When I get to the hindsight stage of this post I will no doubt reflect that I should have stuck to my original text which was moaning and complaining about the creative embers* in my head.
(* for reference these are created when the brain goes into a bit of a panic about an unused or unnoticed creative spark and pours creative juices over it leaving a smoldering, confused ember in its stead. The brain is an amazing organ but it’s a stickler for health and safety when there’s the chance of a naked flame.)
Too late now. I’m going in another direction.
Somewhere in between the cooking channels on satellite television there is a vacuum.
I know because I just saw it.
Picture the scene if you will. A husband and wife have just finished supper. Hubby is debating going off to do some writing, wifey is flicking through channels and then there…there somewhere between UK Masterchef, UK Celebrity Masterchef, Australian Masterchef, Chopped Vanuatu, Iron Chef Kyrgyzstan and Diners Drive-Ins and Dives (Tibetan Special)…we find the void known as I Am Cait.
I could bang on for hours about my seething hatred of all things Kardashian associated but tempus is busy fugiting so I’ll save that for another day.
The only man on reality TV who made Ozzy Osbourne seem focussed and in control is now Cait.
I read somewhere that she received the Arthur Ashe award for courage. Perhaps I’m all bitter and twisted but after watching a show yesterday evening where an ex-serviceman in the UK was designing a house to rebuild his life with his family after being blown up and losing three limbs in Helmand Province, the idea of a fantastically rich former athlete and full-time media hogger being given an award for bravery because she is embracing her true gender under the same media glare that she invited into her home in the first place makes a small bit of vomit come up into my mouth.
I have no concept of how difficult it must be to feel trapped in the wrong body but I do have admiration and respect for those who are brave enough to face up to the torment, stigma and ridicule that they must continually face without the safety net of a multi-million dollar television deal.
The ninety seconds or so that I watched further convinced me of my complete and utter lack of knowledge or frame of reference in these matters. A lady named Blossom stated that “Whenever anyone looks at us their first thought is ‘is she a prostitute‘?”
Not me Blossom.
The first thought in my mind was ‘has she really had her man-bits removed?’
On the assumption that’s a yes my follow up is ‘does she keep them in a box somewhere just for…well…I don’t know?‘
I’m probably going to hell but it really, truly is what I thought.
Hold on…before you bring your pitchforks just remember that saying this out loud (or at least writing it down) with the threat of utter damnation took some bravery. By my very typing I might be confined to an eternity of being forced to wear an England rugby jersey while watching Riverdance being performed over a soundtrack of Mariah Carey songs.
That takes courage.
I’d better work on my acceptance speech for next year.