It's a magnet Jim, but not as we know it

     Magnets: aren't they just great? They're in everything, from toys, to medical equipment, to batteries, and even in your headphones. Personally, I like to put the two earpieces of my headphones together and let them repel one another, like two worms fighting. But seriously, they are amazing. So amazing, that our world is pretty much held together by them, the North Magnetic Pole and the South Magnetic Pole. There is however another type of magnet, something that is embedded apparently within us all, but the force is only strong in some cases. I am talking about The Weirdo Magnet.
     Never heard of it? Think it doesn't exist? Well as someone who apparently the force is very strong with, take it from me, it exists. I like to think that everyone has an internal weirdo magnet buried somewhere deep within. Some people are open with theirs and thereby attract the mentallers. Others keep theirs well hidden behind newspapers and angry looks and headphones. Mine, is apparently open to the public all day and all night, leading me to wonder if there is some Weirdo Magnet Monthly publication listing my details without me knowing. I have many, many tales of weirdo's being attracted to me, through no fault of my own, all of my friends can attest to that.
     Really, location doesn't matter. They will find me: on river cruises, outside pubs, on the street, shopping centres, other people's parties, friends of friends, you name it, they'll find me.
     It seems to happen particularly often on buses. To me, buses are the true Mecca for weirdo's, they seem to be drawn to public transport, buses in particular, like wasps to....well anything really. It's why I tend to avoid buses wherever possible. At least on the Tube, people don't really talk to each other, even when you are in a group with your friends. Being a Tube passenger, you can be totally undisturbed for the entire journey. Bus passengers however, are fair game, and some seem to be more enticing than others. Maybe it's because I am actually an OK kind of person. Unless I really have to be, I cannot be a total bitch to people, even to strangers who I don't know and will probably never meet again, it's just not in me to do. I think that because of this lack of bitch gene, I have developed a pheromone that sends out signals only picked up on by other unbalanced people. They see me they way the leopard sees a new baby caribou, the litter of the runt, easy pickings, a kindred weirdo spirit.
     It doesn't matter whether or not I put on my headphones, a stranger has actually taken them out of my ears so he could talk to me about texting his mother on his new phone that was over a month old but still had the protective plastic covering over it. It doesn't matter whether or not I pretend to read the giant newspaper that I have put in front of my face to stop people from annoying me, the weirdo will still get through to me. It even doesn't matter when I do both, and when I am sitting quite a distance away from someone, case in point being the odd man on the bus from Galway one day who was sitting across the aisle and two seats up from where I was cocooned with a broadsheet and my music. He decided to lock in on me, and I made the fatal mistake of making eye contact with him. Though I was only on the bus with him for fifteen minutes, it was long enough for him to tell me his ancestry (Cork born, Galway parents) why he was in Galway (Cork vs Galway hurling match) why he was wearing two jerseys (you guessed it, a Cork and a Galway one as his loyalty was divided) where he was staying (Claregalway) why he was staying there (cheaper than the city, even when you factor in the bus and taxi fares) Now, somewhere in between this and him getting off the bus, I must have zoned out, because when I came too, he was waffling on about the party he had been at where he was dressed as a Nazi SS Officer and how much he admired that Hitler fella.
     Much of my life is in fact taken over with the odd people, and meeting them randomly, it's an almost daily occurrence  and while I sometimes complain about it, I do in fact enjoy it mostly. Yes, it would be nice if I could get through at least one public transport journey or one day without being harassed by mentallers. It would be lovely to be just left alone every now and then. But I do quite enjoy the fact the people seem to make a bee-line for me (I'm talking about the mentallers here, no one normal really approaches me off the bat) and feel that I am someone who they can talk to, share the issues (be it personal or psychological) with me, and that they see me as someone who can empathise with them. And to be honest, it's pretty much the lunatics that make the world go round, how very boring life would be without them.

Hi diddly dee, a spinster's life for me

So I've only gone and ruddy done it. After what has felt like years of interminable waiting and mooching off others, I am now shacked up in a great little apartment in London, with only myself for company. Yes, I have reached the stage of personal maturity where I am now living on my own. Do I love it? Hell yes! Have I been lonely? Hell no! Do I think that living on my own and effectively cutting myself off from society will have an adverse effect on me and turn me into an even bigger lunatic? Resounding Hell no! I've always wanted to live on my own. For me, it has been a very personal goal, not really an ambition per se, but more of a want, like when I wanted to move to London. Granted, it took me nearly four years to do that, but I did it! The same with this, ever since I discovered what it was like to live on my own, all those years ago in Galway. And what a place to make that particular discovery.
     But in getting to this quite grown-uppy place, I had somehow managed to regress through the years and found myself almost re-living my pre-adult life to actual adult life. (Yes, I said pre-adult. I am no longer using the word teenager to describe myself or my friends around the ages of thirteen to eighteen. Teenager for me, evokes the goth-haired, be-hoodied, gangly, spotty, acned, hipster, mobile phone, dip-dyed hair we see today. And yes, while we were just exactly like them but without all the money and annoyingness that we see in most of them, I like to think we were slightly more mature and grown up than they are. But I guess that's what all pre-adults feel like...) Anyway!
     The first stage in my never ending story of how I got to live on my own, began when I managed to secure a job here in London. As I was fortunate enough to have my sister living here along with friends I had collected along the way, I had a solid base upon which to build my new life. While waiting for my then boyfriend to move over, my aforementioned sister graciously invited me to come live with her and her boyfriend until I got myself set up and settled in. Instantly, this felt like moving back in with my family, a place where even though I did feel like I belonged, I also felt that my freedom was somewhat limited. Now, don't get me wrong, I will be eternally grateful for my sister taking me in like this, but I did feel somewhat restricted. A bit like a pre-adult who has been given a week to have their home house to themselves while the family goes on holidays somewhere (why the pre-adult didn't go with them is anyone's guess, maybe they weren't going to a cool enough place, who knows, you pick the reason) only to be brought back down to earth and being reminded that they are in fact under the thumb the minute the family comes back to the house. They had a taste of freedom, and then it was pulled from under them. I had moved out of home when I was eighteen, lived with friends, lived with a bunch of Aussies in a tiny two-bedroomed attic apartment, lived with another friend, then strangers, then my boyfriends room, then my own place, then my new boyfriends place, and so on. Having gotten used to pottering about my own space and living by basically my own rules for quite some time, it was hard to re-adjust to living with, essentially, a family unit again. It did my sisters head in, it did her boyfriends head in, it did my head in, however I like to think it gave them basic training as to how it would be if they had a child, or a bold puppy that broke things. It was hard on everyone. 
     Pre-adult stage over and done with, after wrecking my London Family's head for nearly two years, I decided to branch out and move into a house where friends where currently living. This, would be my London Student years. It was almost exactly like when I first moved to Galway, I was living with two of my best friends and two guys that we had already known for years. Not exactly pushing the social experiment boundaries, but come on, we were only eighteen, and we did our best. My cousin already lived in the house, I had bonded with and become good friends with one of the other house-mates over an afternoon of frozen margaritas in Covent Garden, and had known the other house-mate through various visits. The room was a bit grotty. The house itself, not through fault of my house-mates, but through the obviousl maltreatment by previous tenants and neglect from the landlord, was a bit of a kip. But I still loved it. I felt like I had just made my first real foray into the adult world. Bit deja-vu-y but at the time, it was just what I needed. I needed to re-establish myself as Laura, not someone's girlfriend or sister or buddy, but as me, and finally find my feet again. And I did that, with roaring success! Old friends introduced me to new friends, as I did to them. People I had known for years were living at the top of my road so I had friends to drop into! I was responsible for paying proper rent and bills and buying food! I had a nectar card! I had re-useable shopping bags! Je suis arrivé!!  
     However, I feel, in retrospect, that the house was a stepping stone. It cemented the now amazing relationship I have with my sister, which has gone back to being more than just a family tie. We both now know we shouldn't live with each other, but love and adore and enjoy each other when we meet up, yet go our separate ways home. It was also a stepping stone on the way to me finding my literal Happy Place. I have my internal Happy Place, it's my Fairy Bubble (one which my sister told me to "eff off back into" one Christmas. See, told you, we shouldn't live together) but I needed to have my own place. My Happy Place with a postcode if you will. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I moved out of my Stepping Stone quick smart, and through a series of marvellous misadventures spanning a spell living with Jesuit priests, going to France and living like a refugee with a Kiwi, French and Spanish person all in the same room), I managed to wind up in a lovely house. One with a lovely bed, a lovely fat ass TV, lovely bathroom, lovely garden, lovely super secret side entrance, lovely kitchen, lovely couch, lovely storage space. But the most lovely thing of all, is when I come home, I am greeted by no-one except myself, by the smell of last nights dinner that I cooked and is now packed away to eat later, by the clean smell from the bathroom from my cleaning products, by the non-mess that I have made, and get to spend time with myself, reading in silence, watching whatever rubbish I want on TV, or simply lounging in my own house listening to music. I'm happier than I have been for a long time, and seem to have finally reached a place I never thought I would get, London Contentment, Tooting. I intend on enjoying my career as a Liver-Alone for a good long while, its been years in the offing, and now that I am here, there's no getting rid of me. I want to depend on myself. I want to enjoy my own company. I want to learn a little bit more about myself. I want to enjoy my own space. But most of all, I want to clean up nobody's mess but mine! 

How to be an adult... anyone?

     I am sorry, but this is not going to be a step-by-step guide on how to be an adult and be a grown up, these are just my musings on what I feel it means to be grown up.
     I've never really felt like an adult, even though on my last birthday I turned twenty-six. As far as my brain is concerned, I am and will always be hovering somewhere between seventeen and twenty-one. I may look twenty-six (well, not according to Sainsbury's or Tesco actually when buying cigarettes, or in fact the corner shop owner who questioned my age when buying a lighter) but I don't feel it, I don't act it, but yet somehow I am. Does this mean that now that I am over the ripe old age of twenty-five and am in fact, in my mid twenties, make me an adult? Am I grown up?
     Yes: my hair is going grey, but it has for a long time. I call it my bling! But that is hereditary, my father on his wedding day was a walking advert for Just For Men. Yes: my eyesight is terrible, but again, blame that good ol' scape-goat genetics on that one. Yes: I am quite deaf, to some things. I have to ask people to repeat themselves sometimes, but then other times I can hear a phone ringing from a house away (me thinks my PA Spidey-Senses have come into play here) but again, blame is to be laid firmly at the door of my headphones who are blasting music and noise into my ears all the time. Does any of the above make me grown up?
     No: I do not have a mortgage. No: I do not have savings. No: I do not have a car (or a license for that matter). No: I do not have any idea of what I want to do for the rest of my life, or what any of my real interests or passions are. No: I haven't a clue as to when I am going to want to settle down, have kids, live in one place and put down proper roots. Are these things that are just supposed to naturally fall into place as you get older, or are they something that we strive towards because we think we should be doing it?
     The older I get, the more hell-bent on having some adventures I am getting. I don't particularly want to settle down, I want to go and see the world and get into trouble and meet fascinating people and make friends with people on buses and live in the sun and be a bum and do all sorts of wonderful things. That, in all honesty, has been with me for a long time. However, as I am approaching thirty, which is really coming close to the age where people have all of my No's ticked as Yes's, why am I turning in the opposite direction! Most of my childhood friends have their careers sorted, and have had them for a long time, since we were children really their talents and their interests and passions shone through. Not so much me. They know what they want to do. Again, I really don't know! I don't particularly want to get married and have children either, it just doesn't interest me and it never really has. Of course, if my friends or family have any children or are getting married, I take a full interest in them and what's happening, but in the back of my mind, there's always the ever-present voice saying 'Nah mate, I don't think this is for me somehow'.
     The idea of a mortgage, washing machine, two cars, a garden, TV licenses, responsibility, money management, loss of freedom are things that really scare me. Is it because I think I will someday buy into all of this and forget the seventeen year old Laura? Or the fact that I might actually enjoy it and become even more boring than I already am, be even more of a worry?
     Who says that we should have to settle down anyway? Maybe, I just haven't reached the settling down age, where I always thought it would be thirty. But as that age isn't so far away now, maybe I have a different settling down age to other people? That's fine by me! But some other people don't think so, and I'm sure people close to me have thought will it ever happen, will Laura really settle down, grow up, do something with her life? But what if I don't...
     So when does being a fully fledged grown up actually happen? Anyone? No?

Why did the chicken cross the road? Probably because the footpath hogger wouldn't get out of the way

Part Deux as they say in the States:

Following on from the roaring success of part one in my Footpath Hogger Chronicles, here is my second and final entry. These are a short selection of the perils that you literally face each day. Note, I will not be offering solutions to these, as there are none, just giving you a heads up on how to spot and hopefully avoid a hogger coming at you. Note note, maybe a solution of crossing the road altogether...

The One Two Three Four Five Shuffle Type:
You seem them. They see you. Probably from a great distance down the street. You alter your course to avoid walking on the same path as them. However, they could be like you, and could have already altered THEIR own course to avoid walking on your side of the path. You alter back, so as to avoid paths literally crossing. However, they are of the same mind frame, and have done the exact same thing. This can continue for some time, with both of you springing from left to right in a one-two style shuffle spanning the width of the pavement.
Oh OK, a solution:
While it may take two to tango, it will only take one to put an end to the Tomfoolery of a one-two shuffle. Once you have shuffled side to side a good four times, stay where you are, and let the other person dance around you. Meet their gaze, smile, and keep on walking!
These scenarios can actually brighten up your day, so instead of avoiding them, sometimes its fun to just do it. And if you are feeling very brave and like the look of the person you are shuffling with, why not grab their hands and do a little dance a la Gene Kelly or someone else famous for being a dancer (answers on a post card please). And while this might work in somewhere such a London, I wouldn't really try this in Down Town Ballygobackwards, you may end up being known as The Quare Wan. And no one wants that.

I Own The Footpath Type:
They see you, yet you might not necessarily see them. And yet as you are walking on the footpath, you sort of keep to your respective side so as not to pee any fellow pedestrians off. However, you may be veering off into the oncoming path of someone else (unbeknownst of course) The I Own The Footpath Type spots you coming from a mile away, much like a hunting lioness, sees that you are alone and vulnerable, and makes their move. Suddenly, as if you the mere meerkat in all this hears a rustling in the undergrowth and senses danger, you spot them, and move over to your chosen side while the hunter bears down on you. However, they are not walking in a straight line on their own side of the path, they are coming across the path, to your side. You think they may be doing so in error, but please dear meerkat, cop on, they are doing this intentionally, to gain power over the footpath, to gain control on the pavement empire. You make urgent eye contact with them, urging them to keep over their own side. But they are relentless, and will not be happy until you have walked into the wall parallel to the street you are on, or are arm deep in a bush or hedge along the side of the road. Once they have passed you, they instantly move back to their own sides, with a smug grin on their face.
Fine, OK, another solution:
There's not much you can do in this situation, except hold your own. Stand your ground, and if you are fast enough to recognise them coming down the street, perhaps feign rooting in your hand bag (on the side of the path, remember no one likes The Stopper) but stay where you are, until danger goes past you. Or, if you are feeling brave and are the kind of person who would engage in a hand held one-two shuffle like above, then give them a taste of their own medicine. Yes, that's right, become the I Own The Footpath Type. I have never seen this happen, so I wouldn't really recommend anyone to do it. You could give it a go though, and get back to me? Warning: do not engage in angry eye contact, they will sense your fear and you will end up not just touching the hedge growth, but more than likely in it. It will not end well.

The Marcher Type:
Normally women, I am not going to lie, you know the power-bitch types? With the glasses, and heels, and the make-up, and the waist the size of your arm, and the eyebrows, and the bag held not on their shoulder (that's a post for another day) but in the nook of their elbow? Yes, you all know them, of course some of you might actually be them. Anyway! They do see you, but pretend not to. In fact, when you look at them, it is as if you are invisible to them and they are looking straight through you. They also walk right in the middle of the footpath, and will be marching forth like a tank, and they will mow you down if you are not canny enough to see them early and move well out of the way.
OK this is the final solution: (note, not to be confused with Hitler's final solution, a tad drastic for a mere footpath violation)
You could march into them? Who knows where that could go though, so again, please do not try this. Your best bet? Do the walking equivalent of lying down in the foetal position and playing dead to avoid attack from The Marcher, pick a side of the pavement and keep as close to the edge as possible and never, ever veer into their path.

You have been warned.

Why did the chicken cross the road? Probably because the footpath hogger wouldn't get out of the way

Since moving to London, I'm seeing a phenomenon which I have witnessed elsewhere, but nowhere quite to the same degree. When I walk down the street, I like to get from A to B as quickly as possible. Even on a nice sunny day when really I should be paying attention to the wonders of nature, I'm still powering through to get to my destination. Some people however, are not like that. And therein lies the issue. It's the Curse of the Footpath Hogger.

There are many types of footpath hoggers, and you will see them all over this wonderful city, and indeed all over the world. Here are just a few...

The Stroller:
The Stroller ambles down the road, swinging their arms, marvelling at the buildings and the sights and the shops that they walk past. This particular type of hogger tends to sway back and over in the middle of the footpath, the swinging arms blocking all of your attempts to pass them by on either side of the path. You take a step to the left, boom too late, they're already sashaying on that side. You veer right and boom again, guess who's arms are flailing about on that side? You attempt a fake left-right, and yet you are left looking like a fool as you do an imaginary tap dance on the path and are still stuck behind them.
The Solution:
Dodge death by going wide onto the road around them and into oncoming traffic.
The Risk:
Being  hit by the No. 200 bus that comes out of nowhere from behind you.

The Tourist:
Not to be confused with the, ahem, award-winning film starring Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp, The Tourist is a type of hogger that is not just confined to London. Of course, you can find the tourist anywhere, any wiff of an interesting architectural feature or a world famous land site and you will find them there, fanny packs around the waist and cameras in hand. They walk hand in hand along the street, taking their cue from The Stroller, and have more of a pavement presence than the Stroller. They really do take over the entire footpath with their stone-washed large bums and their enormous baseball hats obscuring your view of oncoming pedestrian traffic, thereby leaving you delayed while they take pictures of a bus stop. A genuine authentic London bus stop. Wow.
The Solution:
Nothing much you can do in this situation, except grin and bear it. If you see an opening, just go for it.
The Risk:
Staying put and following them thereby being mistaken for one of them, or if you do make a run for it, you will probably bump into someone that you don't want to see, who ordinarily you would have avoided bumping into as you would have seen them coming up the street if said stone-washed bums and giant baseball hats were not in the way.

The Stopper:
The worst kind of hogger. They will be walking in front of you, probably at a pace to match your own. You are lulled into a false sense of security of them not hogging the path at all at all, when in fact, they are just laying the trap, waiting for you to walk right up close to them. Once they sense you merely millimetres from their back, they pick this very moment to suddenly stop, root in their bag/backpack/pocket for something. Normally a phone ringing or a wallet to be sourced. You cannot but crash right into the back of them, or have to grind to a skidding halt to stop yourself from rear-ending them. You wouldn't suddenly stop and go looking for something in the middle of the motorway would you? No, of course not. You would be beeped off the road and possibly smashed into by a car that is following you. On a motorway, you would calmly (well, I say calmly but you know!) put on your indicator and pull over to the side of the road before you recommence your search. Not The Stopper. No no, they stop dead on the spot, hence the name I suppose.
The Solution:
When you eventually hone your walking senses to be able to read people from the back, you will begin to take note of the people with bags, or bulging pockets, for they are the Stoppers. My advice? Go wide. Possibly cross the road. You will not win.
The Risk:
Not really watching the people in front of you and practically walking on top of the Stopper causing a wee embarrassing commotion on the street that could have otherwise being avoided had you been paying attention.

Tomorrow, Path Hoggers part deux.

Some shortzzzz

Just a couple of short stories that I had to submit for course work, that I thought I would share with you all!

Lonely:

Sabrina pouted and posed for all she was worth as she combed her newly dyed ebony locks in front of her vanity mirror. The large table she was seated at, was covered in such an array of potions, and powders, and collagen this and wrinkle reducing that, it would have put an alchemists' station to shame. Not that any of it worked. Nothing seemed to work any more with Shane. The mere thought of Shane stopped Sabrina in her tracks as she traced her ivory toothed comb through her hair for the recommended hundredth time. Any time she thought of him lately, it was as if her body just shut down, had some anaphylactic reaction, where she could not move, speak or do anything but think of him, rooted to whatever spot she was in until the memory subsided. Shane. For whom she had abandoned her old life of working as a dentist to follow to him to Hollywood. For whom she had given up her longing to have a family after he said in no uncertain terms that he didn't want the responsibility so he could maintain his playboy image. Shane. For whom she had kissed goodbye to her surfer girl blonde locks and gone over to the dark side, because that, she had recently discovered was the colour of hair Shane's newest mistress sported. Shane. Shane the Bane, ha! Pushing her crushed velvet recliner away from her illuminated beauty counter, Sabrina stood up slowly, idly wondering what to do today. She left her softly lit amber dressing room and strutted out through the glaringly white and minimalistic "bedroom". She shuddered as she walked through it, she hated that room, felt like she was back in Dentist’s college, all that was missing was the overpowering smell of fluoride and patients' fear. Sliding open the patio door, Sabrina stepped out into the midday L.A. sun. Hollywood: where everything that glitters, most certainly isn't gold. Glancing back into the bedroom, it looked even more sterile and soulless now that she was here in the well-tendered garden. She was bored of the house. She was bored of being a kept wife, both financially and in the dark. She was bored of Hollywood. What's more, Sabrina was lonely. She couldn't complain to her friends about how she was finding her new life tough. They would only snort into their £4.99 Londis chardonnay and put on the "poor me" voices that they all used when one member of the group was whingeing. In a heartbeat they would sell their souls to have one day of Sabrina's existence. To them, not only was she the apple of a Hollywood stars' eye, but she was ensconced in sunshine on a daily basis, and got to hob-nob with the glitterati of the Hollywood scene. Oh, and there was the endless hours of shopping potential, seeing as she was a mere 45 minute drive to Rodeo Drive. Rodeo Drive Baby! God above help me, she thought, I want to go home.

Stimulus for this piece: Funeral notices on my local radio station.

The static ripped through the silent kitchen like machine gun fire. This always happened when I moved more than 2 inches from the radio and its ever troublesome aerial. Fearing to breathe incorrectly as it might upset further the already perturbed reception, I reached out my ever shaking hand to turn up the volume. One of the joys of getting older, the nerves in my left hand had become so uncontrollable; I needed to take medication to keep it normal. Without my daily fix, everything I touched with my decrepit hand would shake and rattle as if I were auditioning for a role as a tambourine player. With it, it resembled a slight tic. I was seriously considering going without however, as the medicine cabinet was now becoming fuller than my food cupboard. Still, maybe a bit of weight loss mightn't be a bad thing. The news report ended on a sunny note. The presenter gaily informed me that there would be highs of 25 degrees with some scattered showers this evening. I might get some gardening in. Oh who was I kidding, I'd probably just sit in my comfy swing chair and soak up the sun. ‘Get some Vitamin D into you Greta’ I shouted to no one. I was on my own in the house, save for Geronimo, my Maine Coone cat who was currently getting some Vitamin D of his own on the mat just inside the kitchen door. The bottom panel of the door was glass, giving a greenhouse like effect to whatever happened to be on the other side of the glass. He opened one of his slanted eyes to glare evilly at me, not amused for having been disturbed during his afternoon snooze. The phone in the hall burst into life just as the death notices were coming on. Geronimo was even more put out, as he now opened both his olive eyes to glare even more evilly at me. If anyone knew me, they would know not to ring at this time, as I would be listening to the news, so it mustn't be that important. Death notices turned up to full volume to drown out the sound of the phone, I ease myself back against the counter to hear the solemn voice of the presenter.

‘The death has occurred suddenly following an accident of Thomas “Tommyboy” Hume of no fixed abode. Arrangements will be announced later'.

My heart stopped for a moment. The wind was taken from my lungs as I fought hard to breathe after hearing what I could only hope was a mistake. But I knew in my heaving heart that it was true. Thomas Hume could have been anyone! Millions of Thomas Hume’s scattered all around the place. But there was only one Tommyboy Hume. Only one buck-toothed, puppy dog eyed Tommyboy Hume, who would be found with no fixed abode. Tommyboy Hume would always have a fixed abode in 35 Reatham Drive if only he would come back. Tommyboy Hume would always have a fixed abode in my heart, for he was my son, my only son, my Jesus if you will. But he didn’t sacrifice himself to save the sins of the world. He crucified himself on the cross of syringes and squalor, because he loved heroin so much, he gave his life for it.

Abuse of Power

Despite claims by Theresa May (the Home Secretary) that the Government in this country is appalled by the European courts decision to let people on the sex offenders list have the right to appeal their "labelled for life" stickers, it will still be going ahead, with minimal but still very much present backing from our good leader, Mr David Cameron.

Whoever decided to dream up this scheme must have been in the throes of smoking something highly illegal that released their inner peace loving hippy and love and kindness to all self including rapists abusers and paedophiles - either that or someone they know is on that list. How anyone can think this is a good idea, is absolutely beyond the far reaches of my imagination. This list came about for good reason, to protect the wider community from further attacks happening, and for protecting entire neighbourhoods from the horrors of even the smallest sexual abuse. The people who are on that list, are on there for good reason. They have committed a heinous crime, for which they should be rightly punished.

It's easy to say that those on the list are only human, and should be treated with some dignity and of course should have the right to appeal their "label for life". But how can you say that to the parents of someone who was abused or attacked by a sexual deviant? How can you say that to someone who has experienced the horrors of a rape attack? How can you say that to a child who has suffered at the hands of their parents?

It's all very well and good for the people of the Government here and the governing bodies of the European Community to think this is a good idea, and that Europe is leading the way in terms of human rights. But how about upholding the feelings of people who have suffered at the hands of abusers? I will eat my hat if it transpires that anyone on that judicial committee who is going along with it has suffered sexual abuse, or knows someone who has, because if they had experienced it in any way shape or form, they would fight tooth and nail to make sure this didn't go through.

I can appreciate the fact that there are people who are genuinely remorseful about a crime they may have committed, and that some people have honestly changed, and would like the chance to go on ahead with their normal lives and not have the cloud of being labelled a sex offender hang over their heads everywhere they go. But for the majority of people on there, they have not changed, and given the chance, might well attack or abuse in the future.
However, we must sacrifice the pleas of the reformed minority in order to protect the wider community from the majority of people on that list.

The most sickening fact however, is that the victims, the real victims who's rights were trampled all over when they were subjected to abuse against their will, are in fact the ones that will always be labelled for life, and there is no ruling that can ever come into place for them that will free them of the title of a victim of sexual abuse. They cannot appeal to the European High Courts to get them off a list, they must carry this with them for life.

I just hope that no one on that deciding committee must ever experience life at the hands of an abuser.