All across Northern America wolves are fighting against the tide of human dominance for their right to survive in this world. Their right to hunt for food surpasses our own. Yet men still seek to punish them for daring to eat.

Our ignorance asks of them, how can they be so stupid as to not recognise the difference between livestock and lunch?

I was running a google search today for wolf pictures. What I came across wasn’t the images of piercing amber eyes and alert ears that I was expecting. It was of a man, grinning with the arrogance of pride and holding aloft the freshly slaughtered corpse of a wild wolf.

This man in Canada is charging prices of up to $4500 for tourists and wannabe hunters to track, trap and kill these majestic animals and thier brothers the Black Bear.

Whilst hundreds of people, Mission: Wolf and Yellowstone amongst them, give up their free time and energy to preserving these creatures and protecting their innate right to life, others are exhausting themselves in lifting their cold bodies like a trophy.

It’s beggars belief that we still strive to demonstrate our superiority over the planet we call home.

We fell from our pedestal a long, long time ago.

Last night the suburbs of an English city were turned momentarily into the remote sanctuary of an untouched wilderness.

As we walked along the riverside path a Tawny Owl swooped down before us in the light of the setting sun.

It graced us with its presence for what felt like minutes. Gliding low over the tall grass, eventually dropping down on top of it’s oblivious prey, before taking to the summer sky once again.

We were less than a five minute drive from the centre of the bustling city, and yet here we were; a hovering kestrel in the sky behind us and a breath-takingly stunning owl gliding before us.

A private show, for our eyes only.

The beauty of nature reminds us that she’s here, grabbing our attention one by one.

Waiting to be rediscovered.

I’m a woman.

Or so I thought.

At least, until yesterday.

In a high-street department store, I some how found myself getting a make over at one of the branded make-up stalls, as I figured it was about time  experimented with the habits of the fairer sex of which I am supposed to belong to.

An innocent adventure for most.

But for someone who’s owned nothing more than a stick of eye-liner in her life, and has probably used it less times than Paris Hilton’s read a novel, the myriad of sticky substances being plastered on my unsuspecting skin was quite alarming.

In total I counted fifteen products which were layered one after the other onto my face.  I couldn’t keep track of it all, I wasn’t even certain what each one was achieving.

But by the time she was done, and she held a mirror up before me I didn’t recognise myself.  Aside from the fleece beneath all that face-paint, there was a distinct lack of me in that mirror.

But, secretly, I liked it.  I felt ‘feminine’, and in some perverse way, empowered.

Is it wrong to feel empowered by transforming yourself into something other than what you are?  To feel feminine behind a facade?

When I wiped my face clean that evening (no mean feat), I felt almost deflated to see my freckled skin beneath.

Make up is like a drug. I had a hit. I felt like a new person.

I almost got a glimpse into the lives of those women who won’t let their partners see them without make up. Who get up early to “put on” their face, because they just don’t feel worth it without it.

It is a dangerous thing to be addicted to perfection.

The prize we can never attain.

People used to stay together in the good old days.

While the baby boomers are divorcing, their parents and grand parents are celebrating their golden and diamond aniversaries.

But how did Love develop such a short shelf life?

An intriguing article in one of the national weekend supplements thinks equality is to blame. Today women have it all; careers, independence and the privilege of bringing new life into the world.

Yet, by having it all are we sacrificing our chances of enjoying an enduring relationship like our ancestors used to?

Relationships used to be balanced by the fact that men and women brought very different things to the family relationship.

Traditionally, men brought the money and the material goods, whilst the women gave stability and emotional enrichment. An equal exchange of commodoties. Each taking something they needed from the other.

Today, these traditional values have been blown out of the water. When couples no longer rely upon one another the affection and the attraction seems to slip away.

I’m not advocating a return to Victorian values and principles. But having come from a broken home, the suggestion that the slippery slope to divorce is not only one way, is hopeful.

The mutual gain of stability and emotional satisfaction could be the key of a lasting relationship.

It is a shame that in the game of RISK played out by the world leaders, that it is without fail, the common people who suffer their poor choices and the consequences.

Citizens in Burma suffered under the relentless pride of their government. And it was the Russians who suffered under Stalin. Not to mention the lousy reputation the American’s are enjoying thanks to their current president.

And now it’s the Zimbabweans that will suffer, if the current attempt at banning the Zimbabwe cricket team from taking part in their tour of the UK next year is successful.

I see why it is being done. But do we really think Mugabe will take this development as a heavy blow?

It seems that the results of such action will serve to simply alienate the ordinary people of Zimbabwe from the rest of the world, just when they are most in need of the worlds support.

I have just been verbally beaten up over the phone. I don’t think my ego has ever taken quite such a knock.

I’ve no doubt it was good for me and certainly knocked me off of any high horse I may have been intending to ride.

My fatal mistake this evening was to think that I could possibly be ready to submit my work to an agent. (What a fool)

The initial phone calls went exceedingly well and feedback was positive. I was lulled, I admit, into a false sense of security. That is at least, until I dialled her number….

The sultry tones of her pristine English accent were dripping with boredom, and conjured up images of blood red talons and a starched perm.

I heard those words no writer ever wants to hear… you know the ones. They come in the night, just as you’re drifting off to sleep

…Contrived…

…Unmarketable…

And before you know it your awake in a cold sweat with the sheets wrapped around your neck.

It’s a dangerous world out there if it’s pieces of your own soul that you’re marketing.

In my seemingly endless search for a suitable father’s day card it occured to me just what a sorry state our society must be in.

I would hazard a guess (although I’m prepared to admit that I might be over reacting) that four out of every five father’s day cards in the shops were something to do with beer.

One humerous anecdote or another about how much daddy likes to drink.

And how much daddy enjoys going to the pub.

And how much daddy farts…okay so that’s got nothing to do with beer but I thought I’d throw it in anyway as it’s pretty unflattering.

I mean to say…have we as a society, slid so far down that slippery slope to shameless, that the things we choose to put on a card to celebrate fatherhood is belching, scratching and drinking?

Father’s day also seemingly represents a tribute to the limited interests of the male species. The only cards you can find which do not relate in any way to alcohol are either adorned with cute cuddly bears in bow ties or footballs and golf clubs. I don’t know which is worse! There must be millions of fathers out there who have interests that extend beyond the horizons of trying to put a ball into a hole or a net repeatedly…. There must be.

God help us!

The repercussions from the atrocious earth quake in China will stretch far beyond the countless victims of its violence.

The run up to the 2008 Olympics had provided invaluable coverage to the plight of those in Tibet, struggling quietly under their occupation. What sympathy they had gained, and had been reflected in the media, has been over shadowed by the suffering of the Chinese in the worst hit areas.

Those millions in Burma suffering under the stubbornness of their own government have also faded into the shadows of the media storm.

No one, and no nation, deserves to suffer as people have across China and Burma, to name but two, over these turbulent past weeks. An entire nation cannot be condemned for a crime initiated by those select few who are in power.

Yet the pain of the earth quake and the implication of the stolen limelight will continue to play in those under ground theatres for years and even decades to come.

I’m young and consider myself to be ‘with it’. Yet I’m finding more and more often that modern technology is making a mockery of me.

Call me old fashioned, but I’m the kind of person who likes to do things for myself, rather than having something else do it for me. Simple things we all take for granted; like flushing the toilet, or helping yourself to paper towels from the dispenser.

As a young child on a trip to the USA I encountered one of the most unnerving experiences of my life: On the toilet in a state side airport I lent forward to tighten up my shoe and was unfortunate enough to have the toilet I was perched on flush automatically beneath me. A shock no six year old should have to under-go.

Even now, all too often I’m confronted not with a chain to pull or a lever to press, but with a small little sensor, looking alarmingly like a security camera, and a small notice telling me to waft my hand in front of it in order to flush. So I waft away and usually after 60 seconds of some serious wafting the toilet might decide to flush.

So it would follow that after I’ve washed my hand, with a lingering frown of confusion, under a magic tap which doesn’t need to be turned but somehow simply knows I’m there, that the towel dispenser would be technologically minded also.

So I stand there wafting my hand in front of it. Beneath it. And over the top of it. Only to have a highly amused teenager step up beside me and pointedly pull out a towel from the dispenser with his own hands. He smiles at me knowingly and walks off leaving me feeling rather foolish as I reach out and take a towel, the most energetic thing I’ve had to do since arrival.

I can’t help but think that those people who consider the general public as being unable to possibly cope with the complications of turning on a tap, but who could be considered quite grown-up enough to help themselves to paper towels, are missing a lever or two upstairs.

It would save us, the mentally challenged public,  a lot of embarrassment and grief if automatic equipment was installed either as standard, or not at all. This mish-mash of technology and tradition is no doubt the cause of a considerable amount of stress amongst modern man.