people who are there to be mocked in the early stages are those who attempt to imitate these repetitions, albeit poorly.

Of course, someone can hit musical notes or not, but it is also the case that the demonic production decision to put people ‘out there’ with the full intention of having them humiliated, is done purposefully, to give those who invest in social hierarchy and elitism a pressure valve. In order to mock the very pretensions to which they are invested. We laugh at those who ‘try to be cool’ but fail, so that we don’t have to challenge the drive to seek vindication via other’s expectations of what has already been deemed ‘good’, in and of itself.

Of course counter or high culture does this too if with less salient nastiness. We snub those who poorly attempt to emulate the urban economy of a Beat writer, or the language twists of a philosopher, or the hair cut of a punk.

Of course you can probably guess that the term to be floated up from the dregs abouts now, is authenticity. Simon Cowell uses it a lot. Don’t ask how I know that. The person who is considered cool is a maverick, who is seen, or believed, to make things that are new, or create things that are fresh, and as such becomes the locus of our social, cultural and intellectual orientation. We worship at their alters, we – even  strangers – put flowers on their graves.

Everyone wants to be authentic, so our tendency to copycat others or imbibe the zeitgeist – perhaps out of necessity – needs to be screened out of our consciousness. The fact that most of our behaviours, attitudes and values are handed to us and are not a result of our own intuitions or, indeed, because of some essential, transcendental good sense (see, common sense)… needs to be kicked under the carpet. Again, those who attempt to be popular, or even ‘normal’ – but fail – undermine this. They draw attention to the persistence of human interpretation, imitation and replication.

Indeed the contemporary trend setters are more those who successfully combine various facets and textures of other subcultures. They make up their brands out of a  strange bricolage of ideas, thoughts and practices gathered from a multitude of places, which, again, is presumed to be seamless, convergent, cohesive, but is actually often discordant, confused and contradictory. In such an environment, success depends more on an emotive assimilation of different outputs to make up this one ‘brand’. Despite an awareness of the multitude of people and organisations that enable these brands, there is still an attempt  to pursue the idea these cultural creators as intuitive artists, of the modernist variety, rather than successful coordinators of social expectation. If you think about it for more than a minute, it all falls a part. So you don’t. Think about it.

So social currency is on the one hand a process of behaviours, attitudes and appearances that have already been intuited to have value, but the Holy Grail of popularity is to be considered the very source of the value in the first place. However, because we deem such capacity – whether trend setter, game changer, genius – to be of such rarity, most of us settle to be good emulators (whilst maintaining, for psychological comfort, the idea that we are still ultimately ‘unique’) . Or at least as good as we can be. The winners are the ones who emulate and play good at pretending their birthing their own genius, or at least are riding the waves of those who deem it to be so.

The social climber is perhaps, in this genre of those who try and court popularity badly, the most enduring of stereotypes. Hyacinth Bucket (or as she pronounces it Bouquet) from Keeping Up Appearances, is one example of a lower middle class women suffused with pretensions of high social status. Basil Fawlty of the Towers is persistently on the look out for ‘the right class of persons’ to stay at his hotel, and is often, as a result, taken in by what we are to see as charlatans who look the part. Del Boy’s entire personal output is predicated around the hope that “This time next year boy, we all be millionaires.”

In comedy (in the UK at least), these people can be lightly ribbed, but in life, being perceived to implore the vindication of those around us – and to fail – is one of the most devastating of humiliations. As ever, being the person who tells the flat jokes, or organizes the parties that no-one attends, is the thing that many people fear most.

Of course it would be easy for me to admonish those who vie for vindication as driven by narcissism and vanity, but given that we do live in a society that rewards people on the basis of their ability to ‘to fit in’ it seems hopelessly unfair to judge only those who do it least well. To give out platitudes to selfish psychopaths capable of glibly rubbing people up the right way, in order to get what they want, but to dish out mockery to those whose just want to be liked for being liked sake.

The saddest thing, is that because of our fear of being that person, many people opt for social isolation, afraid to make friends, crack jokes, offer insights. And it is ever increasing, with Like culture and Reality TV persistently organizing us into social winners and losers. But like the Capitalist system, in terms of money, the Popularity system is predicated on harsh competition, and it is a game that the vast majority of us, by its very nature, cannot win. By giving those who court popularity successfully their status, or by flattering them with hapless imitation, we are rendering ourselves subordinate.

Follow Your Dreams/Fail at 30

So I read somewhere recently that the trajectory of most people’s occupational lives can be gleaned by the time they are 30. That whatever they are going to be or do (I’m going to play fast and loose on the philosophy of person-hood here) will already be in sight. That if they are to carve out any kind of success along the flanks of an employment grindstone, they will have already gotten out the chisel. If they are to climb the ladder of proverbial prosperity they will have already have sliced their feet into the bottom rungs. Do you need any more bad metaphors? No? Good.

Of course, I have no way of checking the voracity of such a claim. Well, that is not true, I could probably do something like, I dunno, research, but I’m not going to. I’m going to fly out on a bendy extremity and decide to run with it. In any case it sounds feasibly likely to be at least common. If we are to have success in life, the signs will be there before we check in to our fourth decade (indeed, before we are even born).

I am  lazily defining ‘success’ here in two ways, first in the straight forward Capitalist sense. You’re 30 and you have a job that pays OK and that stands a chance of being paid better than OK, one day. Added, you feel fairly comfortable if you tell people what your Day Job is at  beer and crisps or pre-drink-before-gay-club parties. You know, like, you’re in Marketing or Human Resources or Procurement or Recruitment or something along the blurred lines of Chandler Bing. When you tell people of course, they might feel bored for you, indifferent, but at least not embarrassed or sad or awkward. And all things considered, that is something.


In the second sense, you have a job that is actually kinda interesting, that maybe you always wanted to do since you were a bern, and/or has some level of creativity or specificity or social currency. The kinda job that if you tell people about it they’ll actually look kinda pleased for you, or interested or engaged. They may even, vaguely, want to ask you questions about it or try and friendly up to you so they can add you to their Rolodex of ‘good so-and-sos-to know.’

But if you start surfing towards 30 and you still haven’t figured your shit out yet, such social occasions, such questions, become instigators of minor distress. Perhaps you just don’t know – or never have known – what you want?You’ve done a few odd jobs, here and there but nothing really stuck or settled, and none of them were interesting or punched much of the minimum wage in any case. Perhaps you’re still kicking it at the Tiki Post, the after school job you got when you were 17 and have never had the subsequent energy to leave, or luck to have been offered anything better (application after application after application).

Maybe you had high minded aspirations, and tried to be a writer or painter or musician and just never got off the work-for-free circuit, or away from the open mike night at your local sticky floored bar. Perhaps you’ve even been telling people that it is what ‘you do’… only to have been besmirched one too many times by a forensic bastard asking you, “how much money do you actually make doing that?”

Perhaps you got hooked in to someone young and decided you were going to live  some exalted salt of the earth existence together? On a house boat with a cat called Bettina, going from town to town. Or in a Yurt with a small garden comprised of your crop of organic swiss chard and beets and your selection of hand sprung garden ornaments, also available to purchase on eBay.  You know, to make money for those little extras. Like goat cheese or a mandolin.

But then they left you for one of those magnolia be-flatted marketing types and, you think, you probably could never really have afforded it all anyway. However long you squirreled away your  barista pay packet. If indeed it was anything other than a predictable bucolic fantasy. A crust made to hold in the entrails of your loveless, penniless, sexless union. The product of a drunken night you never bothered to end.

Yea I’m that woman. I’ve done those things. I’m the one with the tumbleweed CV, which I am under orders from the good folks at DWP to try and stitch together in to something that looks, sounds and smells like respectability. I’m that woman who has tried to not have an epic tear fit when my lovelyjubblyscrubbly work coach has spittled out, “Well, you’re very difficult Ms ******, because you’re almost 30 and you have no real job experience and you have never really done anything meaningful.”

Yea its tough being nearly 30 and having to field questions such as “What is it that you do?” with, “I don’t do anything.” Worse, “What is it you used to do?” with “I’ve never really done that either. You know. Doing stuff.”

And having one of those University Education things doesn’t help much. It only adds to the sting when someone tells you that joke, “What to you say to a University graduate? I’ll have fries with those chicken nuggets!!”

Oh how we laughed! We… the worst excesses of our under-employed, over-educated generation. We the working class kids who grew up under Blair style faux optimism, who hit the books with vigour, but did not have the connections or confidence or basic money to see it through to the middle class dream. Yes those of us who were 10 when New Labour  came into the ascendancy, will be turning 30 now, and though we got the promised Education, Education, Education  many of us did not get  the Career, Career, Career.

“Well!”, they say, “that is your problem for studying dome namby pamby Minnie Mouse medja/art nonsense!” But is not a society that snubs those who have undertaken cultural  academic exercise – for no profit can be unfurled from their fingers – an impoverished one? Apparently not.

So there we are. Or, at least, there am I. Jobless, aimless and happy to oscillate between cursing the neo-liberal inequalities of the day, and my own rudderless whimsy. The whimsy we shall call having the sheer temerity to want to shake a little aspiration in to my forward motions.   This being the psychological forever destiny of those of us who followed our dreams, and  failed at 30.





The Dyspraxic & the Grammar Bullies.


They are the type of people with whom I have butted, uncomfortably, up against for most of my life, as I have Dyspraxia. No, it is not some new-fangled way of describing fundamental weakness, it is not caused by sugar intolerance or a way of glamourizing laziness or self absorption. It is simply a way of labelling a certain kind of brain functioning (which I call my brain ’tilt’) which is unusual and which often manifests itself in behaviours which are inconvenient to a society that likes people to fit in. It is annoying, particularly, to those arseholes with a stronger-sense-of-loyalty-to-conventional-standards-of-behaviour we were just talking about.

When I was at University, the disability centre conducted some IQ tests on me, as although I was doing well with the content of my course, I was struggling with the organisation and management. The tests revealed in me an odd ‘intelligence’ distribution. My mathematical skills, spatial awareness and short term memory tests showed an IQ of 92, but my linguistic tests showed an IQ of 136. The educational psychologist, who was poking her metaphorical fingers around inside of my brain, told me, that even though a degree of difference between the two ‘aspects’ was common, that such a marked difference was not. It is sort of like having one part of your brain running a marathon, whilst the other sits around chain smoking, in her underpants, and stares blankly out of the window.

She went on to explain, that this odd distribution of intelligence in my mother board resulted in my having to cope with a magic show of awkward physical and behavioural patterns.  Can’t ride a bike, can’t drive a car, often can’t distinguish between left and right (hence, read a map), persistently forget where I am going, what I am doing, what happened five minutes ago, oh, yes and bad handwriting with poor levels of basic organisation. Hence, often, bad grammar. Oh, but on the upside, I am a natural speed reader, if I can concentrate for long enough to bother.

It is like being Dory. I can’t remember who I am half the time or what is going on (for short periods), but I can read well and I do speak Whale. And jobs for which those specifications fit, as you can imagine, are constantly dropping out of the fucking sky. It enables me to focus heavily on the ‘big’ things in life like love, art, ideas… whilst all the necessities of day to day living are constantly flapping wildly behind me in the wind.

During my salad years, as a ‘starting out person’, things were not too bad; being somewhat disorganised, uncouth, and ‘irresponsible’ was par for the course, but as I kamikazed   towards adolescence the rules changed. Particularly for girls.  The expectations that one should be tidy and organised in handwriting, dress and demeanour were reinforced by both our teachers and our peers. This insidious belief, that women should be more conformist, undoubtedly is given birth to by a cultural history that views women as spare ribs, followers, secretaries, needle workers, blanket folders, and such. I imagine it was difficult for most girls, but if you were Dyspraxic, it was impossible.

I was persistently being told off by teachers for my poor levels of organisation and regularly laughed at and mocked by my classmates for being perceived of as unattractive and ‘weird’. Finding out I was Dyspraxic – and that all it did was make me different, not deficient – was indeed some remedy for the low self esteem I had accrued as a result.

It initially smarts when some Twitter Twat has a pop at my bad grammar or typos. But I have rationalised something: people who point out errors like this are like the people who mock others for being fat. They not only mean spirited, but wily competitors carrying around fragile egos. It is hard to define, due to subjectivity, whether or not someone is interesting, intelligent, attractive or charismatic (let alone of good, moral character), but knowing if someone is thin or spells good, is objective. Easy to define. Easy to point out. The Katie Hopkinses of this world, or the middle aged men who regularly grace the comment sections of national newspapers, are paragons of this. Paragons of people who wish to assert their belief in their own betterness through the simplest, most ungracious of means. They are the people who posture about with their ‘basic good sense’ but snub poetry, ostensibly because it is ‘fluffy nonsense’ but really, because they just don’t understand it. And due to their arrogance, they cannot accept any of their ignorance.

It is easier to find simple methodologies for assigning lowness of character or poor social worth as a way of easily distinguishing themselves as inherently ‘better’. And this competitive, and  often asinine commercial culture, validates them in their pettiness and vulnerability.

One wishes they could go find a large island somewhere, and fight it out amongst themselves, and leave the rest of us – with our incompleteness, our wonkiness, our chubbiness – to our own world of flexibility, compassion and understanding.

If you have, or think you may have Dyspraxia and you live in the UK, The Dyspraxia Foundation may be able to help. You can find their website here.

Written by Rae Story. If you’d like to help her keep her sorry backend in clean socks and sandwiches please consider making a donation from this page.