Zoë Bowyer

F***, F***, F***, F***ity-F***.

I hate self-censorship. I wish I could write whatever I felt like without having to worry about who I might offend or what secret I was spilling. Take cursing for example, I don’t curse all that often but I do do it; yet, here in my little blog I censor myself. Why?

I can’t write about what is happening in my life because a) stuff is happening that I shouldn’t even know about and b) it is to do with work and I generally don’t write about work.

The stuff I do feel that I can write about is sometimes sooooo boring. Do you really want to know that I am still knitting the same jumper that I was knitting last month (I’ll let you know when it is done)? Do you really want to know that I made Custard Creams again (yes, they are just as delicious as they were a few weeks ago)?

I guess I’m kind of frustrated.

Last weekend I was in Portstewart, sitting in the car outside the dive shop, while a band parade passed me by. One of the accordion bands had a Chinese girl as a member which I thought was a pleasant sign of positive change. My positive mood was, however, squished when one of the bands had a go at a pedestrian. The woman had been trying to cross the road to get to the hairdresser’s and she made the mistake of making a run for it in the space between five flag bearers and the band following them. The flag bearers turned around and started yelling at her, several members of the band hurled abuse, but the angriest looking of them was the Lambeg drummer who looked like he was about to run after her and thump her.