When my daughter Ruby was small, she was permanently attached to a small toy dinosaur that we christened Derek. Derek was born in Ikea, but with Ruby he travelled the globe.
He went with her to the toilet. He went with her to Sainsbury’s. And he went with her to visit Granny and Grandad in Belfast. We all loved Derek, but Ruby’s love for him bordered on obsession. This was fine when we had him with us - it was not fine when we realised we’d left him behind.
In an age of progress and increasing gender equality, one movement might strike us as profoundly counter-cultural: Trad Wives. It’s a modern movement that claims to go back to basics - but does it go back far enough?
There’s a popular video on social media that perhaps you’ve seen. A woman is given the following scenario by a presenter: 'Imagine we’re in a race. I’m coming second and you pass me. What place are you in?'
I’ve always had a sneaking fondness for horror films. Growing up, my favourites were the old-school ones with dodgy prosthetics, creaking doors, flickering candles, and Indian burial grounds.
There was something cathartic about watching scary things happening to other people, knowing you were safe in your room… or were you? (Hollow laughter echoes). Plus you felt secure knowing that you were smarter than the idiots investigating the creepy noises, in the cellar, by themselves, in their underwear.
'That’s not my God'
When my daughter Ruby was small, she was permanently attached to a small toy dinosaur that we christened Derek. Derek was born in Ikea, but with Ruby he travelled the globe.
He went with her to the toilet. He went with her to Sainsbury’s. And he went with her to visit Granny and Grandad in Belfast. We all loved Derek, but Ruby’s love for him bordered on obsession. This was fine when we had him with us - it was not fine when we realised we’d left him behind.