Four Weeks

"I'm bored!"
"You can't be.  Not yet. There's still four weeks to go."
"But I am.  I'm bored."
"What about all those things you were going to do in the holidays?"
"They're boring."
"No, they're not boring.  You were really looking forward to doing them."
"Was I?"
"Yes."
"Well, now I'm bored and I can't even remember what they were."
"Why don't you read a book?"
"I've read eleven."
"Eleven?  How have you had time to read eleven?"
"I don't know.  I just have.  Sometimes I've been reading two at once."
"It's a lovely day.  You could sit in the hammock and read another one."
"I could...... but I'm bored."
"Okay. You're bored. I get it.  Why don't you do something creative?"
"Like what?"
"Oh I don't know.  You could write a story."
"Yeah.  I've written 5,000  words of my story but I think I'll stop because it's boring. I don't think anyone would want to read it."
"What about some knitting?"
"Yeah, I could carry on with the knitting.  I'm three quarters of the way through a baby jumper but I've got one and a bit sleeves to do and sleeves are..."
"Let me guess?  Boring?"
"Yeah."
"What about making some bunting?"
"I could but the sewing machine is upstairs and I'm too bored to go and get it."
"Well, what about cleaning out those cupboards?"
"Oh, BORING!"
"Yes, I agree but you did say that you couldn't wait until you had time to do it."
"I know but.... cupboards,,,,,, they're just.....boring."
"You could watch the TV."
"But I've watched all of House of Cards now."
"All of it?  All 52 episodes?"
"Yeah."
"No wonder you are bored."
"Yeah, you know I'm thinking I really quite like going to school."
"I'll remind you of that when you are sobbing into your cornflakes crying, 'Don't make me go,' in September."
"Okay.  But I think I miss people. You know, real people who talk to you and stuff."

*Doorbell rings*

"What are you doing?"
"Hiding."
"I thought you said you missed people."
"Yeah but ....."   *picks up book, studies knitting and opens word document* "I'm not ready for real people yet."

VIP

This year the Mayor has decided to make our Youth Orchestra his chosen charity.

It's lovely.  It really is.  A proper honor.  But with that honor comes duty and responsibility that I'm really not sure I'm qualified for.

During my brief period of being a fast track graduate trainee in a bank (brief because I hated it and was spectacularly bad at selling personal loan insurance to people who didn't need it) there was a lot of talk of networking.  To be successful, it seems, you had to schmooze your way to the top. It was nothing to do with your skills or intelligence but everything to do with your ability to go to parties, work out who the important people were and talk to them  This was probably what made me decide that a career in banking wasn't for me.  That and the fact that I hated meetings.  I always sat thinking, "If we just did this instead of talking about it the problem would be solved."

I was invited, by email, to a 'cutting of the Queen's birthday cake' celebration earlier in the year and I wasn't sure.  I felt I had to accept.  I thought it was my duty, even though I was worried that I might accidentally forget where I was and refer to the leader of the council as Slimball Susan or something. On the day when I had to let them know I decided to accept  and soon a nice invitation arrived in the post for me and a guest.  I told the Long Suffering Husband who said, "A church service?  It's not my thing but of course I'll come and support you," and then promptly booked a golf weekend away for that day.  My son looked at me as though I'd grown another head when I suggested that he would like to come with me.

On the day, my daughter was unexpectedly home and she said that she would, "love," to come with me.  I spent the day feeling ever so slightly sick.  I couldn't work out what was wrong but I couldn't settle.  I paced the house and checked in the mirror to see if I was still there.  I was.  There was no getting out of it.  I looked at the invitation again.  An afternoon tea reception starting at 4pm.  "I wonder if I could have hot water," I said.  "I'm sure you can," soothed my daughter. I was getting more and more anxious.  She stroked my arm, "Are you sure you want to go?"
"No, no, don't make me," I wanted to shout but instead I said, "I've got to.  I said I would.  I think I should.  I'd be letting the orchestra down if I didn't."  She reassured me that everything would be fine.  I could take my notebook and write things down or pretend to be part of the catering team, whatever I needed to feel comfortable.

Ten minutes before I looked in the mirror again.  I was still there. Still no reason not to go.  Where was my invisibility superpower when I needed it? I checked the invitation again.  "Afternoon tea reception starting at 4pm and the Celebratory Songs of Praise Service at 6pm, followed by a glass of wine and cutting of the birthday cake."  

I started to hyperventilate.
"It's okay mum, breathe, what's the matter?"
"At. Least, Three. Hours......Three...... I. can't. be. nice. for. three. hours."
"Look mum, if you don't want to go, I wouldn't mind."
"But I should."
"They probably won't even notice that you are not there and if they do just say you were ill."
"I could do the church service and watch someone cut a cake but a two hour afternoon tea with people who think I'm called Hilary."
"Why would people think you are called Hilary?"
"I don't know.  That's just what happens."

I didn't go.  I felt bad about it.  I had let my whole orchestra down.  I worried that the Mayor would change his mind and decide that due to my inability to network we weren't going to be his charity of the year.  I knew I'd never be invited to anything ever again and felt a guilty sense of relief.

A few weeks later, it seemed as though my absence had not been noticed.  They probably spent the whole afternoon calling some poor woman named Hilary, Julia.  We were still the Mayor's charity.

Then a new invitation arrived in the post.  Would I and a guest like to watch the carnival procession from the Moot Hall balcony?  I liked that idea. It might be fun. The LSH said he would come with me and promised not to book any golf games.

The LSH has a new friend at work.  A lady (yes, women can be engineers!) who works in the next pen (I don't know why engineers are kept in pens) had come to ask him if he would ask his colleague to be quieter when he was on the phone.  The LSH was surprised but spoke to his colleague and then introduced the two, so they could understand that they were both nice people, who just happen to be on different ends of the volume spectrum.  All engineers are on some kind of spectrum.  This lady also happens to live in our town and we have bumped into her a few times at the park or the supermarket.  She talks to the the LSH about the town whenever she sees him.  She has made it her personal duty to commend it to him and tell him all about it's charms.

"Are you still enjoying living in Maldon?"
"Erm.  Yes."
"It's such a wonderful town.  I don't suppose you've had much time to explore it yet."
"Well, I've lived there for 22 years, so maybe not."
"Oh.  You know about the carnival then?"
"Yes I do.  It's funny you should mention the carnival because my wife has been invited to watch it from the balcony of the Moot Hall this year."
"Oh, I'm really cross about that."

The LSH was taken aback, wondering what I had done to offend this woman.  He ran through the list of possibilites in his mind and decided that they were endless. He must have shifted uncomfortably, looked at his watch and cleared his throat.

"Oh, sorry.  Not your wife.  I don't even know her.  I'm sure she's great and deserves to be there. No, it's just that I haven't been invited this year.  I want to be on the Town Council but they tell me that there won't be a place for me until someone dies."

The LSH sympathised and said that I'd told him about the tie, suggesting that she might not need to kill someone if she was a man.

"Anyway, you'll really love it.  It's such a fun afternoon.  Everyone gets dressed up, you have a fabulous lunch and then you go out on the balcony to watch the carnival."
The LSH swallowed hard. "Dressed up?  I was going to wear my shorts."
"Oh no. If it's really hot the men can even take their jackets off.  It might be a good excuse to get your wife a new frock."
"I don't think she'd like that.  She told me she was going to wear jeans."
"Oh, she can't do that. Be a dear, get her a new frock."

By the time the LSH got home he was in a bit of a state.
"Do I need to buy you a dress?" he asked anxiously before telling me about his conversation.

I've checked the invitation and  the start time is 12pm.  The procession starts at 2.30 and will get to the end of the High Street by 3.30pm.  That's three and a half hours of schmoozing in uncomfortable clothes.

I started to hyperventilate. I looked in the mirror.  Still no powers of invisibility.

The LSH rubbed my arm.  It will be fine.  You can do it.

"I'm sorry. How did I do this to you? You'll hate it."
"So will you."

He was right. My breathing shallowed even further and I checked the mirror again.

"We'll be fine.  We can be two introverts together but I'm not wearing a suit."

If only VIP stood for very introverted person then I'd be fine but I have just over a week to keep looking in the mirror and hoping for invisibility. They would definitely notice if mine and the LSH's seat at the dinner table were empty.

Five Weeks

Dear Parents,

Chill out.  You've still got five weeks to go.  That's five whole weeks with your children. I've seen you, in the Supermarket, in town, at the park.  And you are letting it get to you. It will be a very long five weeks if you don't unwind a little.

You will notice us teachers, looking calm, relaxed, twenty years younger than we did last week.  We are the ones sauntering down the supermarket aisle, whistling as we think what we might like to eat tonight.  We could cook something extravagant with our new-found energy or maybe we'll just get some cheese to eat with all the wine and chocolate that you so kindly bought us.  You will see us in town sitting having a coffee, that lasts hours, while you (Dads in particular) drag your children across the road, ignoring the crossings because you just, "don't have time for this!" We will be the one's in the library with a huge stack of books to checkout, smiling at your screaming child, who will not go and tell the nice lady about the book she has just read and who doesn't care about the stupid reading challenge anyway.  Reading challenges are not a problem for us, we've waited seven weeks for enough energy to read more than a page without falling asleep.  We will be the people in the park, whose dogs are genuinely smiling because this is the longest walk they've had in ages and they are allowed to stop and sniff whenever they like.  We will tell your children that they can stroke the dog and watch the relief on your faces when you realise that the tantrum over whether it is legal to have an ice cream before midday has disappeared as quickly as it arrived (By the way it isn't.  Ice creams can only be consumed after noon.  My children are grown up now but it is still a law they stick to).  The teachers are the only parents who aren't stressed in the company of their offspring.  One or two certainly seems preferable to thirty.

When I was in the Supermarket today I saw some very harrassed parents.  Children are unpredictable and difficult.  They have questions that you might not have the answers to.  They want to do their own thing; they have their own ideas and they are unintentionally rude.

I was getting my trolley and  I walked in front of a little girl of about nine who had just collected one for her mum.

"Whoops.  I'm sorry," I said, "I wasn't looking where I was going.  Isn't it a lovely day?  Can you hear that blackbird?  He sounds so happy."
The little girl drew a huge breath, probably to tell me everything she knew about blackbirds when her mum shouted,  "Be careful, Petunia.  I told you to watch where you was going."
Petunia looked at me and sighed, "Technically Mum, it was that girl's fault."
"Girl?" I thought and suddenly I loved Petunia, "It was," I told her mum, "I wasn't looking where I was going."
The mum ignored me, lines furrowed into her brow and her voice the pitch of a rusty circular saw.  "That's not a girl.  It's a lady."
Petunia looked at me, back at her mum and then at me again and put her hands on her hips before pushing the trolley to catch up with her family.
"Oh mum.  I think you need to get your glasses on.  This girl is sooo much younger than you are."

 I saw Petunia again in the bread aisle, where she was sobbing into the rolls because her brother was now pushing the trolley and it wasn't fair.  Her mum looked ready to explode.

The whole shop was gripped with whinging children and shouting, stressed parents. I picked up a cake muttering to myself, "It's an apple turnover sort of day," and an old lady laughed.  She said, "You've just cheered me up.  It's horrible in here.  I was just wondering if I should call Social Services."
The lad restocking the shelves with bread said, "It's just the start. It will get much worse before it's over."

A little boy said to his mum, "It's an apple turnover sort of day.  That lady said so."  His mum looked at him, smiled and said, "What big ears you have Mister Wolf.  Shall we get some for lunch?"
The old lady asked her, "Why?"
"Why, what? Apple turnovers are nice." she puzzled.
"Why aren't you like everyone else?  Everyone else would have shouted, 'not now. We don't have time to think about cake,' and then there would have been crying and maybe a slap."
"Well," the mother said, thoughtfully, "I'm a teacher."

If you are not a teacher and you are finding the school holidays stressful then please remember that it's only just begun.  Try to smile.  Try to laugh.  Your children are amazing and they will be grown up and moving to Coventry before you know it.  Then you will regret all the times you didn't think it was an Apple Turnover sort of day.

Enjoy the next five weeks.

From a former grumpy old woman who is a happy girl (for the next 5 weeks).

The Rise of the Pintrest Funeral

I'm from a big family and in big families people die. A funeral was a reasonably common childhood occurrence.  Not every week, or anything, but often enough so that they seemed a normal part of life and not really that big a deal.

Now that I'm an adult funerals seem to be a very big deal.

The funerals of my childhood consisted of turning up at a house in a smart dress (Dad will have fetched his black tie from the back of the wardrobe), taking the flowers out of the car and putting them on the front lawn.  Then we would go inside and have a cup of tea, while grown-ups dabbed the corner of their eyes with proper handkerchiefs, until the funeral directors arrived.  These were always large, whistling men, with a twinkle in their eye and a wink for us children. I once asked one why he was so cheerful, in the circumstances and he shrugged and said, "The worst has already happened kiddo." We would then all bundle into our various cars and drive too slowly behind the hearse.

It was always raining.

At the crematorium we stood huddled under umbrellas while the men took the coffin out and we followed it in.  The vicar or celebrant said a few words, always getting some of the details wrong. We sang the Lord's My Shepherd (badly).  The coffin slowly disappeared behind some doors, into what I always imagined to be a dragon powered furnace.  Tears flowed, quietly, except maybe for an odd aunt who would have a full sobbing breakdown and a prayer was said. We stood up, shuffled out and went to the pub or back to the house for a glass of Sherry and a cucumber sandwich.  Aunts and Uncles would plaster you with unwelcome kisses, tell you that you've grown and everyone would agree that they should meet more often, "although, next time, in better circumstances." Better circumstances, like weddings, often ended in a fight but funerals were reasonably jolly affairs, with beer and reminiscings.  I quite liked funerals.

Now, as an adult, everyone I know who has organised a funeral seems to treat it like the event of the century.

 I thought, at first, this was because I wasn't posh enough.  Our family funerals weren't in church or attended by grown ups with degrees.  As a member of the 'good' school choir I did sing at a few funerals in church; the huge funeral for the girl in my year who was run over on her way home from school, the funeral for a teacher who had loved Fats Waller (so we sang Ain't Misbehaving), the funeral for an ex-headmaster and school governer, for whom we sang everything in Latin.  It still wasn't a huge performance.  The congregation sang The Lord's My Shepherd and the Vicar got some details about the person's life wrong.  Having the school choir there just meant that the hymns were in tune.  At a church funeral the shuffling outside was to wait for the immediate family while they stood by the big muddy hole in the ground in the rain.  I don't know if these people went to the pub, had cucumber sandwiches and a glass of sherry or hired the local stately home for a Pimms and Prosecco knees up because I always had to go back to school.

These days, everyone in the immediate family has to say something.  They deliver a witty, pithy, funny eulogy.  The children read a poem.  Musicians play a piece (I've lost count of the number of children who have asked me to write out Somewhere Over the Rainbow because, "It was Grandma's favourite song and Mum thought it would be nice if I played it at the funeral on my flute." Music is chosen to reflect the life of the person.  Gone are the days when everyone started crying at the the word 'lie' in the Lord's My Shepherd because that note was just slightly out of range for most normal human beings.  Now, I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles can be the hymn of choice (although probably not for a Millwall fan).  Coffins are brightly coloured and invitations are sent reminding people that Great Aunt Dotty was a happy soul and she would hate people to wear black.  The pub or a cucumber sandwich and glass of Sherry isn't an option anymore, as the wake is catered like a wedding.  There is a remembrance table, where people can write about the person and put it in a jar, there are flowers, cakes and candles, tastefully placed around a large photo.  There is a basket of tissues labelled, "for happy tears." but no one from the immediate family is crying.  They are working too hard to host the party.  Grief will be postponed to a more convenient time.

I blame Richard Curtis and Pintrest.  It won't stop me watching Four Weddings and a Funeral and blubbing when John Hannah reads Auden's Stop the Clocks, so beautifully and because I promised myself that I will spend the school holidays seriously writing I have spent the day making funeral Pintrest boards.

  However, I hope that when it comes to arranging my funeral none of my family think they have to do any more than shuffle in from the rain, listen to the celebrant get the details of my life wrong, sing the Lord's My Shepherd badly, begin to grieve and go to the pub.  If they want to put on a concert or show about my life they can do it later, when they feel less numb about the whole thing but only if it's funny.

Always Angry

"You're always angry lately," the Long Suffering Husband said after he had tripped over his shoes, made a loud huffing noise and dropped his spare clothes for the fifth golf game of the week (yes I know it's only Wednesday) on the edge of the bed.

"It's all this stuff about women. Oh, and the fact that you just woke me up from probably the only sleep I'll get tonight."

Newsnight had been on the TV and they were discussing how the 'women's vote' was going to decide whether Trump becomes the next President of the USA. 

"There's no such thing as a women's vote," I growled.

"More women vote than men in America."

I kicked the covers off my sweaty, flushing body.

"But they don't all vote the same way. It's not like women are born with a womb and a hive mind. We can think differently from each other, you know."

"See! You're always angry."

He's right. I do feel more angry than usual. I'm sick of the news, of politics, of people, of pianos. None of them are making me happy. The weather finally decided to give us Summer all in one day , it's the end of term, I can't remember when I last slept for more than 4 hours and all of this has made me tetchy. 

I was cross yesterday. The Labour Party, rammed to the gills with rampant mysoginistis, decided that the woman who challenged Corbyn for the leadership couldn't win because of her gender so they found a man to replace her. Then the press found it necessary to further humiliate her by suggesting that she had lost the plot by shouting, "porridge," on live TV when everyone knows the standard sound check question is, "What did you have for breakfast?"

I was also furious with the man who refused to serve under the new Justice Secretary because she had no legal experience. Well, that's what he said but look at this list of Justice Secretaries he served under and their backgrounds. Can you spot the difference?

Liz Truss Degree in PPE and work as an economist

Michael Gove - History degree and journalist.

Chris Grayling - History degree and tv journalist

Maybe history and journalism are closer to the law than economics. That's it. Absolutely nothing to do with being a woman. 

To be a woman today, it seems as though you all have to think the same and be perfect. I can't do either of those things so I resign.

That's it. I resign from my position as 'woman'. I don't want the job anymore. I feel as though I am no longer adequately qualified for this role.

 From now on I'll just be a person and maybe I will start to be less angry.

Cockwomble

"It's been a cockwomble sort of day," my friend texted.

It wasn't a word I'd heard before but I instantly knew what she meant. She had encountered many men who were being purposely difficult, slightly missogynistic, whilst framing everything in humour to remove your right to be offended. We all know a cockwomble or two. 

You know how Wombles only appear on Wimbledon Common after dark when there is lots of litter? Well, Cockwombles only appear when your life represents that green patch of London at dusk; when you are tired, ill or grief-stricken. 

Obviously, like real Wombles they are there all the time but you just don't notice them or they don't bother you.

"It must be great having your job at this time of year."

"Hmmmm, yes it can be rewarding but end of year performances can be a challenge."

"I bet the kids love it though, just doing a bit of singing."

"Not all of them."

"It's not as if it's hard work is it?"

"Learning four songs in a week, word perfect? No, you're right. After all it's only a bit of singing."

"Yeah, it's not like it's real man's work."

Cockwomble.

You know the men. They suggest that you are less capable than a man would be because of your sex. They joke and you are not sure if they are mysoginistic, stupid or think they are being funny. When they suggest that you should have had training before changing the printer cartridge (actually, why are you changing the printer cartridge on your day off?) you are not sure whether to laugh. Is he joking? You suggest that you'll be fine. He persists. You laugh. He walks away, happy. 

Later he points at you and tells another man that he caught, "this one," changing the toner cartridge without training. The other man is torn. He can't decide whether to join the joke, say, "yes, normally I'd agree with you but she's fine," risking insulting you by saying you are a man. You feel like you have been publicly humiliated but know that it's best not to say so. In these situations I have the solution. You say, firmly, whilst laughing, "Oh, you're a cockwomble! How did I not notice before?"

Popular Psychology Killed Feminism

I've always thought that I was a feminist. I believe that women are just people, like men and that having a womb, boobs and a whole sack of complicated hormones shouldn't mean less pay or worse treatment. 

I always thought that separate playgrounds for boys and girls at my junior school was stupid, I saw no reason why I shouldn't take science A levels and I couldn't see why everyone was making such a fuss about a woman Prime Minister. 

Then I became a mother and as a mother I think I lost a little bit of my brain. 

During my pregnancies I hoped to give birth to girls. I was a girl, I understood girls so I knew how to raise a girl. Boys were some terrifying unknown creatures from outaspace. 

What?

What was I thinking?

Looking back now, it all seems so odd. Twenty five years of believing that men and women are equal gone like the dew on the grass on a sunny morning. I can't explain it, except to blame popular psychology. 

These were the days of John Gray. This American pop-psychologist was riding high in the book seller's charts and had convinced the world that men and women were not only different but were so different that they came from seperate planets. Not the same species even but worlds apart. I read the books, of course I did ( I read everything) but I also believed them. There was much to commend. He had noticed that human's communication isn't always very effective and suggested ways to solve it. For example he suggested that women were accused of nagging because they weren't very direct when asking for what they want. There are obviously long standing cultural reasons why this could be more true for women than men, however it has nothing to do with a fundamental neurological difference between the two aliens. Once our daughter was born we noticed that this particular 'nagging' habbit was more likely to be adopted by the Long Suffereing Husband than me. 

Me:  "Pick your toys up and put them away......NOW.....1...2.....3. Well done."

LSH: "You never put your toys away." "It's such a mess in here." "I really think it's time those toys went away" "Ouch, F**in' Lego." "It's no good coming crying to me now. It wouldn't have got broken if you'd just put it away." "Ugh! The toys are still all over the floor." "Why don't you ever listen to me?" "I only asked you to put your toys away."

As a parent, I was more confident. It never occurred to me that she might not love me if I told her to do things that she didn't want to do. 

The principal of effective direct communication from the Mars and Venus book applied equally well to men and women. It's almost as if men and women are the same.

I didn't learn though.

When my son was born that fear raised its ugly head again. My daughter had fitted the 'girly' stereotype, showing a preference for pink. She liked what I thought were typically female games and toys but truthfully she just preferred to play with people. We played games where we acted things out and she interviewed me. She had imaginary friends and found out all about their lives and she played with her globe and dreamed of going to Peru (which just happened to be one of the pink countries). I was terrified because popular psychology was talking about a male crisis. Feminism had destroyed men, they had lost their place in the world. They were buying guy liner and moisturising their faces and this was all because they were helping with the washing up. It was an identity crisis of epic proportions and something had to be done. 

Not wanting to contribute to the crisis I bought a book. Raising Boys by Steve Biddulph. 

It told me that boys are different and my parenting had to be different. My boy was different to my girl. He didn't much like people. He preferred to play with things. He chose the dolls, bricks and trucks but preferred animals and imaginary creatures, although he was (luckily) placid enough to be a prop in my daughter's games and would submit to being interviewed whenever she decided it was necessary. He became a lifelong Pokemon fan (probably because they don't talk) Neither of my children were physical; they didn't like to kick a ball around and catch terrified them but they both liked a good walk. According to my latest guru, Steve, most of boy's problems weren't my fault anyway. It was a book bought by mums but aimed at dads, who he blamed for being too distant and not a good role model. It was alright then I could relax because the LSH was present, being a good role model nagging about toys being left on the floor before picking them up himself. 

I noticed that he was a good role model for my daughter too. It was almost as if you could do the same things to raise boys and girls and that they were the same species.

But I still didn't learn.

My daughter had started school and had a group of bright friends who could be quite mean to each other. They were all jostling to be noticed; they all wanted to be the best and if they had to stand on each other to get to the top of the pile then so be it. My little girl was struggling. These were hard lessons. They were harder than maths, which she just didn't get the point of. 

So, guess what? Yes. I bought a book.

I bought Odd Girl Out by Rachel Simmons, which was later re-branded as Queen Bees and Wannabes and became the basis for the film, Mean Girls. When our girls were being mean to each other us parents pulled that sideways smile and said, "Well you know, girls can be so cruel." We didn't do anything about it. We didn't sit our girls down and say, "treat people how you want to be treated," Actually, I did but I don't know if she listened to me. Schools accepted the reality that 'girls' were mean. 

Then my boy started school. There was a mean boy. He called him names and pinched him under the table. I don't know what was said in return (as a parent you only get one side of the story) The school seemed less inclined to believe this was happening. Parents said, "It's so much easier with boys. They just hit each other and it's over with, not like girls. Girls can be so bitchy." I didn't think there was much difference in the way my son's friends spoke to each other than the way my daughter's friends spoke but there was a difference in the way us adults reacted. 

As I've done more work in schools I've seen that boys can be equally mean, especially when they are tired and emotional.  You'd think girls and boys were from the same planet.

The problem is that I'm still hearing all the things that were in these books. People still believe that men and women are different. Parents are still consoling each other with, "Girls can be so bitchy" Boys are still frightened to say that someone is being mean to them just in case the worst insult of all gets lobbed at them. 

"Oh, honestly, Fred. You're such a girl!"

(and that is probably their mother speaking)

I'm happy to notice differences but if you divide the world in two then one ends up being the opposite of the other. Boy:girl. good:bad.