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If you have not yet watched the last episode of Game of Thrones yet, stop reading now. Seriously, Ron Weasley would tell you to check out your priorities.

If you háve watched it you’ll probably agree with me that it’s not a victory for feminism. For years we have been applauding a strong female character or two. One who has said she will not knit by the fire while men fight for her (Lady Mormont) and another even wants to claim the throne for herself (the mother of Dragons). Neither of them made it. Especially the last death was difficult to swallow because the aftertaste is one of ‘she was a woman so she was unfit to rule, see she became hysterical so she had to die.’ And what do we say to that? Fuck that shit.
It has been very obvious that 6 episodes was not enough to get us, viewers, on the same page. The episode contained very few dialogue so we just had to take it from the men close to Daenerys that she was indeed going mad.  We would have liked to see some more proof of that. On the whole this season was rather lacking in dialogue. Which is a pity because the cast is excellent. In fact I was only starting to really liking the show again when the new ruler of Westeros was bickering with the hand of the king. So here’s how the showrunners can make it up to me: a comedy series. 20 minutes per episode, mainly consisting of Bran the Broken squabbling with his hand. Because, face it, that verbal chess between the two of them was the best part of the last episode.
I also thought about a title: ‘Talk to the hand’. Maybe the sister of the king can also make appearances in between her journeys to the far ends of the world. And maybe, maybe she’ll also visit Storm’s End at some point. Or am I asking for too much now?

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When I was about four years of age, I had my first conversations in English. It was on one of Greece’s beaches and my conversational partners were two redheaded girls. This may be an explanation for the fact that my accent in English is a mixture of Irish and Scottish (Scots assume I’m Irish, the Irish assume I’m Scottish).
There’s just one word that ‘outs’ me as a non-native English speaker, and that’s ‘interesting’. When I say interesting, there’s a change I mean just that: I find what you are saying noteworthy, amusing or enlightening. Whereas the reply ‘interesting’, when coming from a British person, should usually be interpreted as ‘what you are saying is just a load of poppycock’.
And that’s an interesting (see what I’m doing here?) word; poppycock. It comes from the Dutch word pappekak in which pap means porridge or mush and kak means shit. Together it adds up to an old fashioned way to say diarrhea.
So, literally, what you are thinking, or saying, is; ‘you’re talking shit’.  But even I know that it is a rare occasion on which a British person will say that.  

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David the Demolisher

In my youth, preparing for a birthday party, mine or one of my parent’s, was no easy feat. We had to go through our living room with the eye of a detective looking for clues. Only we were searching for prized possessions that could either get broker, smeared or otherwise damaged.
Barbie dolls I didn’t want to lose their hair, tins I didn’t want to get scratched or dented and pretty pieces of paper, we hid them all in mom’s mirror closet. The one where she kept her secret stash of liquorice.
Once we were done with the living room we went upstairs to my bedroom to do the same thing all over again.
I didn’t like that. I liked all my stuff to remain where I had put it. For everything to stay in it’s proper place.
But we had to do this beceause birthdays meant the coming of David the Demolisher. And everything within his grasp he would touch. And break. Or rip. Or tear. Or draw on in a way that could never be rubbed out.
David was my mother’s friend’s son. And my best friend Sarah’s little brother. And he would follow us everywhere. Even up to my room where he would sit on my semi-bunk bad, next to his sister, crumpling my sheets and let the thick soles of his mountain boots bang against the plywood doors of the cabinet underneath. The little cabinet that now was a sanctuary for all the figurines my grandmother bought me over the years.
He spoke with a lisp, as if he had demolished a part of his dentures as well and he was only two years younger than me. I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t bumping into things or bursting into rooms whenever I thought I had a moment alone with Sarah to talk. Or change into our bathing suits without prying boy’s eyes.

I always thought he would grow up to work in a china shop. As a bull… Or at a demolishing site to wreck whole buildings. But then again, he’d probably brake the crane that operates the wrecking ball on his first day and get fired.
So I think it’s best when he becomes one of those artists who throw around whole buckets of paint and use their whole body to smear it around. He’ll love that. And his mother always thought he was extremely talented whenever he had scribbled all over a pretty box I wanted to use for storing pretty sweets wrappers, anyway. 

 

 

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