Lolita - 'thank heaven for little girls...'

Nobody has even suggested that this is an easy topic for a blog. There are so many current issues with child exploitation in the news.  It seems that most days, there are items about child sex abuse, grooming gangs or sex slavery. This is my country and I am right to be appalled. Unfortunately I have to say that although I am shocked at the frequency and number of these dreadful crimes - they are nothing new. I was first aware of the sexual exploitation of under-aged girls in Blackpool in the early 1970's. It was illegal then too.

Although the age of consent was sixteen in the 1970's there was still an innocence about under age sex. Our parents were unaware that through the coffee bar culture, school girls and older men came into un-chaperoned contact. Men in expensive cars often waited outside school gates for young, nubile girls. We knew who they were: Men who liked 'schoolies'.  The large influx of draft-dogging Italians in seaside towns in the 1970s added to the problem. Italian mommas kept tight reign on their daughters. British girls were the obvious choice for a charming, handsome, foreigner or a man whose faith encouraged him to exploit easier options.  I don't recall any prosecutions or news items.

When I was younger, I loved to watch musicals. My love of dance and romantic nature was nurtured by a father and Grandmother who were both very musical. I always wanted to dance with a boy, like Fred did with Ginger. I knew the words to every song in every musical by the time I was 6. Dad bought L.P's. My favourite film was Gigi.

Hang on a moment! Gigi was a film with a strange theme. A handsome man visits Gigi's mother regularly ... a character who is never seen ...but we are led to believe that she is an opera singer. The man then starts to be interested in Gigi, who is blossoming into a beautiful young woman. She tempts him, he succumbs, then he rejects her a 'just one of those things'. My favourite song from the show, 'Thank Heaven for Little Girls' sung by the ageing Maurice Chevalier was blatantly extolling their appeal to older men. Five years later, I would have recognised the character as someone my older sister would refer to as a 'dirty old man.'

With a reasonably long career in dance, I have met many men who willingly exploit young girls. I know women whose careers have stalled simply because they wouldn't sleep with a particular promoter. I was fortunate enough to lack the looks but to have both the talent and the brains to steer clear of them. I could tell some tales and spill a few beans. Often the young women involved were only too willing to dress up, daub on the make up and lead men on. There is no justification for under aged sexual exploitation. When my daughter was growing up, I had no illusions - I was a young girl once ...

The Gentleman

You were twenty-two and everything I dreamed,

Tall, dark and handsome,
In your uniform:
Charm and sophistication,
Bursting from the seams.

I was thirteen, articulate and agile,

Much older than my years
In my uniform:
Blossoming into woman-hood,
Brazenly, flirting with my eyes.

And when unexpectedly alone,

I called you - and you came to me,
Misreading my intentions:
Protective like a brother,
I wanted you as lover.

I didn’t feel the slightest shame,

I longed for your embrace,
I would have ruined your career,
And possibly my life
but you would not have been to blame.

An officer and gentleman,

You resisted my advances,
Put me firmly in my place,
It broke my heart when I saw anger
Sweep across your gentle face.

I waited all my teenage years

Ached for your return,
If you had said you wanted me
I would abandon everything,
I would have sailed the seven seas.

You were my very first love,  

I’ll always hold you in my heart,
I wait. I dream. I long for you,
If you should ever feel the same,
I haven’t changed my name.

Thanks for reading.  Adele

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Anxiety and Me

At four I push myself to the middle of a privet bush.

At five I stand frozen at the edge of the swimming pool.

At seven I lock the car door at traffic lights, and unlock it when we're moving.

At nine I start biting my fingernails.

At ten I never put my hand up.

At twelve I press my forehead against a radiator and pretend to be ill.

At thirteen I run.

At fourteen I write my mind into a diary.

At fifteen I fracture into a thousand pieces.

At sixteen I fail my English oral exam.

At seventeen I faint.

At eighteen I feel like I'm drowning on dry land.

At nineteen I try a cigarette for the first time.

At twenty-one I sit in the dark.

At twenty-three I start biting my fingernails again.

At twenty-four I f**k up my first year exams and forget how to spell 'literature'.

At twenty-five I listen to Simon and Garfunkel's I Am a Rock on repeat.

At twenty-six I look at an unopened envelope for over three hours.

At twenty-seven I feel like an ant in a wind-tunnel.

At twenty-eight I grind my teeth while I sleep.

At twenty-nine I cut myself off from the world.

At thirty I start smoking again.

Thank you for reading, 

Lara

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What I Remember About Friendship...

I thought I’d use this post as an opportunity to just write everything that came to mind when I thought about ‘Friendship’; a kind of word association game that starts in childhood and stretches back into the present. I like writing little pieces of writing like this. I like the unexpected that you find within your own mind. I like the possibilities that can sometimes be found; even a potential poem can be lurking within one of your forgotten memories. So I guess that today’s post is more exercise than writing (but hopefully there is a poem just waiting to be written into existence in the near future).

I remember the paddling pool in your garden. An August afternoon of giggles and freedom. The perfect blonde curls that I wished were mine. I remember cutting my foot, and your mum mending it with a plaster. The strawberry patch, buzzing with sweetness.

I remember the peanut fight that broke out on my 8^th birthday between two friends. Crying when the cake was cut. Crying when I had to share it.

I remember leaving my friends behind.

I remember having to make new ones – in a new school, in a new town.

I remember friendship bracelets. Falling out, taking sides. I remember sleepovers. Back garden camping. Cow pat cakes. I remember locking you in the shed. Barking like a wild dog. Apologising. Laughing. I remember starting upper school. Being scared together.

I remember climbing trees. Making dens. I remember trying to fit in. Copying. Matching. Growing up.

I remember liking the same boy, creating code names. Secrets. Cross my heart ‘til I die. I remember promises, daisy chains and cans of Lilt. Penny sweets. Bliss magazine. Problem pages. I remember dreaming. Believing. Taking different paths.  

I remember saying goodbye. Hurting. Writing. Departure boards. Visiting hours. I remember the fold-in-half feeling of guilt and your look of shock.

I remember being lonely. Trusting you. Lying. Forgiving. I remember Saturdays, Sainsbury’s and Girl, Interrupted. Onion rings. Pasta. Pesto. Tears. I remember Christmas ’04 and my 18^th birthday card. I remember smoking. Being sick. Being dizzy. Roller coasters. The face on the Pringle’s can. Ouija boards. Earthquakes and cockroaches. I remember art galleries, love and long conversations. Paulo Coelho, Cindy Sherman and Camden Town  

I remember ducks drowning. Broken wings. Police. Your purse. An abandoned hamster. Newspapers. I remember giving up, curling up, wishing. The brightest star. Escaping, walking, The Peak District. Bats and torches. I remember my trainers being left outside the tent. Writing. Waiting Learning.

I remember English, ghosts, mountains and fear. Welsh dragons and Starbucks. Musicals, asylums and perfection. I remember looking in a mirror. Jumping forward 15 years. Poetry. Barista. I remember picnics, vegan cheesecake, tartlets and running water. I remember falling in love.

Thank you for reading,

Lar   

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