Words for Equality

Please consider this a working document and refer back for updates, corrections and new entries.


Discrimination against disabled people. Or, sometimes, it’s even just excluding or not considering the needs of people who aren’t able-bodied.


Someone who fights alongside others for equality.


Black, Asian, minority ethnic. British use


A movement that encourages and celebrates coming to terms with your body. Anti-diet culture. Similar to body-positivity.


Straight people who identify as the gender they were born as.


A word that criticises the type of feminism that only identifies or celebrates the achievements and struggles of being a cis woman (often white)

Different from TERFs (trans-exclusionary radical feminists) whose excluding of the trans experience is deliberate.

Further information: follow the articulate and irrefutable Rebel Lou

T-shirt from Ruby Rebellion

Intersectional Feminism

A type of feminism that considers how inequality affects different women- for instance, a white middle class women has different experiences than a white working class woman.

From Instagram

Male Gaze

The notion that most media is produced for the male view- especially pornography, adverts and films. The portrayal of things through a straight male perspective -often represents women as objects of sexual pleasure.

T-shirt from Black and Beech


The hatred and/or persecution of black women- different from misogyny and needs its own word because black women receive disproportionate amounts of online abuse, for example.


The hatred of women.


The system when men have disproportionate amounts of power- feminism is the tool we use to fight it.

From thefword.org.uk

Period poverty

A lack of access to sanitary products due to finances.

Person of Colour/Color

A person who is non-white or non-European parentage.


An advantage afforded to particular group- wealthy or white for example. A sign you have privilege is if you’ve never noticed you have it- tricky! It’s about seeing yourself represented everywhere (from TV to ‘flesh-coloured’ underwear) and never (or rarely) having to adapt your behaviour because of your race.

Further reading: Here

Reverse Racism

Doesn’t exist. You can have reverse prejudices but racism is a system across history and society with roots all the way back to colonialism. That is a system that benefits white people all the time so a fleeting moment of prejudice is not the same.

Further reading: Gal-dem Magazine

White Fragility

White people’s defensiveness in response to conversations about race.

Further information: Watch Stand for Humanity Stories on Insta but be mindful of her house rules.

White Saviour Complex

The trope in films and TV that white people can ‘save’ non-white characters and ‘learn’ something about themselves along the way. For example, the film Freedom Writers.

In charity, it can be when white ‘storytellers’ are used to narrate or ‘investigate’ poverty and identify ways that they can help. For example, Comic Relief.

For further information, please follow Stand for Humanity but watch her house rules first.

From The Guardian: Comic Relief


Politically aware and informed- especially in relation to injustices such as inequality.

Holding On

Did the school run today.

Just me and W.

We stepped out in to Storm Gareth.

Held hands to cross the road.

He forgot to let go on the other side.

And held my hands the whole way there.

He wanted to know about bungalows.

And why old people don’t just eat yoghurt

To fix their feeble bones.

He told me about the weather.

And how thunderstorms mean he can come home early from school.

He asked how long til the holidays.

And asked me why I love him so much.

When we reached the school gates

He dropped my hand

And had the kindness

To pretend it was to adjust his coat.

Without looking up he delivered the blow

‘Bye then, mum. I can take it from here’.

February Favourites


I’m assuming everyone stress-buys make up at the supermarket so next time you’re sweating in aisle nine, grab this Rimmel 60 Second beauty- it’s called Lovey Dovey.


Two things I have bought that give me tummy-flips of joy when I wear them/think about them are

This boilersuit of dreams which was £17.99 from H&M. Sold out online but still in shops.

I have a pic of me in it but I’m doing a handstand and wearing Virginia Woolf socks.

Not really showcasing the outfit…

Can’t justify any more jumpsuits but if I could, I would want this H&M beauty:

I have also bought this FABULOUS dress from Zara. I’m off to Spain soon so I’ll blend right it I’m sure

The model looks v glum but perhaps she hasn’t yet realised it’s GOT POCKETS!?


I have just discovered Trinny Woodall (from Trinny and Susanna) on Insta and I can.not.stop.watching.


MAC lipsticks are life. This beaut is Dubonnet and lasts ages which is shame when you’ve applied it as badly as I have in this pic.

Still obsessed with my Do No Harm/ Take No Shit necklace from Black and Beech. It gives me power.

I haven’t any books to recommend as I’ve been rereading Lee Child’s back catalogue and moping about having nothing to read despite a mega pile of unread books next to my bed.

Have also had an excellent run of podcasts of late but will write about them and the lessons I’ve been learning in another post.

New Name. New Study.

Spring has sprung, the bird has riz, at my new office, let’s have a squiz.*

*clearly the investment was worth it- that kind of creative genius doesn’t come cheap.

Plants and cabinet are Ikea. Excellent light up skull was from Lidl Halloween range. The plants on the Ikea wicker placemat are real and I have kept them alive since before Christmas. Brag.

Desk. Fake cheese plant. Real still-alive plant. Lamp. Chair. Spice racks. Boxes. All Ikea.

Left-hand print was a hashtag gift from my in-laws who bought it from Stratford-upon-Avon theatre. Right-hand painting is by my great grandpa and one of my most treasured possessions. Bullet journal by bullet journal if you’re thinking you need a new system to get organised with. Goal Digger mug by Coco Roses Apparel and hot chocolate is the Honeycomb flavour by Options and delicious.

Far left plant from Primark, right hand plant Ikea in a jug from Wymondham StarThrowers charity shop. Rainbow print by up and coming artist, William Oliver, botanical prints by the talented Brie Harrison. Paston Treasure print from Norwich castle shop. Drawers by Ikea. Squillion Lego pieces concealed in drawers by indulgent grandparents.

The Timeline of an Ill Child


Collect from nursery.

‘They’ve been a bit clingy today: needed lots of cuddles’



Rejects bedtime snack. Concern level flickers.


Child sweats during bedtime story. Child falls asleep huffing clammy metallic breath.


Nonchalantly ask about partner’s work day: ‘Got much on tomorrow? Busy?’


Pause Luther because you thought you heard footsteps upstairs. Is it a child…or a murderer?


Child. It’s a child. Sweating though their pyjamas and swaying on the top step.


Projectile vomit.


False hope: ‘it’s probably just because they’re tired- just an emotional vom. It’ll be fine’


Wretching in to the family sick bowl.


Calpol dispensing.


Calpol resurfacing.


Realisation dawns. Child cannot go to nursery tomorrow. Cue whispered hissings: I’ve got a full day tomorrow. Can’t you stay off? What about I do the morning then you come home at lunch?


Child lays sweatily on someone’s lap and Luther goes back on. No one is really watching. One of you is mentally recalculating their work day.


Ill child is asleep. Nominated parent carries child upstairs whilst other lays down towels,Calpol, glasses of water and plumps cushions and beggars off to the spare room.

Twenty five minute intervals throughout night

Wake. Sit bolt up right. Feel child’s forehead. Uncover hot child.

Wake. Sit bolt up right. Feel child’s cold limbs. Cover child.



Child wakes sunny shiny and full of chat. Expect a debrief with any sibling or person present: ‘I be sick ALL night. I could see my raisins in it!’

Realise child is in rude good health but can’t in all good conscience send child to nursery…can you?…no…no, of course not.


Watch CBeebies with ‘ill’ child whilst checking work emails and feeling guilty about not being there.


Sibling returns from school looking pasty. Feign sympathy and swallow a sick burp.

Fair play, respect and Bourbon biscuits to the parents doing sick days solo. May your immune systems be strong.

Under the Spell of St Paul’s Cathedral

It was William’s seventh birthday. He wanted a tour of St Paul’s Cathedral for his present. He’d learnt about it during a school project. He has the pop up book, the architecture dot to dot and the dates, names and details committed to memory. Farriner. Pepys. Wren. Parmesan cheese. Pudding Lane.

The morning was bright and fresh and clear and the seats at the top of the bus gave us a panoramic view of his favourite city.

We tipped out of the bus alongside the tourists and sightseers and as we rounded the corner St Paul’s rose in to view.

William’s face was luminous and solemn: like Christmas morning when he saw his stocking had been filled.

With his grandma and younger brother banished to the Museum or London, the rest of us regally climbed the steps up and in.

It is phenomenally beautiful. Breath-taking. Awe-inspiring. Vast. Everything you can imagine it to be.

It was still early and quiet so we went straight to the Whispering Gallery. Up and up the twisting staircase and out in to a great circle. We split up and sat at opposite sides and whispered sounds between us that rang like echoes in a seashell.

Higher and higher we climbed- electric with excitement. Up and up in single file – the adults following in the wake of William’s tense joy and out in to a storm of wind and sunshine on white stone.

And up again! Pushing through narrow staircases and trilling up spiral ones. Past cogs and cables and vast wooden beams as we slipped under the skin of the dome until we reached the top.

There’s Monument! Knock it down and it’ll land where the Great Fire started! There’s Tower Bridge! There’s the Cheese Grater and the Gherkin! And London Bridge where heads were displayed on spikes!Look! The whole vast city that you can adventure in or study in or eat delicious food in amidst your bright bright future.

And all of a sudden, the birthday blues hit. Right there at the top. A melancholy descended. That familiar rock in the stomach. Is it over? Is that it?

Did you know that the body of Christopher Wren is in the crypt here?

Down down down we flew!

We stopped in the cathedral alter and lay on our backs in the middle of a semi circle of tourist and worshippers. We lay on the cold brass and looked up to where we’d been- past the angels, the gilded cupids, through the whispers and up in to the shadow of the gold cross.

Then we went down to the crypt.

We saw Nelson’s monument, we bought and wrote a postcard. We drank delicious coffee. We marvelled at models of Old St Paul’s. We touched the toes of effigies blackened by the flames of 1666 which gave a thrill of history.

William was enthralled and keen to pay his admiration to Wren’s tomb only to find it was surrounded by a baptism so out of bounds for the morning- an oddly pleasing thought.

And then we had to go.

And the come down was swift and savage. Is that it? That was it? Is it over?

That feeling like the spell is broken and everything will be disappointing and average again.

But there was his granny Rose and grandpa Ben and the whole city of London to explore. And St Paul’s to watch over us.

Shameful Childhood Memories


I think it’s only fair that I share humiliating and excruciating moments from my childhood. It balances the score. It may even lay some ghosts to rest. 

Edition One: Fancy Dress

I despise fancy dress. I think it’s the Radley handbag of the party world: for people who lack imagination and humour. My absolute snobbery and vitriol is purely defensive. I have been humiliated once too often.

Sally White: aged 7

Mary in the village is having a birthday party. I never get invited to birthday parties because I am odd and have homemade bread sandwiches and don’t watch telly. But Mary is kind and has invited me and the theme is ‘Bright Colours’. My normal clothes are also homemade and corduroy. But on the morning of the party, my sister takes it upon herself to help dress me. I am wearing two pairs of tights- pink over white- and a skirt from the fancy dress box. And it’s sparkly! I have bright pink lips that my sister has neatly drawn on me using facepaints. I feel like a princess. My mum and sister walk me through the village: the pavement feels like a red carpet. We arrive at Mary’s big rambling house. All the other children are there. They’re in their shellsuits or jeans with Sweater Shop jumpers. Mary’s mum clasps her hand to her mouth in genuine upset. Had no one told me they’d cancelled the fancy dress theme? Then she gathers herself and tells me I look like a princess and I put my chin up and feel it. Now, looking back, I see what a gracious and well-timed reaction she had. Because I didn’t want to curl up or go home: I wanted to stay and show those girls that I wasn’t just a frump in a fringe, I could be a sparkly princess. I enjoyed the party and the mum even rustled me up a Best Dressed prize. But I carry with me that brief moment of utter humiliation. But I also carry the ability to rally and ride it out, princess-style.


Ten Years Later

I’ve changed schools for six form and I am so much happier. My new classmates are funny and open-minded and totally accepting of this oddbod nerd who’s joined them. On the Friday of the first October half-term, a new friend has organised a fancy dress party in a hall in Canterbury. The theme is ‘Spies’. I find this oddly specific and dress as the only one I know: Charlotte Grey. The film has just been released. I’m in a woollen floor-length skirt. I have a shirt tucked in under a blazer and a beret on my head. My body has recently changed and thinned and plumped in different places. I feel sophisticated in my outfit. I arrive at the party. I can’t understand it: everyone is dressed in 60s dresses. Short hems. Bright colours. Bobbed wigs. My lovely friend looks at me, bewildered. ‘Sally, which Austin Powers character are you meant to be?’. Austin Powers: Goldmember had also just been released. No one had bothered mentioning these were the ‘spies’ in mind because anyone who hadn’t lived under a rock/book would know that. I am a pretentious 16 year old. I didn’t know.  But that group of lovely new friends just chuckle at me, admire my hat and engulf me in the party.  I try and dance along but don’t know any of the words to the songs.


There is no photographic evidence of this humiliation. I am ever-grateful that I teenaged pre-smartphones.