Can't females have anything just for themselves, without men barging in, not even a foul debilitating condition directly related to the physical act of pregnancy and childbirth?
One notices more talk of postnatal depression in fathers. I use the word "talk" advisedly, scientific proof still being in short supply. Were hormonal levels tested? Was postpartum bruising measured? How about the emergence of a human head in what – in deference to what might be your leisurely Sunday breakfast – I will refer to as the front-bottom area? In fact, was there anything at all to suggest that the subject had, at any point, given birth, thus making sense of adding the term "postnatal" to depression?
Nah, there's none of that. The research from Oxford University is all about new fathers becoming stressed and depressed, their condition triggered by the sleepless nights, strain and the responsibilities of parenthood. I believe the official medical term for this is: "Pissed off, knackered and yearning to be carefree again." Fair enough, it could happen to any of us. But the 21st-century vogue for PND in men is another steaming bucket of terry nappies.
In 2010, a study from the Medical Research Council involving PND in fathers drew on more than 85,000 families, concluding that 3% of fathers became depressed in the first year of their child's life. This rose to 10% by the time the child was four, 16% by eight, 21% by 12. The figures for mothers were higher, though I'd imagine that even they would balk at labelling it PND by the time their child was eight or 12.
I mention the 2010 study, because the Oxford University one is somewhat less comprehensive – involving 38 new fathers (of three-month-old babies), half of whom had PND. On average, the PND-afflicted fathers engaged less with their babies and were more worried about themselves, leading researchers to worry that the child would go on to develop behavioural problems.
I would have been more concerned that the mothers in question were having to put up with such exhausting narcissists as partners – men incapable of hiding their sulky self-absorption, even while being watched by researchers for a period of, wait for it, three minutes. Even serial killer Ted Bundy managed to look "normal" for longer than that.
What's also concerning is this casual bandying around of the term PND as if it, suddenly, mysteriously, has naff all to do with gender.
When did that happen? In my understanding of PND, it's a highly complex condition, combining mental, physical and hormonal disturbances, on occasion leading to full-on psychosis – and it's a condition that, for a long time, the medical establishment did not take seriously. Call me divisive, but I don't see where men who are "more worried about themselves" fit in? Stressed new fathers, trying their best, deserve sympathy, but do they also deserve to label how they feel PND? Likewise, while genuine depression could be triggered by a huge life change such as parenthood – why not simply call it depression, rather than PND?
In a way, this reminds of me of those men who make a point of "feeling" their women's pregnancies, to the point of "feeling pregnant" themselves. So often lauded as uber-supportive and sensitive, I view them as childbirth's goal hangers, waiting (lurking indeed) to grab the glory from the mother. As if this weren't dark enough, now we have to contend with male PND.
One hesitates to use the term womb-envy, but what else could it be? Can't females have anything just for themselves, without men barging in, not even a foul, debilitating condition directly related to the physical act of pregnancy and childbirth? What next: women staking a claim to the trauma of penile dysfunction?
It was a long, hard road for womankind, getting postnatal depression recognised as a condition, and also to receive medical attention or even routine sympathy. It seems to me that saying men can also get it is just cheapening this achievement.
You can't be 'out and proud' about being heterosexual
London mayor Boris Johnson has vetoed a campaign by Christian groups, which appeared to claim that homosexuality could be "cured". The campaign was set to include posters on the side of London buses, declaring: "Not gay! Ex-gay, post-gay and proud. Get over it!", mimicking the high-profile campaign by LGBT charity Stonewall that read: "Some people are gay. Get over it!"
How delighted Johnson must be to be able to display his tolerant chops so close to a mayoral election. Christian groups the Core Issues Trust and Anglican Mainstream are now claiming this is censorship. There is also the suggestion that Stonewall has been somehow damaged by this subversion of the original campaign. Really?
Some of you may have heard of the rather creepy-sounding process of "pastoral therapy". Gathering force in America, it involves the "afflicted" being counselled and advised to the point where they feel able to "leave the homosexual lifestyle behind". Back in the real world, and not the pages of the Old Testament, what does ex or post-gay even mean?
Admittedly, I've had boyfriends who made me feel post-straight, but I always presumed that this was because I'd become a bitter frigid man-hater. Joking apart, this post-gay thing doesn't make any kind of sense at all – it's a bit like saying post-person. In fact, the premise of the thwarted Christian bus posters seems illogical. While Stonewall's campaign was speaking up for the denigrated and marginalised, "Straight and proud" doesn't have quite the same ring.
Heterosexuals are the majority, not a minority. Therefore any anguished "out and proud" posters are going to look silly. It doesn't just apply to sexuality. I would look equally daft starting a campaign screaming about how proud I am to be white and in touch with my Rutland heritage. No one would care – not even me, and definitely not Rutland.
Adopting the tactics and language of a minority when you are among the majority simply doesn't work. The Christian groups may have nicked Stonewall's ideas, but they failed to notice that they weren't a great fit.
Thanks to Munch, even I can appear to be a connoisseur
One version of Edvard Munch's The Scream (there are four in existence) is to be auctioned at Sotheby's for an estimated £50m. That's quite pricey, one might think, especially as there are three others around. However, as an image, The Scream does seem to have a unique resonance, not only among art connoisseurs, but also among the woefully ignorant.
The Scream is probably one of the few artworks most of us instantly recognise and, in my case, over-reference. Whenever I see somebody's face take on a rictus of dismay or horror, I usually liken it to Munch's The Scream, with the hope that this makes me appear cultured. At the same time, I'm hoping that nobody realises I barely know the names of any other paintings.
Pathetic? Probably, but it can't be denied that the swirly, balloon-headed, wailing chap has got me out of many a simile-scrape. "Like Munch's The Scream," I would loftily type, and then go and have a nice lie down in a darkened room. Indeed, The Scream is a universal bluffer's art reference that has long proved very useful to uncultured poseurs such as myself. By that reckoning, £50m is a tad cheap.