Images of Perfection...

Doesn't Julia Roberts look beautiful? Can you believe she's approaching her mid-40's? I didn't even look that good at 20!

And yet... Okay, we're all aware that something's not quite right with this picture. We've all heard the debate about airbrushing a dozen times before. We know it happens and we know it'll continue to happen once the furore over this latest advert (now banned) dies down. Just as we watch adverts for mascara and coo over how beautifully thick the model's lashes are, whilst quietly ignoring the teensy tiny writing in the corner: "Model is styled with lash inserts for an even lash line," we'll go back to thinking: "Wow, that skin cream looks AMAZING!"

But is it unfair for companies to ruthlessly airbrush and perfect their models and celebrities, when all we have at home is a make up box and a mirror? Worse still, could it be dangerous?

According to research carried out in April by the University College of London's Institute of Child Health, 1.5 out of every 200,000 British children under the age of 10 suffer from an eating disorder, such as anorexia. Even more recently, a report by the health & fitness charity, Central YMCA and the Centre for Appearance Research at the University of West England in Bristol, discovered that 1 in 10 children would take a diet pill to make themselves look more attractive. Why are Britain's children so obsessed with their looks? Why are they worrying about being too fat, or not pretty enough, when they should be enjoying their youth and leaving adult concerns to the adults?

The answer may lie with a rather uniform approach to beauty, taken not only by Britain, but an alarming proportion of the modern world. Beauty is, so often, skin-deep. We're force-fed images of busty blondes, who, in spite of their comedy breasts, somehow have the waist of a twelve year old to go with them. Walk down any city street on a Saturday night and you'll see group after group of clones - teenagers and girls in their early twenties. All with the same haircut, all dyed the same colour, all with the same style of make up and the same fashion sense. Why? Because that's what's considered "beautiful." And who doesn't want to look beautiful? We are so afraid of not meeting the standards of attractiveness drip-fed to us via magazines and TV shows, that many of us abandon what makes us unique in order to try to attain an impossible ideal.

And it starts affecting children before they're even out of primary school. I've witnessed girls as young as 7, saying they "don't feel pretty enough." I've heard boys of 8 say they don't want to get undressed for PE in front of anyone because "I'm not as muscly as the others, I'm just fat." It's heartbreaking and it seems so easily avoidable if we just focus on real people and encouraging our children, friends and family members to embrace what makes them them, regardless of whether they conform to any stereotypes. After all, true beauty comes from within - isn't that one of the most important lessons we can teach our youngsters? Surely, by praising physical beauty to the point where we'll invent it (Julia Roberts is indeed a pretty woman - if you excuse the pun - did she need to be improved?!), we're ignoring the many more important factors worthy of praising a person for.

Look at that photo again. Julia Roberts is a woman in her 40's. She has three children. Nowhere on that picture can you see a wrinkle. Nowhere can you make out the tired eyes that go along with getting up in the night to see to your kids, or being woken up early during the school holidays. Yes, of course, she's a movie star and she may very well have an entire entourage of helpers, but by airbrushing away any tell-tale signs of age, the producers of the now infamous advert have also hidden any signs of life.

We are presented with an image of a person who conforms to society's ideal of perfection. Blemish-free skin, not a line on her face, no grey hairs, no dark circles... No humanity?

A person once said to me: "I can't wait to have wrinkles and grey hair. It'll show I've made it to old age, in spite of all the crap life has thrown at me so far." It was one of the most refreshing things I've heard in years. And it got me thinking...

I'm not perfect. My hair is unruly, my skin is plagued with eczema and the odd spot, I have a big, Greek nose, a tummy that will be nice and flat and toned one day and wobbly the next (I like cake, what can I say?!) and dimply thighs. I have lines around my mouth and beneath my eyes. I get dark circles. I can safely say that if society's view of beauty is anything to go by, I'm quite far away from winning any pageants. But should that define me? I'm also a passable writer, a good friend who enjoys making people laugh and I make a bloody good lasagne. Surely that's all much more important than whether or not my hair is glossy enough, or my teeth are white enough? After all, my big, Greek nose is a sign that I'm part Cypriot and reminds me of my late Paps, who was incredibly proud of his heritage. My tummy goes wobbly because I'm passionate about food and adore cooking. I have lines around my mouth from all the laughing I've done at comedy gigs, all the nights I've stayed up chatting with friends (they're probably responsible for the dark circles, too!) and the tears I've cried over lost loves. In other words, all of the things our beauty-obsessed media would view as "imperfections," are actually visual, permanent reminders of the things I've done so far in my life. The memories I've made and the lessons I've learnt.

Lets think for a second about all of those Hollywood films, in which the "ugly" girl becomes beautiful in order to ensnare her man, or win her dream job. Think about the "before" image. Stereotypically, she'll have had frizzy hair, glasses and a dowdy outfit. By the end of the film, she'll have discovered contact lenses, hair products and a whole new wardrobe. But what lesson does that teach young viewers? What about the girl of 13 or 14, watching that film, whose hair is unmanageable (I was that girl - NOTHING worked to tame my hair when I was that age), whose eyesight is so poor that contact lenses won't work and who doesn't have the cash to splurge on a row of cutesy little dresses. What are we teaching her? That only by changing the way she looks will she be successful? That to gain love and be truly happy, she has to become more socially acceptable?

I know you could quite easily argue that I'm taking these things far too seriously and that there's nothing wrong with a modern spin on the Cinderella tale, in which a girl is transformed. Indeed, there's a massive market for TV shows that do just that - you only have to glance at the schedules to see Gok's Fashion Fix and the like, offering to improve people. And if that makes them feel better about themselves, then who am I - and indeed who is anyone - to judge the people who go on those shows? In fact, I've watched it myself and said aloud: "I'd love to get Gok-ed."

But when we reach the point where we're airbrushing away the slightest flaw or imperfection, I do think we've gone too far. When I read that pictures of celebrities have been airbrushed to make them appear thinner, I wonder just how far our obsession with looks will go before someone puts their foot down and says "enough is enough."

After all, with children openly admitting that they feel fat or unattractive, we can surely no longer ignore the potential damage society's obsession with beauty is doing. When they turn on the television and see super-skinny popstars, with overdone make up, or when they go into shops and see magazines with airbrushed images plastered across the front pages, what message are they receiving?

Certainly not that it's okay to be who you are. Or that others may very well admire you because you do stand out from the crowd. Or even, crucially, that beauty alone may not bring happiness, because that has to come from within.

Lets give the children of the future a new message. Lets tell them to remember they ARE beautiful. No matter what's on the outside. And lets all lead by example.

Two weeks and counting...

I've always wanted to be a writer. It's one of the things I've dreamt about since I was a little girl with my hair in pigtails... Well, okay, when I was a little girl I had incredibly short, white blonde curly hair, the kind of which your Nan would be proud of and it didn't actually allow for the wearing of pigtails, but you get my point.

I used to dream that being a writer would entail carrying a notepad or laptop (we didn't have those when I was a little girl with hair that wouldn't tie up into pigtails) everywhere and sitting in fancy cake shops, ordering hot chocolate and cream buns, whilst watching the world go by and dreaming up exciting stories. Admittedly, the setting was probably more down to my enormous greed than romanticism, but it was a pretty picture all the same.

I'd fantasise about winning awards for my best-sellers and wonder which popstar I'd take to the ceremony as my date (the answer to that varies dramatically according to my age, but Mark Owen was always a safe bet). I'd picture myself sitting cosily on a sofa, being interviewed on any number of TV chat shows. Who knows, maybe some day I'd be given my own show. There was no limit to my dreaming.

I had visions of being courted by various publishing houses, each offering a bigger financial reward than the last. I'd become a household name. I'd live in a house big enough to have my own little office, in which I'd write manuscripts which would become instant hits. I'd live in a stress-free existence, fielding phone calls from radio and TV stations, selling the animation rights to my latest children's book and generally swanning about.

A small part of me is glad that that hasn't happened so far, because there's a very real chance I might have become a bit of an arse...

Still, in a fortnight, I'm leaving my job to become a full-time author. I've got a laptop, but I highly doubt I'll be casually sitting in a cake shop, stuffing my face and writing a best-seller. Why? Well, partly because my laptop is getting on a bit and the battery life probably wouldn't survive the trip. But mainly because I can't afford a cake. I can't afford a hot chocolate. It seems that amongst all of those big dreams I had, something rather important got a bit lost.

Being a writer is bloody hard.

Remember I mentioned all those big publishing houses, competing to pay me squillions? Yeah... I have a box filled with rejection letters, rather than cheques. "Thanks but no thanks" was the order of the day for more years than I care to remember. In fact, although the last thing I'm about to do is belittle my own achievement, it was really a chance encounter, a chance conversation and a case of knowing the right person with the right contacts that got me published in the first place. I'm not saying it wouldn't have happened one day anyway, but knowing an author whose publishing house was looking for new children's stories was less of a helping hand and more of a MASSIVE PUSH in the right direction.

Oh, and those lazy days, spent sitting in my cosy office, typing out manuscripts? Replace that image with one of a woman who still lives with her parents because she doesn't earn enough to even rent a place of her own and you'll be closer to the truth. Because, er, that is the truth. And at the moment, it's not manuscripts I'm writing. It's e-mails to schools, libraries, shops, newspapers, magazines... ANYONE who'll listen. "Buy my books, pleeeeeaaaaase! They're good - honest!"

Not that I'm knocking it. Far from it. There are millions of people out there who would love to have a book published. I was one of them this time last year. And the fact is, becoming a writer isn't a case of: Have a book published, then sit back and await your royalty cheque. It's a case of: Write a book, beg and plead for it to be published, beg and plead for local radio/newspapers to feature you, beg and plead shops to stock it, beg and plead people everywhere to buy the finished article and then try to find time to write a follow-up before your eyes fall out of your skull from the stress of all the begging and pleading.

Writing, like any job, takes hard work if you want to get to the top. I've just managed - after years of trying - to get my foot onto the first rung of the ladder. Ahead of me is one hell of a climb. Am I prepared for all the hard work? Yes. Am I stressed about paying my bills with literally no income once I leave my job in two weeks' time? Dear Lord yes. Do I sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing? Yes - I'd be crazy not to. But am I about to give up in the face of all of those stressy factors? Excuse me while I go all "street," click my fingers and say: "Heeeeell to the no."

You see, deep down, I'm still that little girl, dreaming of being a writer and fantasising about making it big. The only difference is that now I have the capacity to actually make it happen. Oh, and I can wear my hair in pigtails, too.

Wish me luck!

All Dogs Go To Heaven

There are moments in life that we never forget. Some - most, if we're lucky - are happy memories that we treasure long into our dotage. Others are less enjoyable. Sadly, on Tuesday 14th June at around 2:10pm, a memory was created that I would like to forget. For on that day, I said my last goodbye to one of the most loyal friends I've ever had.

They say a dog is man's best friend and you'll hear no argument from me on that front. Cal, my beautiful, dopey, affectionate cocker spaniel was certainly a best friend to this, er... woman. By the time he slipped away at the ripe old age of 16, we'd shared four houses together, grown into adulthood alongside one another and been on hundreds - possibly thousands - of walks. He had also patiently tolerated any number of "funny hats" being plonked onto his fluffy head and posed for more photos than you could shake (or should that be "fetch?") a stick at.

Cal, or to give him his full, faintly ridiculous kennel name, Callington St. Emma (told you), had the original "Sad Sam" look about him. The term "puppy eyes" could have been invented for this little bundle of fur. The eyes in question were big and black and would stare mournfully at you, reducing the toughest of men to whimpering boys. "Aaaaaaaw!" was the most common reaction when faced with this especially cute canine. His expression was one of almost perpetual woe, which I always found a little hilarious given that his temperament was, for the most part, that of a perky toddler. "He's so sad looking," people would tell me. And I'd laugh and tell them that he was, in fact, a cheeky scamp with a naughty sense of humour. I lost count of the number of times my parents and I came home from a day out to find that Cal had cunningly nudged the kitchen door open and trotted upstairs to lie leisurely out of view in my parents' bedroom. He'd greet us with a look of pure disdain, as though we'd stumbled upon his own personal haven. And then of course, once he realised he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have, we'd be treated to the full "puppy eyes" routine. It looked a bit like this:

Oh, such woe! Of course, I'd cave, smother him in cuddles and let him off. And then he'd return to much more important business, such as staring longingly at the fridge...

They say that a dog takes on aspects of his owner's personality and I think there's truth in that. I love being outside, I love my food and I'm an affectionate so and so. I'm also small, but rather feisty. Cal was all of those things and then some. Together, we made quite a team. It was a union I was proud to be a part of. The joy I would feel when a stranger would gasp in the street and tell me what a little cutie he was is a feeling I'll carry with me always. I was proud to have him in my life and I can only hope that he was proud to know me, too.

In his earlier life, Cal was a bundle of energy. He'd run through woods and across beaches, barking for us to follow. He'd chase me around the garden, tug on a chew toy and follow a football, all the while wagging his fluffy tail and seeming to smile, in spite of his Sad Sam looks. In the last year or so, he became a little slower. Less keen to run, but no less happy to play and be fussed. His jet black fur began turning grey and his bushy brown eyebrows started to fade. He became a little grumpier and liked his creature comforts. As the months passed, I changed my role from playmate to simply friend, taking time to stroke him, talk to him and, when he wanted to, walk with him.

He still had that cheeky sense of humour. He'd still stare longingly at the fridge, too. But I suppose if we're honest, we all knew that our time with him was, devastatingly, coming to an end.

I was with Cal when he fell asleep for the last time. I stroked his fur and told him, as I'd told him a million times before, that I loved him and always would. He died peacefully in his basket, with his blanket tucked behind him.

And so, last Tuesday, a memory was created that I would rather forget. But to focus on that memory would be to do a disservice to my little man. Cal was so much more than "just a dog." He had his own sense of fun, his own loyalty... He had an entire personality all of his own and together, we created hundreds of much happier memories, which I will treasure. He may not be around anymore, but the doleful expression that got him out of trouble, the cunning ways he'd manage to get out of having his fur brushed and the excited welcome home he always gave me will live on in my mind forever.

On Saturday, I had a paw print tattooed on my back, just below my right shoulder. It stands to remind me that somehow, Cal is always walking behind me. One day in the future, I may have another dog. Not because I want to replace Cal, because he was simply irreplaceable. But because the love he gave, the friendship we had and the many adventures we went on together have served to remind me of the intense bond a dog and an owner can have. It's something I'm not sure I can live the rest of my life without. The agony of losing a dog, as heartbreaking as it is, is made worthwhile by the many years of happiness they bring. Cal taught me more about love and loyalty than a lot of the humans I've met have and for that I'll always be grateful.

But for now, the kitchen is strangely quiet. There is a space where Cal's basket used to be, which may as well be a ninety foot chasm and there's nobody to feed the fatty scraps of meat from a Sunday roast to. We miss him, obviously. But we have so many memories as a result of his life with us.

Yes, there are some moments that we remember forever. Thanks to Cal, I have more of those happy memories than I can count.

Sleep tight, boy. xx

Blaaaaaah

There are many reasons why I've not written a blog in a while.

Firstly, I've been busy. This year has seen me have something that sort of resembles a social life. In a dark light. If you squint. I've become something of a dirty stop out and I'm away most weekends and seem to therefore be shattered during the week.

Secondly, I've been writing children's stories lately. Yes, yes, those who've known me a long time will know that's not a new thing. I've been writing them for years. The difference is, there's now a slight possibility that I might have something published next year, so it has taken priority over my ramblings and musings on here.

Thirdly... Well, I was going to say I couldn't be bothered, but that's not true. The truth is, I didn't know what to say. And I still don't.

It's not a lack of subject ideas. I could write a blog every day of the year - my head is brimming with things I want to write about. My mind is like a pan of boiling water, dangerously close to bubbling over. The trouble is, particularly in recent weeks, the things I've wanted - dare I say needed to talk about have been things so personal that I feel uncomfortable putting them out into the public domain.

And yes, I realise you can make these things private. But I've always liked the idea of people being able to stumble across my scribble and have a nose at it. Also, what my mind is screaming above all else, is: "AAAAARGH! LISTEN TO MEEEEEE!" I want people to know how I feel about things. But when you're talking about real life and real people... Suddenly it feels a bit too exposed. You start wondering: "Oh, but what if that person reads this and sends it to that person, who I don't really like, who's just nasty enough to ask them if they've read it and that'll open up a whole can of worms."

The trouble is, when you keep your feelings to yourself for too long, it's like trying to blow a bubble in a small box. The bubble starts to grow until it touches the sides. The bubble's so fine and delicate that it can't make the box burst, so the bubble has to burst instead, leaving the box empty. And that's the feeling you get inside. As though your own emotions have grown and grown until they can't be contained. You either have to explode yourself, or allow your internal "bubble" to burst, which leaves you feeling numb.

And how do you get past that?

I guess the only thing to do is to open that metaphorical box, piece by piece, until the bubble can escape and float away. Whether it's admitting to a feeling of inadequacy, confessing your true feelings for someone, or simply expressing anger that you've kept within for far too long, it's probably for the best to get things out in the open.

And yeah, I'm a scaredy cat. I'll admit that being unemployed for so long has made me feel useless. But I'm buggered if I'm expressing anger at someone, or confessing how I feel about anyone special to me in a blog post. Come on, we might be a generation of Twitterers and Facebookers, but some things have to be done in a less digital way, right?! But what I will say is this: Yesterday I went out with a friend for dinner and we confessed how we really feel about a few situations in our lives. How we feel about the people in our lives, how we're dealing with what life throws at us and what scares/motivates us. I went home feeling pretty liberated. Okay, I still have that bubble, but it shrank a little, just by confessing - even to myself - what has caused it to grow in the first place.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, even if it's just a bit too scary to tell the world what's going on in your head, sometimes it makes a lot of sense to think it through yourself, until you know how you feel and why. And then when you really know what's making you tick, you can decide what the heck to do about it all.

That's the theory, anyway. I think it's a bit of a work in progress. ;)

I Think I Might Be Getting There!

This morning I looked into the mirror and realised something. I appear - and I realise this may sound weird - to have grown into my face. I didn't look at myself and think: "Eurgh." And believe me, that in itself is massive progress! I looked at myself and thought: "Yeah, that's me. This face sort of suits me in a funny old way."

It's not just my face, either. I've done a lot of soul-searching in the last few weeks. For one reason or another, I've been thinking about just who I am and why I am that way. What makes me tick, for want of a better expression.

I've always been quite self-analytical. I've always been able to pinpoint events from my past and use them to explain my subsequent development. I'm self-aware, but not self-obsessed, so I don't always take the time to appreciate my good qualities. Yesterday, however, I had a text message from one of my dearest (in fact, if I'm honest, one of my absolute best) friends. She had felt the need to list all the things she liked about me, to let me know why she views me as such a good friend. It came at a time when I really needed to hear that from someone, so it meant a great deal to me. Now, I'm not arrogant enough to repeat the text here, but I am becoming self-confident enough to admit that I agreed with most of it.

Why should we doubt who we are, after all? Why should we focus on our negative attributes and analyse every bad thing we've ever said or done? Obviously we need to learn from our mistakes. We need to know what our flaws are and try to work on them and we need to appreciate that there are all kinds of people living alongside us on this big old rock we inhabit and accept their differing views and opinions and treat them with respect. But that respect is a two-way street and self-respect is vital to anyone's survival.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that for the first time in years, I am truly, genuinely happy with who I am. There's no need for me to wish I didn't do this, that or the other. My flaws are as much a part of me as that lovely list of good points my friend sent me yesterday - they make me who I am. I just have to continue being aware of what those flaws are and not let them define me. I've always said that the people closest to you will always love and respect you the way you are and I still think it's true, but I also think that to gain that, you have to understand yourself and accept yourself just the way you are. And I'm thrilled to have reached a point - at long last - where I do understand what makes me tick. I do know what my good points are and what my bad points are.

I wanted to write this down so when I next have a little wobble and feel a bit low on self-confidence, I can look back and think: "Nope. No moping; you are, to quote another amazing person: "A fuckin' badass" and to hell with anyone who thinks otherwise."

So go on, everyone: Look at yourself honestly. Find your own flaws and work out how to deal with them. Accept yourself for who you are and believe in your good points. If it makes you feel half as good as I do right now, it'll be well worth it! :D

Oh, for the love of God...

Some people are religious. Some people are atheists. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could leave it at that and all live happily ever after?

Sadly, we don't live in a John Lennon song and if there's one thing that has become blatantly obvious in the wake of the Pope's visit to the UK, it's that extreme atheism and extreme religious views are just as irritating as each other.

Before I go any further, let me clarify my situation: I am not massively religious. I do believe in something, but the older I get, the more confused I become about what that actually is. I believe - largely - in life after death. I do not believe that the world was created in seven days. I am what I like to refer to as a "spiritual agnostic." I have a sense of faith and I very much identify with some of the messages of love, forgiveness and respect that are associated with the Christian faith. I do not identify with any of the homophobic, narrow-minded and ultimately offensive views of some Christians. I do respect every individual's right to believe in whatever they choose, but I do not support inflammatory hate against any section of society and I do not accept the institutionalised cover up of paedophilia within the church. So that's me: Sitting somewhat awkwardly in the middle between mild Christianity, whilst despairing of some extremist views put forward in its name and agnosticism with a dash of spiritualism thrown in for good measure.

So why am I writing this? Why do I feel the need to set up camp so firmly in the middle, distancing myself from either extreme?

Because, as I said, both extremes have shown themselves in something of a poor light recently. Now before I get complaints, that's not me bashing Christianity. I said extremes, after all. It's the extremists - both religious and atheist - that I have a bit of an issue with.

If someone finds strength in a belief in God, who am I to take that away from them? Indeed, who is anyone to take that from them? If a belief in the afterlife offers someone a crumb of comfort in the dark days after losing a loved one, why should anyone have the right to mock them for that belief?

I know many Christians. I have Catholic friends, I have Protestant friends and I have friends who, like myself, like some of the more loving and compassionate lessons within the bible (do unto others as you would have done unto you etc) and try to live by them, without taking everything in the book literally or referring to themselves as necessarily "religious." I also have friends who belong to all sorts of other religions, but in the context of this blog, I'm sticking with Christianity for now.

What angers me and what I'm sure angers the atheists, is the fact that the very same book that preaches love and tolerance is then used to preach hatred towards certain sections of society and to justify the unjustifiable. When the same people who speak of "loving thy neighbour" discover that said neighbour is gay, suddenly there's a seismic shift in their attitude. "Well, only God can judge them," they tell us, whilst blatantly judging them themselves. And lets ask ourselves why? Because a book that was written thousands of years ago in a world entirely different to one we live in now says so? Yes, I appreciate that the hardcore religious believe that the bible is the word of God and that if he says being gay is sinful, they're going to go right ahead and take that at face value. But doesn't it fly in the face of the messages of love the bible preaches? The lessons of tolerance? Judge not, lest ye be judged? You have to ask yourself: If the bible is the word of God, why does he contradict himself so much?

As for the systematic cover-up of paedophilia within the church... Children everywhere have the right to feel safe and to be protected. To shelter a priest who has taken away that safety, who has destroyed the innocence of a youngster, is surely sinful in itself? To err is human, to forgive divine, but... Well, an eye for an eye and all that. No matter how high up a person is within the church, abuse is still abuse and should be punished. The fact that priests have been moved to new parishes and allowed to continue working rather than ever having to face up to their crimes is indeed sickening and I shared in the anger that many felt during the pope's visit, for this and many other reasons.

But to shroud every person who identifies his or herself as a Christian with the same anger is unfair. I know plenty of Christians up in arms about the idea of children being abused and the perpetrators being allowed to effectively get away with it. I know Christians who use condoms, because they're intelligent enough to know that they don't cause AIDS (dearie me, for someone so revered the pope's a bit thick). And I have Christian friends who truly do believe in the phrase "live and let live" when it comes to people of all sexualities. And yet these people - my friends - are constantly lumped into the same category by extreme atheists who can't seem to grasp the idea that not all Christians are "brainwashed." People are born with free will and can believe whatever they want to believe.

Which leads me on to the other side of the coin. I truly believe that extreme atheism - and I mean extreme, not just those who casually say "I don't really believe in God" - can be just as harmful as religious extremism.

There are those who are so intent on proving the non-existence of God that it begins to come across less as scientific interest and more as some kind of holier than thou (no pun intended!) example of higher intelligence. Their own, rather than that of a deity. If I had to take a guess, I'd say that the majority of free-thinking people in this country believe in evolution. I know I do. I'd also say that the majority of free-thinking people in this country believe in scientific discoveries rather than miracles. But does that mean we have to rule out the idea of spiritualism? Does it mean we have to mock those who choose to believe in God, or in the afterlife?

In the wake of the pope's visit, the internet has been littered with Richard Dawkins quotes, anti-religious statements and some quite insulting opinions, tarring all Christians with the same, homophobic, paedophilic brush. Forums, Twitter, Facebook, MySpace (I assume someone out there still uses MySpace, right? I don't, but someone must...), Bebo... It's all there. Spat out in anger: "THERE IS NO FUCKING GOD, HOW STUPID ARE THESE PEOPLE?!"

In the case of covered-up child abuse, ignorance towards contraception and sexual freedom, or homophobia of the worst kind, that anger is justified. But far too often, these people are shouting at all Christians. If you believe in God, they think you're an idiot. "LOOK, THE SCIENCE PROVES HE DOESN'T EXIST!"

In fairness, proving God does exist is harder than finding a photo of Jordan in which she looks like a nice, natural woman. It's fairly impossible if you don't already have a little faith and are therefore prepared to take something a little less than concrete. But does quoting scientists and denouncing all believers in this manner make you any better? An extreme atheist would argue that it shows a higher level of intelligence. I would argue that for all the academic intelligence in the world, it shows a distinct lack of emotional intelligence.

If a person wants to pray before bedtime, let them. If a person wants to go to church, let them. If you encounter a person with such extreme religious views that you find yourself enraged or offended, by all means tackle them with reasonable debate. But don't assume that all Christians hold the same views. All hardcore Christians might. But many are open-minded, understanding and tolerant. Just as many atheists are non-judgemental, accepting and placid. You can choose not to believe in God and simply go about your life, meeting others and treating them fairly, just as you can choose to become a religious believer and do exactly the same.

Why must we take everything to the extreme? Why must we stand so massively opposed? It's possible to sit in the middle. To take the good from religion - the lessons on love and supporting your fellow human - and ignore the bad. It's possible to understand and respect the work of the world's best scientists without thinking it somehow qualifies you to judge religious people unfairly. To be open minded and accept that we actually don't have all the answers, but that people are free to be who they are and believe what they want. We don't have to agree. We simply have to live alongside each other for the brief snatch of time that we inhabit this planet for. It's possible to live and let live. To be neither religious or critical of those who are.

It's possible to be a "spiritual agnostic." I should know. I am one.

"Together, There Is Nothing We Cannot Do."

The title of this blog comes from a speech Audrey Hepburn gave in her role as an ambassador for UNICEF, back in June 1989. I love it not only because it's a very simple, yet effective way of reminding people that the problems of the world (starvation, war, disease...) are not only the problems of those who suffer them directly (and that we should all play our part in helping one another), but because, at the heart of that quote, is a belief in love and togetherness that personified Audrey even more than any glamorous image ever could.

Audrey Hepburn is, it's fair to say, an idol to millions. A film icon. A fashion Goddess. A timeless beauty. But it's not simply those things that still appeal to her many admirers long after her death in 1993 (at the age of 63). Audrey didn't simply look good.

In an age of Hollywood beauties, such as Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield, she stuck out like a sore thumb with her dark hair (as opposed to being a blonde bombshell like the two aforementioned starlets), her tiny frame and her soft, European accent. Whilst Hollywood divas made ludicrous demands on set and got caught up in a glittering, superstar lifestyle, Audrey maintained a quiet aura of grace, preferring a quiet life at home with those who meant the most to her. In March 1988, she told the press: "I had to make a choice at one point in my life, of missing films or missing my children. It was a very easy decision to make, because I missed my children so very much. When my elder son started going to school, I could not take him with me anymore and that was tough for me, so I stopped accepting pictures. I withdrew to stay at home with my children. I was very happy. It's not as if I was sitting at home, frustrated, biting my nails! Like all mothers, I'm crazy about my two boys."

The desire to shun the limelight, to be with her children rather than make more films, is something all too unheard of in today's fame-hungry society. And not only did Audrey have no intention of putting her career before her children, she also had very little ego. In spite of the fact that at the height of her fame, she was widely regarded as one of the world's most beautiful women, she would dismiss herself as "awkward" or "funny-looking." She didn't have the hourglass figure of Monroe or Mansfield, that's for sure. One of my favourite stories involves her arriving on set, only for the director to look at her breasts and declare: "I think you ought to wear some falsies..." Only for Audrey to reply: "I AM!"

She never thought of herself as better than anyone else, or even prettier than anyone else. There was simply no ego, there. This is a woman who appeared in major Hollywood films such as Breakfast At Tiffany's or My Fair Lady and went home to hold proper, old-fashioned birthday parties for her two sons, making their cakes and their fancy dress costumes herself, rather than ordering them in from some posh boutique. The stereotypical image of Audrey Hepburn may be one of a glamour-puss, oozing class and sophistication, but lets not forget that this was a woman who cherished the role of "mum" more than any film role she ever played.

Audrey wasn't a woman afraid of getting her hands dirty. From the late 80's onwards, she worked as an ambassador for UNICEF, travelling to places such as Somalia and Ethiopia, walking amongst the poor and the starving, feeding desperately ill children and offering comfort to the adults she met. It wasn't a position she took lightly. Audrey made speeches to the united nations and, on her trips to Africa, she rolled up her sleeves and became just another volunteer, with the needs and wants of the hungry children she met becoming her main priority. Even when she began suffering with stomach pains (which would later be diagnosed as due to the cancer that would kill her), she continued to campaign for UNICEF as hard as she could. Here was a woman who had suffered famine and sadness in her own past - now all she wanted was to use her own good fortune to help others.

I don't have the time, the space or the skill with words to do justice to Audrey's memory in one blog. All I can say is that, should you wish to learn more about her, there are plenty of books and websites devoted to her and of course, a legacy of films to enjoy. But it's worth remembering that the Hollywood image is only one side of the woman. A woman who once said: "I was born with an enormous need for affection and a terrible need to give it" - words which I very much identify with, myself. A woman who knew how to make herself look glamorous and fashionable, but who, in reality, looked just as beautiful in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. A woman who looked into the world and saw the true beauty - not only of mountains or flowers, but of people and the amazing things that they're capable of. Again, something I indentify with. A woman who believed that love could fix anything.

She wasn't just a filmstar or a fashion icon. She was an incredible, sensitive, truly beautiful woman - inside and out. I've not really done her justice at all in this blog, but I wanted to pay my own little tribute to a woman I've admired for all of my adult life and will continue to admire until my dying die. As corny as it sounds, she'll always be my fair lady.

I'll never look like Audrey Hepburn, much as I may sometimes buy a dress or a skirt with an excited squeal of: "Ooh, it's SO Audrey!" But if I can live my life with the same level of grace and of compassion for others, then I'll be doing okay.