…there was confusion. It’s all rather…different. As you can see, I’m pretty new to this. But I felt, you know, that it was about time I got a decent blog.

And the fact that I have 3 essays to write has absolutely nothing to do with it. Honest.

Not really sure right now what I’ll use this space for. Some of my writing/rants, perhaps, to see whether my creative writing friends are actually just…well…being kind. Or…well, we’ll see. Right now I just want to get it up and running! And see what this wondermachine of keys and screens and whatnot can do.

Here, have a picture. On the house =] It be from the oh-so-amazing http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

To be, not to seem

I’m going now. But I leave you with this tale: There was once a woman who was a nurse. She cared for her patients well, and was fierce in her loyalty and proud of her ability. She was a good role model for women the world around, and she became known as The Lady with the Hammer. For, one day when she was denied access to a store of medicines, she broke down the door with a hammer. She was undaunted by the supposed ‘natural dominance’ of men, defied all orders in order to help those in pain. She was a true inspiration. And now, all because of the belief of a journalist, she is remembered by a lesser name. Because a lady with a hammer is, to say the least, not lady like. You know of her, of course. Many of us do. For she is Florence Nightingale, the ‘lady with the lamp’, and she was, according to The Times, a ‘ministering angel’ without any exaggeration in these hospitals, and as her slender form glides quietly along each corridor, every poor fellow’s face softens with gratitude at the sight of her. When all the medical officers have retired for the night and silence and darkness have settled down upon those miles of prostrate sick, she may be observed alone, with a little lamp in her hand, making her solitary rounds.. Who would know, from such a description, of her passion and drive? Who would know of her determination, her willingness to raise a hammer to a door in order to help others?

Although I suppose, as the writer in The Times no doubt knew, the real question is: who would care? Who would accept a woman that displayed such masculine tendencies? Would she be remembered, as she is today, if the truth were widely known?

And on that note – adieu.

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