Every. Fecking. Time.

"The Good Lord only gives you that which he thinks you can bear; no more, no less. Further, every trial and tribulation is sent to teach you a lesson about yourself - resilience, strength, patience, tolerance, or in your case how feckin' dim you've been to get yourself into that situation in the first place."

Those wise words of my Nan still make me smile and have never been more apt than the last six months, which have been a test of gigantic proportions. So much so that I've developed a theory. In the same way that psychopaths lack empathy, I believe that my psyche is lacking that element which says, "That's it, I'm off."

Let's start with the appearance I did at the Northern Irish Assembly in which I was told that I'm financed by pimps and target vulnerable disabled men for my own benefit. Further, I was told that a Justice Committee "do not need evidence." Lovely. That didn't actually get to me until I boarded the boat home that evening and it began to sink in. That any human being in a position of trust and responsibility could be so unprofessional and downright rude, all whilst maintaining an air of sanctimonious righteousness is astounding. What was even more perplexing was when my complaint about that behaviour was cast to one side.

I was home a matter of weeks when having had my real name revealed to the abolitionists present on the day of my NIA appearance, COMPLETELY by coincidence, I had a letter from HMRC to say they had singled me out for a tax inspection. (This is the price you pay as an activist, it's seen as just punishment for daring to question the lies and seemingly unquestionable bottomless funding that the abolitionist NGO's enjoy.) I have nothing to hide, and have years of accountant prepared reports, but even so, spending my evenings going back over every strawberry flavoured condom purchased is something I could have done without.

Finally, and after many months of arguing, I satisfied the requirements of HMRC and was given the all clear. Next up, exams. I became feral for several weeks, and surviving on a diet of Diet Coke and crunchy nut cornflakes I locked myself in to my office and crammed. I'm really not sure how I did, nowhere near as good as if I had really studied to the best of my ability but then when you're holding off HMRC and abolitionists, there's only so much you can do. Finally through the exams and back on the road to enjoy a summer of freedom from any major stresses, I landed back in Belfast.

Day one was grand, enjoyable appointments and good craic. Day two started off like any other working day, sprinting down the stairs at the very last minute for breakfast before hitting the shower in preparation for a busy day. Having carefully laid out my towel, coconut body butter, razor and shower gel, I stepped in to the shower. I'm not sure if you've ever seen those injuries sustained by footballers where their knee goes in completely the wrong direction, but in a nutshell, I did that in conjunction with the splits. Feel free to wince, it goes one eighth of the way towards the guttural screams which emanated from my hotel room.

It's funny what goes through your mind when you've had a bad shock. I was naked, wet and in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a shower cubicle and I knew that my right leg was badly injured and wouldn't take my weight. So I crawled, out of the bathroom and pulled myself up on to the bed where I dried off and got some clothes on. What next ? "Well", I reasoned, "I'm going to be in feckin' A & E all day so I might as well have a ciggy". Yes, that's right, with a leg which was starting to resemble that of an elephant and turning fantastic colours, I hopped over to the other side of the room and hung out the window. By now the shock was beginning to wear off and pain was setting in so I called for help, and David (one of my lovely guys from Belfast), came to my rescue. He picked me up and brought me to A & E and waited with me all day while they did tests, x-rays, and that loud hissing noise through the teeth, usually reserved for mechanics about to hand you a monster bill. End tally = ankle broken in two places, dislocated knee and assorted torn tendons. Full house.

Aside from the fact that I was now facing six weeks off work with no income and probably lots of pain, I was also wondering how the hell I was going to get to Glastonbury. Y'see, I'd been asked if I could go quite some time previously, so what followed was a very animated "discussion" with the hospital consultant. Really, I could have saved us both a lot of time by introducing him to anyone who knows me well, I was going and that was final. Go I did, and it was fantastic, until my motability scooter got bogged down in the mud and I had to be towed out by four burly security men. (In fairness, I've been ably assisted by security men towards the exit in the past, but this wasn't my fault and was particularly mortifying.)

A product of 1950's Catholic Ireland, my Dad doesn't do "I love you". He did say it once but that was after sustained familial pressure when I was emigrating to the US. (I was back ten days later, but that's a story for a whole other time.) No, the best you get from Dad is as follows -

"I'll give you one thing. Life knocks you back but by God, you get up. Every. Fecking. Time."

LL xx

P.S : I'd like to thank everyone who has supported me when I've been unable to work, including Jewel of Edinburgh, Lucy Smith of Ugly Mugs, David (as mentioned above) and the very many others. It means more to me than you'll ever know. Three more weeks and I'm back on my feet.

A level playing field

When I became a sex workers' rights campaigner, I knew that when I stuck my head above the parapet there would be consequences. I knew there would be mockery, name calling etc. but that's okay with me. I'm a very strong woman, and when I'm let off the leash I'm fierce too, especially when it comes to the rights of our so often stigmatised group.

I was ready for it all, and boy did I get it in spades. In particular, the Irish abolitionists have been hard work, and they fight dirty. I'll never prove it was them of course, but I now find myself in the middle of a tax investigation which I could really do without on top of studying, working, parenting and campaigning. I'll get through it in time, it's just tedious.

In Ireland, to have a current sex worker prepared to go on camera and talk openly about the realities of the sex trade is as rare as hen's teeth and it is a valuable media platform which must not be wasted, not for a second. By waste, I mean that nothing should stand in my way of getting the most important message across which is that my twenty years of experience are absolutely nothing like what Rachel Moran and The Magdalene Sisters (Ruhama) have been peddling, in order to continue with the sales of her book and of course their continued funding.

In her evidence to the NIA, Moran was asked to comment on my evidence as a woman who said she enjoyed the sex trade, and her response was a lofty - "We call them the pimp's union." In addition, Jim Wells and Co. alleged that I'm funded by pimps and am effectively a front for pimps, all of which is absolutely untrue.

I came to the conclusion that in order to be an effective spokesperson for sex workers, I need to stand on my own two feet and speak from my life experience without abolitionists screaming - "PIMP LOBBY", every time I open my mouth. You see, I don't mind if they shout and bawl at me, truth be known I enjoy a robust "debate". But when a constant stream of hate is propelled my way because of the actions of others, that's not fair. And since I appeared at the NIA it has been absolutely vile, with comments about my daughter "coming of age" and one man who speculated whether I had a special uncle who liked to play games in the wendy house with me - I wish I was joking. This, (he said) is the only reason he could see why I "hang out with pimps".

That was the last straw.

For those reasons I have decided to step back from the IUSW, my health and welfare and that of my daughter come before anything else. Always have, and always will. Rest assured, I'm not going anywhere, I will campaign for sex workers' rights until the day they put a tag on my toe (wonderful expression). In fact, later this month it looks like I'm off to Westminster and of course the Labour Party Women's Conference is coming up too.

All I ever needed was a level playing field, because justice and truth have always been on my side.

LL xx

Wanted

WANTED - Man to share the continuous loop of abject joy that is my life. Must like children and cats, preferably hamsters too but open to negotiation on that. Good sense of humour an absolute must, medication to counter psychotic episodes will be offered on a needs must basis. No footbore fans please, Sundays are for eating roast dinners, not watching twenty two grown men kick a ball into a net and take it out again. See also - gardening centres.

No gingers, this is due to previous experiences and not open for discussion. Apart from anything else, I couldn't have such contamination of the gene pool on my conscience. You will preferably have extensive experience in DIY and be fairly handy with large tools. Specifically, if you can build a large cage this will be a huge asset, never mind why.

If, like me, you harbour a dark desire to kick anyone opposed to paid consensual sex up and down the banks of the Clyde, rest assured this will put you to the very top of the list. If your idea of heaven is a weekend away in a secluded hotel with a hot tub and food service, superb. If however, your ideal includes a triathlon, or anything above and beyond a brisk walk, then jog on.

Please send a full length picture with your application, ideally in tight swimming shorts.

LL xx

P.S : In the interests of honesty, I have enclosed a picture depicting my demeanour any time before 12pm and also during "that" week of the month. You have been warned.

Those pesky clients

Tomorrow I head into the abyss which is - no home broadband for ten days. Counselors are on standby, I simply don't know what I will do when the ability to go onto Mumsnet and start a fight is taken away. This horrific state of affairs is because I am moving house, something I'm looking forward to in terms of the new property, but in the interim, I really wish Boy Cat would grow tired of the 'pouncing on the black sacks' game.

The run up to the move has been stressful beyond belief, I just hate mayhem, and right now my house looks like the aftermath of a particularly vicious tornado. I'm going to let you into a little secret, guess who has been keeping me afloat for the last little while, listening to me whinge and bemoan life ? Those pesky clients, that's who. Those men who routinely 'abuse and disrespect' us have come up trumps. Some of my guys have been with me for years, and it is, I suppose, quite unavoidable that a friendship develops on the back of that, particularly when you spend long periods of time together.

What I wasn't prepared for though, are the lengths these friends are prepared to go to, it astounds me that they care so much, and I feel very honoured. Right now I am the proud owner of not one but two pairs of glasses, all because one of my guys got sick to death of seeing me squint at the television and books. He frog marched me down to the opticians and made sure I had an eye test and picked up the prescription too. We're still negotiating on a hearing test, those who know me well will tell you that if there is any background noise I am stuffed, and have been known to watch people's mouths to catch what they're saying.

One of my guys has been my backbone, in terms of many forms of support, but most importantly, he has given me the self belief to go out there and speak in public, albeit rather nervously. Thank you, J.

M is a plastic surgeon, and has offered me botox injections to lift my eyebrow where it has been damaged by my abusive ex.

D is a gym bunny, he knows I really want to shed quite a lot of weight and he has offered to train me on a one to one basis, to optimize fat burning and provide motivational support too. I think that means he's going to shout at me, which will be fun, because it's usually the other way around. He's also big into nutrition and healthy eating, so he's going to show me how to 'juice' and make simple meals from fresh food. Apparently, you can cook without checking the back of a packet for the number of minutes in a microwave, who knew ?

I'm so very grateful to have a job which has introduced me to such wonderful human beings.

See you all on the other side of no broadband hell, I'll still have my iPhone so all is not lost but still, I'm using these last precious hours to google internet withdrawal syndrome.

LL xx

Masturbation and Media

As achievements go, masturbating myself into my local A & E has never really been up there on my 'top ten to do before I die', but achieve it I did. Y'see, recently it was my birthday and ever the kind soul that he is, one of my long standing clients in Belfast asked me what I would like. No contest, I asked for a Hitachi magic wand. For those of you not familiar with said device, in terms of stimulating a woman, it gets you from nought to sixty before you can say 'HEADS' - on the break during Coronation Street.

Eager as I was to try my new toy, I rushed back to my hotel room and sure enough, found that euphoria in record time. There was just one small problem, I developed a very bad headache, to the point where I thought it might be a migraine, although I've never had one of those in my life. So I darkened the room and lay down and in time it passed. Fast forward some two weeks and I'm demonstrating the benefits of a wand to a bemused client in his hotel room, rather like a late night shopping channel, naked.

With the rush of fluids and moans and all things gorgeous which go to prove that the good lord did indeed intend us to have sex ad infinitum - came the worst headache I have ever had in my life. It was at the back of my head and was pulsating, literally taking my breath away. What to do ?

As it happened I had a routine appointment with my GP several days later and gingerly raised the issue. She said she was going to consult with her colleagues and call me back, and in the meantime I was to find something to keep me amused 'above the waist', as she delicately put it. So, I threw my case into the boot of my car and hit the road for Inverness, as had been the plan. Having just reached the bottom of the A9, the phone went and it was my GP.

"Can you get to A & E as soon as possible please ?"

"Sure, I'll be back from Inverness on Thursd ...."

"No, NOW."

And so it was that I found myself flat on my back for five days, whilst they ran test after test to ensure I hadn't ruptured something or was in danger of doing so. The first day or two were great, and the novelty of having a television and a bed all to myself without -

1. 'MOM'.
2. 'MEOW'.
3. 'FIFTEEN MINUTE QUICKIES LOVE?'

...was delicious. In time though, I got so bored, I thought they were going to have to transfer me to the psych ward. Finally, on day number five, the most goddamn beautiful doctor I have ever seen in my life came to see me. I was good to go, he explained, but my stress levels were through the roof and that's what was most likely contributing to the headaches, chest pains, racing heartbeat and insomnia. (I know, I know.) Rather predictably, I phoned my Dad.

"Hola Padre, I have seen the error of my ways and am coming home. I plan on checking myself into a convent where I shall self flagellate for the rest of my pitiful existence."

"Hilarious. See you on Saturday".

So we sat, my father and I for some considerable length of time and deep into the night in his garden, chewing the fat and contemplating what needs to change. I know that ideally he'd like me to go and work in an animal sanctuary for the rest of my life, but for the moment, that's not going to happen. Nope, I'm going to have some fun.

I'm taking June until October off study completely, although I had originally planned on doubling up on modules. I'm going to let my hair down and I'm going to chill-the-feck-out. So, for those of you wondering why I have suddenly organised a group session in Glasgow, it's because I want to, it's something I thoroughly enjoy and if it goes well I will do it again.

Before I sign off, let me just say a HUGE thank you to everyone who phoned, texted and emailed after Sex on Wheels. I have no regrets about doing it at all, I think it's an important issue which needs to be addressed and I will continue to campaign as hard as I can. The only regret I have is when they filmed me speaking to a potential client on the phone and saying - 'I'm closely trimmed'. I'm sorry, but that information is not required to be known by the disco mummies, my neighbours and very definitely not my Dad. Memo to self - in future when the camera is rolling - astound everyone by simply SHUTTING UP.

LL xx

P.S : My availability diary is now done until the end of July, although subject to change. I will be in both Leeds and Bristol so do drop me an email. 'Tis about time I ventured South to see what all the fuss is about.

Vomiting and Vexations

Let me make this clear from the outset - I hate vomiting, it's the most disgusting sight, smell and sensation, EVER.

Sometimes though, I guess it's a necessary evil, the body's way of getting rid of that which doesn't belong or will cause harm, such as the bug which provided me with a very rude awakening at 4am this morning. I looked skywards as I often do and loudly remonstrated with anyone else who happened to be awake - "YOU ARE HAVING A GIRAFFE, RIGHT ?" This was the morning I was to jet off to London for three days to fulfill an exciting schedule and meet up with some old friends too. Alas, it was not to be and I have spent the majority of today in the bathroom, so much so that if I am ever called upon to go on Mastermind, my chosen area of expertise will no longer be the sex industry. No, it will be the ingredients of every shampoo and toilet cleaner ever invented.

Come the afternoon, I had reached the conclusion that there couldn't rationally be ANYTHING else left to come up, so I took several ginger sips of water and headed out to do some messages and praying to God that I wouldn't run into a client looking like something Boy Cat had coughed up. My first port of call was a place which was all too familiar to me, bored looking employees trying to look vaguely interested in a pep talk being given to them by their line manager, who was playing to the crowd more than anything else - David Brent is alive and well and working in financial services in Ayrshire. I thought back to my time on the corporate hamster wheel and gave thanks to the Goddess for Fallen Women that I am now a very happily self employed hooker. No more pep talks for me, no sirree.

I was once sent on a course on the effective management of waste paper, which lasted three days - I kid you not. I amused myself by playing hangman with a lad from Inverness, who insisted 'Dallas' only had one 'l' to the point where the supervisor asked if we had something we would like to share with the rest of the group. Actually, we had - but it was most certainly not up for discussion with the course attendees and that very morning over breakfast we had vowed to never speak of it again. (Well, what do you expect ? Put some young delegates in a Glasgow hotel for three nights and give them twenty pounds dinner allowance, one pound will be spent on a bowl of chips and the rest on alcohol. QED.) Those course 'facilitators' had a knack of making us feel like we had the intellectual abilities of a turnip, I still recall with horror the opening line every morning - "Let's start with a fun game, a wee ice breaker". The only fun to be had with that was going in my mind from ice breaker to ice pick and entertaining a horrific imaginary scene of corporate violence.

Having 'enjoyed' all of those memories whilst standing in the queue, I realized it was almost my turn to reach the counter. I also realized that my stomach was starting to churn. Then came the sweating and the dry throat, that awful sensation when you just know what's coming. As I saw it I had two choices - run out onto the street and try and find a bin or upchuck right there and then. The street was out because it was lunchtime and literally heaving with sandwich laden suits. With seconds to spare I just made it to the waste paper basket beside David Brent before decorating it in style with the accompanying sound effects. There was a sharp intake of horror and a laden silence. This one would have to be brazened out.

"I hope you've all brushed up on your disposal techniques, yes ? Have a lovely afternoon".

With a flick of my hair and a flash of my broadest smile, I strode out the door and into the sunshine. Perhaps vomiting isn't so bad after all.

LL xx

All clients great and small

If there's one thing which maddens me beyond all reason, it's the portrayal of clients/punters/call them what you will in the media. With the proposed introduction of the Swedish model, never before has it been more evident that those in 'power' really don't have a clue about the realities of our client base. Truly, I am sick to death of hearing my clients described as little more than lust filled animals with all the sensibilities of a zombie.

Just as sex workers are individual human beings, so too are our clients. Speaking for myself, I have an extremely diverse client base, it's really impossible to bracket them into one group, because they come from all walks of life, backgrounds, beliefs, ethnicities. I don't ask a lot of my guys, just that they treat me with respect and that they meet my standards of discretion and hygiene. After that, they can worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster for all I care, once they don't think they're going to convert me to Pastafarianism.

Over and over again, I hear in debates that we need to stop those men, those who 'feed the industry' with their demands, using coercion and force to get what they want. We really need to step back from the stereotype of a dirty old man in a mac looking around him furtively as he negotiates a price with a girl on a street corner.

Here are some client profiles -

1. He got married at 20, he's now 50. He adores his wife, who's given him three beautiful children and would do anything for her. They haven't had sex for five years now, because she's developed MS. For those five years, he has battled with his conscience. He can't have an affair because well, that involves feelings and people will get hurt, but he can't deny the physical needs he has.

2. As a young man, he left a job in the city to care for his father full time. He gets four hours reprieve a week when a carer paid for by the state comes in, and he uses this time to visit a local escort, where they open a bottle of wine and share a bubble bath together. It is this time which he treasures.

3. He got married young and it quickly became apparent that the marriage was wrong. There is violence in the marital home, she regularly assaults him, but because he has now become a public figure he can never report that, much less leave her. Provided he keeps her credit card topped up, she turns a blind eye when he books into a hotel one night a month and hires an escort.

4. As a teenager he was reckless and fell in with the wrong crowd. He began 'joy riding' which culminated in a horrific smash. Since then, he has been confined to a wheelchair and has no sensation from the waist down. He feels his injuries are God's way of punishing him for his behaviour and he frequently sinks into long bouts of black depression, even contemplating ending his life. What keeps him going is the periodic visits he gets from a sex worker, when he enjoys a sensual massage.

5. As a young boy, he was repeatedly and savagely raped by a close family member. He has serious issues with body dysmorphia and self esteem as a result. He wants to learn to enjoy sex as an act of love and tenderness, so that he can disassociate it from violence and terror.

The above examples are real clients, my clients. Are these the men we need to criminalise ? No. The men we need to (further) criminalise are the traffickers, those who trade in misery and suffering. Leave the men who are already dealing with their own misery and suffering alone.

LL xx

Activism and Angst

No-one has ever yet written "The Guide to Perfect Parenting", in principal because the perfect parent doesn't exist. Babies don't come with a Haynes manual which tells you what to do in the event of an unplanned exhaust leak which escapes the utilised protection and slowly makes it's way down the legs of your trolley and onto the floor of Asda. Or what to do when they work themselves up into such a state of temper that they bang their heads in tune to the over priced soothing baby lullaby CD you just purchased. There's no trouble shooting flow chart or help desk. Instinctively, you just know, and with that knowledge comes a solution, tailor made to every diazepam inducing incident.

But while we can all meet once a week and bitch (sorry, empathise) over coffee about our little darlings and their latest attempts to have us sectioned, in my experience it's the same subjects which arise for discussion over and over, 'Is my child showing the first signs of psychosis ?', or 'Why do they behave for every other fecker but me ?' One subject very worthy of discussion has yet to come up in our group, and it is simply this - how to instil a sense of social justice in your child. Of course, they will form their own core values and belief system, but children can very quickly become a product of their environment.

A long time ago and in an Irish kitchen far away, my Dad was preparing a carcass, when I swept in the door from school.

"Hi Dad, what's for dinner ?"

"Oh, this is just an auld mutt I found on the road, hit by a car, so I thought - waste not, want not".

I was speechless with anger, after all, our house had become known as the de facto shelter for every waif and stray. Flaring my nostrils as I do when I'm very cross indeed, I loudly declared -

"RIGHT. THAT'S IT. I AM NOT EATING ANY MORE MEAT IN THIS HOUSE UNTIL SUCH TIME AS THE ATTITUDE OF THIS FAMILY HAS CHANGED TOWARDS THE WELFARE OF ERM ... DEAD ANIMALS."

To this day I don't know how my father kept a straight face, in any event, my 'protest' lasted until the following Saturday morning when our traditional fry up was filling those flared nostrils of mine with aromas so beautiful I could stand it no longer. I slouched into the kitchen and announced - "Sure the pig won't mind anyway, he's in heaven".

Fast forward some twenty years and suddenly it befalls me to combat those highly enjoyable convivial jousts as they arise. It started one balmy evening as LP and I were watching television and some horrifying footage of starving children in Africa was being shown. Studying her little face, the wheels of cognition could almost be observed, spinning furiously.

"MAM".

"Yes sweetpea ?"

"Sure that baby doesn't have any food ?"

"No love, none."

"No juice either ?"

"No, no juice either."

"No blankies ?"

"No sweetie, nothing."

She thought about this state of affairs, long and hard before her face lit up with all the excitement of a ground breaking solution to world hunger.

"Well then her mammy should have gone to Tesco's, shouldn't she ?"

Clearly, there was a lot of work to be done. In mitigation, she was very young then and has since grown to grasp the basics, such as - the oppression of minority groups is never acceptable. She even gets the concept that one person's moral code should never dictate the sexual freedoms of a society, whether those freedoms are exercised in a commercial sense or in the privacy of one's bedroom. Quite impressive for a twelve year old really.

Less impressive was this evening's display of pre-teen plumage. I had not long returned from a long day at a photo shoot and I was tired and cranky. On entering the kitchen, there stood a triumphant boy cat, licking his chops having just enjoyed the last remaining scraps of ice cream, as offered to him in a cereal bowl.

"For Christ's sake, can we not share the crockery with the animals ? Especially when he spends the vast majority of his day with his tongue between his thighs ?"

"SHAME ON YOU. CATS HAVE RIGHTS TOO."

Yep, it's going to be a long week.

LL xx

Ankles and angst

Good evening and greetings from Inverness where I am chilling out with a bowl of room service chilli (dreadful) and my magic wand (significantly less dreadful). I'm thinking back to the day I was awarded my degree all those years ago, it was all going so well. We lined up with our parents and collected our awards, after which we debunked to the local restaurant for lunch and yet more photographs.

At 4pm, our parents made their excuses and left and we regrouped for the party to end all parties. We deserved it, we had all spent the previous six weeks surviving on diet coke and Marlboro lights, trapped in our horrid student flats. By 10pm, it had all begun to fall apart. A couple of fledgling lawyers had wandered off in search of the elusive burger van, one had gone back to a very dodgy flat for a private party and still another had fallen into the canal, by Rathmines. As for me, I was in the residual party of survivors, up the back of the pub singing loudly and having a whale of a time.

Rather typically, my friend E had just found the true love of her life, again. She was quite literally inside his mouth and it was yours truly who was dispatched to go and rescue her. In huge heels and even bigger hair, I picked my way down the sodden and darkened steps to the basement bar, before bawling at her over the loud music - "COME ON, BACK TO MINE". She gave me that look, the one which says - "I'm this close to getting his phone number on the back of a ciggy packet, DO ONE", so I went to Plan B. There were some girls on the steps, dancing side ways up and down (show girl style) to New York, New York. Well, if you can't beat them, join them is what I say. Come the very end of the song and we were really going for it, the fact that I didn't actually know any of the other dancers was by the by, in Irishland, provided you're drunk and friendly, it really doesn't matter.

I went for the bottom step and missed it in spectacular fashion, my foot went over to one side and there was a loud 'snap'. I didn't actually hear that snap, but it was politely pointed out by a lady who was sitting at a table just adjacent to my not very comfortable landing pad. I laughed out loud, ankles don't just snap, right ? Having said that, when I got to my feet, that ankle flatly refused to take the weight of my body, resulting in my getting home through a variety of carrying techniques and hopping.

By the time we got to my flat, my ankle was rather swollen, but I was reliably informed that it was just sprained, so in true Irish fashion we got on with the night and commenced strip poker. Come 4am, my ankle was turning black, and the size of a football.

"I'm not being funny girls, but I really think I've done something awful here."

"Oh give over. Put some frozen peas on it. Well, mini pizza's then."

I woke up the next day in mortal agony. I literally couldn't get out of bed, any sudden movement at all went right through my foot and caused anything from a sharp intake of breath to a muted scream.

I did what every independent twenty something graduate does in times of trouble, I called my Dad.

"DADDY, I FELL".

He came to my rescue, and sat with me in the hospital whilst they manipulated my ankle back into place and plastered it up. Cue paternal loving frown.

"Look, you'll be all right. Just get up and get on with it".

This week, I've had the week from hell in a lot of respects. I had some bad news which quite literally took my breath away, it was like a punch to the stomach. Although I'm entering a really exciting phase involving a lot of media and a total change in direction, that one phone call really took the wind out of my sails. So, I did the one thing a thirty something mother at the base of a new career and in a crisis should do, I called my Dad. Cue paternal loving frown.

"Look, you'll be all right. Head up and keep smiling. Go get 'em."

Thanks Dad.

LL xx

Saturday sleepovers

Good evening and greetings from home where I am chilling out with Le Mog having finally finished my tax return. Officially, I'm not speaking to Boy Cat. I spent most of yesterday laboriously sorting my receipts into monthly piles only for one over excited cat in hot pursuit of a fly to jump up on my desk and knock the whole feckin' lot over. I wouldn't mind, but he's not even looking suitably contrite.

I'm not long back from Belfast, where I was finishing off the documentary for Channel 4 and it was an experience to say the least. It was very stressful, not because of the crew, they were fabulous, but because in between bouts of filming I had to jump into various outfits to meet clients. Although this is something I've become accustomed to on tour, it was a new level of manic. I know that the end result will be worth it though, and I hope to challenge perceptions on sex and disability.

On a break from filming I phoned home, as is my daily custom. La Princess was full of chat, everything from, 'I miss you', to 'Can I have a tenner to top up my phone?' I was waiting for the inevitable, and in time, it came. "Can I have a sleepover this weekend ?" GREAT.

For the uninitiated, 'sleepovers' run as follows - several very grateful parents drop their little darlings chez moi, and head off in the direction of the nearest off licence or dealer, the understanding being that they snap out of their temporary delicious psychosis and be on my doorstep by 1pm the next day.

The bemusing part of sleepovers is the solid belief in the participants, that what they are about to perpetrate has never been done before. Uh huh, because parents were born aged 30. So, it's -

Creeping to the kitchen to empty the contents - check.

Sub-dividing the group into two with bitchery, with one group ending up in the hallway at 2am, hotly debating the identity of the bigger bitch - check.

Antagonising the hamster, to the point where she squeals in temper, the defence offered being - "We didn't do anything, she was just sitting there" - check.

Antagonising the cat, to the point where he scratches, the defence being - "We didn't do anything, he was just sitting there" - check.

Freaking each other out with ghost stories until someone asks to come into my bed - check.

Ordinarily, I just throw in pizza, popcorn, several bags of sweeties and then shut the door, slinking off to my own boudoir with boy cat and a good book, but this weekend I have a new game plan just ready and waiting for the inevitable onslaught.

I'M GOING TO KILL THEM WITH TWITTER.

Normally, I throw open the door at 2am, 3.30am, and 3.35am and beseech, "Girls, please ! Keep it down, we have neighbours". As you can imagine, that approach is about as effective as putting a brake on a canoe, so the new plan is simply as follows - I'm going to befuddle them with all of the new delicious terminology I've learned on Twitter.

I envision the process as follows. Throw door open, and -

11pm. - "TROPE".

12.10am - "PATRIARCHY".

12.30am - "HELEN MIRREN".

12.45am - "NICK CLEGG HAS A GREEN ONESIE".

12.47am - "SUZANNE MOORE'S TRANSPHOBIC EXPLOSION".

I reckon, that by 1am they'll either be stunned into shocked silence or they'll have had me sectioned. Either way, blissful peace awaits.

LL xx

On the subject of 'bravery'.

See, here's the thing.

2012 was the year when I was called 'inspirational', 'c*nt' and everything in between. Each title made me laugh because for various different reasons, none of them are true. But let's look at 'brave'.

This morning I was contentedly munching my toast and gazing out the back window when I spied a black bird, who landed about six inches away from boy cat's face and puffed up her chest. My disgrace of a cat thought about his options for approximately one and a half seconds and beat a hasty retreat over the garden wall. He just doesn't get his place in the food chain or the 'hunter' thing. I'm quite glad really, because I don't fancy having to intervene should he suddenly down a brave pill.

My new vet deserves a mention, she's wonderful. Like yours truly, she's a perpetual student and a cat lady too. She tells me that black and white cats are notorious for internalising stress, they're well known for it. It is for this reason that they repeatedly get cystitis, inter alia. I was going to whinge about how I wish she'd told me that six years ago, but actually, it wouldn't have made a difference, my black and white genetic hotchpotch would still have come home with me.

I've not always been a cat person though, quite the contrary. Although I do love moggies, I was brought up with some rather large dogs, Dobermans to be precise. The reputation of animals is seldom deserved, cats have a bad name for being aloof and uncaring (they're not) and Dobermans have a bad name for being savage and unpredictable. They're not, it all depends on how you bring them up. Ours would lick you to death but on the other hand, defend the family to the death.

Many years ago and in a suburb of North London I had a 'friend' (more on him later) come and ask me to accompany him on an evening assignment, to view a car he was thinking of buying. Not a problem, especially since a chip butty was promised in return. Thinking about it, I have no idea why he wanted me to come with him, I mean what I know about cars you could quite comfortably write on the back of a butterfly's heel. I just know that my current car is black, shiny and fast. Also, it annoys the local boy racers so that's good enough for me.

We arrived at the car lot and it was like a scene from a very badly written horror script. Tall chain fences, a dark cold night, visible breath expulsions and a meek - 'Hello'? Bored already, I had wandered off and was busy looking at a Beetle, it reminded me of Herbie and all things seventies, I was transfixed. Right up until I heard the guttural and unmistakable growl of a very large and very cross Rottweiler. I didn't mind that as such, it was more the manly hands on my shoulders which made me mad. Yes, all six foot two of my male companion had grabbed me as a human shield against an advancing and salivating guard dog. Nice.

You know, one of the many advantages of working in the sex trade is the ability to think and act quickly. So, I elbowed my 'friend' to the rib cage, thus winding him and removing him from my body space. Crouching down, I made myself as small as I possibly could and extended my arm, wrist exposed and offered to the dog, to smell. The growling stopped and said dog came over and began to sniff me. I won't lie to you, those were very tense moments but you can never allow a dog to sense fear, they will react to it and go for you, rather like abolitionists.

In time, the car lot owner arrived, screeching around the corner.

"STEP BACK FROM THE DOG, HE'S .....oh".

He's what ? Trained in the art of mortal combat ? Hardly. 'Ronnie' was all four paws in the air enjoying a jolly good belly rub, whilst 'Reggie' was at his owner's heels, looking somewhat perplexed.

Readers, the moral of the story is simply this. Choose your friends carefully and secondly, it's not about bravery, it's about knowledge and experience.

LL xx

Belfast and bum sliding

It's been a frenetic week thus far. I lighted back on Scottish soil yesterday and flew up the road to my humble abode to get busy with my submission to La Grant. It's not great, but it hits the main points and campaigning will persist in spite of various offers of assistance towards my demise. Abolitionists really ought to be introduced to the wonders of spell check, not to mention internet security.

My visit to Belfast was wonderful, I thoroughly enjoyed a brief trip to the Christmas market and the usual permutations of perversion. My final client of Wednesday evening was a rather genteel chap and terribly nervous into the bargain. I lit some candles and played some soft soothing music in the background too, hoping that eventually, he would relax. Ordinarily, that combination would work without question, were it not for the room filled with gobshites immediately opposite. Not content with contaminating their own ears with what could reasonably be described as aural torture, they subjected the entire hotel to two hours of what I believe is referred to as 'trance' or what you and I would refer to as music (sic) for those in the middle of a psychotic episode.

Thankfully, it all went quiet, either because they had passed out in a drug induced stupor and were visualising little fluffy clouds or because they had moved onto a club. Suffice to say I was very glad when the time came to embrace my beaming guy and wish him goodnight. Having closed the door, something was bothering me and I knew I couldn't ignore it. It's what I call my spidey sense, essential in the sex trade.

The "Do not disturb" sign, yes that's what it was. Having narrowed my eyes, I peeped through the spyhole and sure enough, there it was. Belfast's answer to "Trainspotting" had nicked my DND sign and put it on their own door. I THINK NOT.

Bounding across the hall, I snatched the sign back and placed it on my door handle. Fait accompli, except now I had a problem. I had left my own room without a key and the door had slammed behind me. SHIT.

I resembled one of the delegates from Lady Marmalade, hair flowing, stockings and suspenders, killer heels and a thong which would cut Swiss cheese. I remembered the wise words of my pal in Brighton and decided that keeping my ass to the wall would be exceptionally wise. There was nothing else to do but wait, and I don't mind telling you, those were the longest 12.457 minutes of my entire life.

In time, a tipsy but perfectly lovely couple emerged from the lift. There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by ...

"Are you, I mean ... do you need ..."

"That would be lovely, do you mind ? Only I really can't .."

"Not a problem, give me two minutes".

Mister Lovely Couple went sprinting back down to reception to get a room key. In the interim, Mrs. Lovely Couple managed an entire conversation without eye contact, quite an achievement really.

"So, good ...ah ....night then?"

"Yes, just this, you know. MORTIFIED".

"Yes. I mean no. Whoops".

Having gratefully received the new key from Mr. Lovely Couple, I can say with an enormous degree of certainty that I really wouldn't recommend bum sliding up the wall of a hotel to retain any last shred of dignity.

LL xx

The times, they are a-Changin'

Once upon a time, there was a man I was quite simply mad about. I'll call him D. He supported me through some very turbulent times and never stopped believing in me, even when I couldn't go to my local supermarket without someone shouting abuse at me in the car park. "I didn't know they sell hookers here now ! Is it buy one get one free ?" When you consider that D was raised in 1950's Ireland, then his support was all the more important, because it broke through every societal barrier you can think of.

"Never let these people get to you, hold your head up high. What matters is how you feel about yourself and those around you who will love you regardless." In time, came the shocking news that D was dying, he had terminal cancer and it was a matter of weeks, which very quickly became days. With a huge knot in my stomach, I went to his bed side and was truly lost for something to say. I didn't want him to see me getting upset so I smiled and asked him how he was feeling.

"I'm not afraid of dying, I've made my peace. Besides, the priest was in and I told him to put me down for everything except rape and murder". Thereafter came the explosion of maniacal laughter combined with guttural sobbing and I told him, "I'm going to miss you". His reply is something which will stay with me for the rest of my life. He said, "You may not know this but you were put on this earth to help the underdog. Be true to yourself and make sure you fulfil that promise for me".

D's funeral was hard for me, it was my first experience of death and when I kissed him goodbye as he was laid in the coffin, I thought my heart was going to physically break. I took comfort from the fact that he looked so peaceful, towards the end of his life he was in so much pain that no amount of morphine could take away the permanent frown he had. In death, he looked beautiful, so serene.

I've never forgotten D's words although it has taken me many years to work out what he meant. When D died, I was in the second year of my first degree which was law, and truly, I thought I was going to change the world. Myself and my Uni pals had an idealistic vision of challenging every law ever set into statute, but I was soon to find out that in Ireland, unless you have family in the law or are sleeping with half of the law library, getting briefs is actually incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Since I was already sleeping with half of the law library on a part time basis anyway, it seemed like a futile exercise to chase a career where every time I got to my feet I would look across the court room and be reminded of time spent on my back.

Unperturbed, I dusted myself off and went into financial services, for nine years. That went horrendously wrong in the end and I will write about it in the future, but the time isn't right yet. So the time had arrived, attempt at career number three. What to do ? I decided to go back to Uni and study, since academia has always been a part of my life and I adore a challenge. I'm still studying, and very much enjoying it too.

Through all of the changes, the upsets, the move from Ireland to Scotland and my transition from irresponsible student to semi-responsible mother, the sex industry always called me back. I've retired three times now, and not had a carriage clock yet. Over the last twelve months though, a new transition has begun. I speak to the media. I now know that I have years of experience in the sex industry under my belt and I can speak with authority against those who seek to stop what we do. Finally, I have a knowledge and an area of expertise which no-one can take away from me.

Tomorrow, I'm going to Leeds to film a documentary with Channel 4 about my work with disabled clients and I wouldn't say I'm nervous, I'm terrified, although I know it will be fine once I start. I will be throwing off my cloak of invisibility because what we do as sex workers with disabled clients is too important. The general public need to see what we do, our gentle, nurturing side.

Thank you D. Finally, now I get what you meant and I hope you're proud.

LL xx

Topiaries and Tom Cruise

Thusfar, November has been stressful beyond belief. In fact, when I recently met Rhoda Grant at Holyrood, I told her that I will be a size ten by Christmas and it's all her fault. How we laughed.

Meanwhile, at Activism HQ, we've had moments of nothingness, by which I mean, November and December are just so full on that we wondered what on earth we will campaign about come the new year. Fear not, for I have a solution.

Mandatory conscription for sixteen year old males to a two week intensive training piece on kissing. Preferably, this would be held in the dark, but I'm sure that idea would be contrary to some Human Rights Convention or another, initiated by some well meaning train spotter called Colin.

This rather unique and brilliant idea was born out of my time on Facebook yesterday, when I noticed several friends vying for the title of most notable Movember 'tache. I know I'm an escort, but were I to sponsor them all I would have to resort to shop lifting cat litter again, not a prospect I relish to be honest.

It got me thinking about the whole Magnum PI era. Remember THAT moustache ? It was iconic, it was part of his character and it was even 'cool', but I bet his make up people didn't have to kiss him. See I don't mind moustaches or beards per se, they can even be sexy. Where it becomes problematic is where the length of such facial topiaries mean I will be eternally grateful for the emergency tonsillectomy I had as a child.

The crux of the matter is this, kissing is rather like any other form of oral gratification, it needs to be built up slowly, y'all. I make no secret of my love of cheesecake but to woff it down in one would be gluttonous and anyway, the taste needs to be savoured, treasured even.

So I object, yes I said OBJECT to anyone who thinks that as a prerequisite to making the beast with two backs they can explore my larynx and expect me not to gag, (I gave up fake moaning years ago). Don't do that, dude. Softly softly catchy girly, or words to a similar effect anyway.

All of the above has been brought on by an event last night which will scar me for life. One of my friends sent me as message as follows - "Remember that day when we bunked off school and watched THAT scene from Top Gun over and over ? We rewound that Betamax tape until there was smoke coming from the machine just so we could see Tom Cruise making love in silhouette ? Well I've found the scene on You-Tube."

I was so excited I could barely contain myself, indeed boy cat dived for cover. But what I witnessed resulted in slack jawed horror. He does the tongue thing, BEFORE they've even hit the bed. UNFORGIVABLE. I thought my respect for Tom Cruise had diminished beyond any and all conceivable repair following *that* incident on Oprah's sofa, but no. I'm done with him now. And November.

LL xx

Pregnancy and progress

I can still remember where I was when I found out I was pregnant. It was in the bathroom of the office where I worked and I can still feel my cheeks burning with shame at the recollection of the 'walk of shame' to my manager's office. It was the year 2000. Yes indeed, Robbie William's 'Millenium'.

"Um, I need some time off".

"OK, going anywhere nice"?

"Not really, the maternity hospital".

I can still see his face now, it was a curious hybrid of a fatherly like concern combined with an embarrassed half smile.

I don't regret becoming a mother. Quite the opposite, there are very stressful times when the only thing which keeps me going is that cheeky wee face around my door. Why else would I have just agreed to another three days in Blackpool Tower with two thousand, (count them) TWO THOUSAND little princesses running riot in sequins ? If I have any regrets, it's the manner is which my little darling was conceived. She wasn't planned, hell no. I went with the old Irish Catholic method of "Och, it'll be all right". Quelle surprise, it wasn't. Wasn't it Billy Connolly who nodded in the direction of the Catholic Church and the rhythm method for his very existence ?

Post conception, I struggled with the shame thing for a while. I COULDN'T be pregnant, because I come from a very large, very Catholic family. What to do ? Common sense prevailed when I realised at 27, I had a full time job, with maternity leave. Not quite the end of the world then. Still, telling those closest to me was hard, although once La Princess arrived, the whole schema became pink and fluffy.

See, I come from a country where until recently, it was deemed acceptable to condemn women to a life of abject torture in The Magdalene Laundries, because they were unmarried and pregnant. Indeed, in some cases they weren't even pregnant, just "queer". I come from a country where in 1984, Ann Lovett lay down beneath a statue of Our Lady. She died from irreversible shock caused by haemorrhage and exposure during childbirth and her new born son died also.

I come from a country where for years, the Catholic Church became a convenient hiding place for paedophiles and homosexuals because you see at that time, they were one and the same. I come from a country where every time one of those sons of God attacked a child, they were simply moved to another parish and a huge cover up ensued. All of those cover ups are only beginning to come to the surface now, as are the cover ups around the Magdalene Laundries.

As a society though, we have moved on, right ? Well no, not really. Today I have taken time out to read the horror story of a young woman who was effectively sentenced to death by Irish Catholicism. Strong words ? Maybe, but the truth is she was bearing a child who stood no chance at a sustainable life and because of the archaic laws surrounding the rights of an unborn child, she was allowed to die. I'll just say that again. SHE WAS ALLOWED TO DIE. There was no medical intervention to remove the foetus and ultimately, although the child was destined to die, the mother lost her life also.

There's something seriously skewed with that thinking. Let me make this plain, as a feminist I am not pro-abortion, not at all. But that's MY choice. I don't deem it my right to dictate to any body else what they should and shouldn't do with their own bodies. Never will I support the Jeremy Kyle generation who pop down the clinic to have termination number three because they can't be bothered to use contraception or because they simply decide at twenty weeks that they've changed their mind. Not on.

The women who choose to have a very early abortion deserve a mention too, I don't believe they ought to be burnt at the stake either. A bitch will fight to the death for her pups yes, but sometimes she will eat them. It's called survival.

The afore mentioned situations are different, this is a woman's life we're talking about. A happily married woman who could have continued to have had any number of successful pregnancies.

Is it any wonder that a sizeable proportion of my Irish friends have converted from Roman Catholicism to Christianity ? Not really.

LL xx

Faux Feminism

The recent suicide of Amanda Todd got me thinking. From where I'm sitting, there are two schools of thought. One is that she was a young girl who made a stupid mistake on a social networking site by exposing her breasts. One picture ended up doing the rounds of various social platforms and in the end, she could stand the bullying no longer and in spite of having changed schools, she gave up and ended her life.

The second school of thought suggests that she recorded multiple videos involving masturbation, which she distributed through BlogTV whilst persuading a thirteen year old boy to cheat on his girlfriend. Amanda Todd has been compared with Paris Hilton, hence the picture above. "Why does everyone pick on Paris, she does such great work for charity and she only did one sex tape".

Give me a break.

Let's get this into perspective here. Paris Hilton is an attention seeking 'celebrity' who spends Daddy's money and gets to go to lots of red carpet events to exchange air kisses with other beautiful people who have also had sex tapes leaked (cough) and feel her 'pain'. Amanda Todd was a young school girl who was physically assaulted and dumped in a ditch. She drank bleach in an effort to kill herself and when that didn't work, she committed suicide, this time ensuring it was effective.

Those are not the actions of an attention seeker. Those are the actions of someone who had truly had enough and wanted off this planet, for good. But why ? Because some pitiful insecure pack running bullies decided she wasn't good enough to join their social circle ? Really ?

When it comes to overt sexuality, why is it that women perpetually turn on women ? This is what I find so perplexing. We live in a society which deems it acceptable for an individual to approach a seven year old child and tell her - "Your mother is going to die of AIDS", simply because that child's mother chooses to work quite legally as a sex worker.

We live in a society in which Rape Crisis Scotland deem it acceptable to loudly announce a 'Reclaim The Night' march in Glasgow in support of women against rape (which in itself is fantastic) but to then denounce sex work as an 'act of violence'. One rule for the 'nice' women and one rule for sex workers ?

We live in a society in which Joan Burnie of the Daily Record deems it acceptable to say that Edinburgh saunas are "sad, seedy and sorry". I doubt that she has ever set foot in a sauna in her life, I challenge Ms. Burnie to visit the saunas with me, and speak to the women therein. I think she'll find that they are very much of the same ilk as herself, ordinary women getting by and paying their bills day to day.

All of the above is what I lovingly refer to as 'faux feminism'. It's when women who choose to call themselves feminists selectively choose their allies, to the exclusion of other minority groups who don't meet their moral standards. And it's not on.

So why am I so angry about 'faux feminism' ?

I'm a sex worker, prostitute, whore, call me what you will. I have felt first hand what it feels like to be isolated and bullied because of what I have chosen to do in private, between consenting adults, and within the law. I don't fit within the moral code of faux feminists, I make them uncomfortable. How they deal with that discomfort is to project their insecurities onto me.

They call me slut. They call me whore. They hold their husbands tighter. They hitch their skirts higher, to compete.

None of which bothers me, but what does bother me is when a young impressionable girl like Amanda Todd is driven to suicide because of the elitism of others. She was a hormonal teenager and flashed her breasts. Crime of the century ? We could have a discussion around the 'Page 3' debate ad infinitum, but the reality is, there will always be breasts in the media. Nudity, even. I'm willing to bet that the very women who complain loudest about the 'abuse' of such 'victims' who dare to show their breasts on a public platform are the very ones who creep to bed with 'Fifty Shades of Grey' and their rampant rabbit. That's morally preferable, after all.

I just hope that those who ensured Amanda Todd's early grave can live with their conscience and can sleep at night. I sure as hell couldn't bear that burden, and if you pay any heed to the sex work abolitionists, then you will know that my future confessional is simply straining at the seams.

LL xx

Can't cook, won't cook

See, here's the thing.

I need a hobby. I don't have time for a hobby but I need one nonetheless. This is because I am about to embark on the two most stressful months of my life, (exams, activism and a personal life which would drive St. Peter to genocide). I've all but decided that said hobby will be cookery, mainly because I can't cook to save anyone's life and secondly because it's flexible in terms of how and when I wreck it.

I have an idealistic vision of yours truly, resplendent in a gingham apron, smiling beatifically and shelling peas effortlessly into a sparkling stainless steel pot, to produce an acclaimed home made dish which is the envy of every middle class housewife in the village. So much so, that they will decline to enter their gooseberry jams and strawberry flans into the annual county fair for fear of humiliation.

I fear that this vision of mine is doomed to failure for lots of reasons really, but let me examine just two.

1. I CAN'T COOK

Quite a while ago now, a dear friend presented me with a gift of a cookery book, the short title of which might as well have been, "cooking for gobshites". Chapter one was devoted to "how to cook an egg". What could possibly go wrong ? Particularly when they even included instructions on how to cook an egg in a microwave, (for busy professionals, you know). Place the egg on a small saucer with a little water and place in microwave. Idiot proof really, except at no point did they say to remove it from the shell firstly. It may surprise you to learn that when I tried to "top" the egg with a small spoon the resulting explosion and coating of walls was enough to send my house mates into convulsions and that tale went around our social circles for far longer than I would have preferred.

Undeterred, and now in my own bedsit, I announced to a fellow student and good pal that I was going to cook her a Sunday roast dinner. Perhaps I chose to ignore her crestfallen expression, I mean nothing was going to get in the way of this ideal project. I produced lovely vegetables and gravy, all topped off with chicken which was a little bit crispy on the outside but I felt that the fact it was a bit pink in the middle kinda made up for it. After all, you can have medium beef, so you can have medium chicken, right ? Both of us were in bed for two days, with only a large basin and tender sips of 7-up for company. I did apologise.

2. MY ADDICTIVE/PERFECTIONIST NATURE

As a pseudo-adult, I am now acutely aware of my highly addictive personality.

When Amanda and I were on the tour circuit, we both discovered a game on Facebook which at the time, was all the rage, Farmville. Suddenly, I had a farm to tend every day and most of my friends were playing it too. When it got to the point where I was spending up to two hours a day milking cyber cows and reaping cyber strawberry harvests just so I could "level up", I had to acknowledge that this was becoming somewhat of an obsession. With a heavy heart, I deleted my account although I would like it noted that I had the highest score at the time, hell I even had my own mechanical plough.

The early days of my recovery from Farmville were difficult and there were many times when Amanda had to physically restrain me from climbing a fence just off the A9 to deftly organise some bales of hay in an adjoining field. Indeed, come lambing time I still get the odd twitch and if I had my way, those lambs would be organised into groups according to size, weight and colour coded too. On even daring to present with such a twitch, Amanda sits on my head, surprisingly effective.(Truly, that woman will never know what she means to me.)

In real terms with my new chosen hobby, gone will be the apron, the smile and the award winning marmalade.

In it's place will be a woman demented, stomping up and down the galley at 2am and shrieking -

"THE RECIPE SAID TWO HUNDRED FECKIN' DEGREES".

I am determined though. At this point I would usually ask you to "wish me luck".
Instead the mantra in my house when I step into the kitchen seems appropriate -

Good luck everyone.

LL xx

P.S : Hardcore activism begins mid-October, as soon as I have my horrendous exams out the way. You have been warned.

Apes and Altruism

Is there any such thing as true altruism ? I ask because of late I have been studying apes, not the type to be found at the taxi rank just off Sauchiehall Street on a Friday night, but bonobos. The female of the species appease an aggressive male by having sex with him, and in doing so ensure the continuity of peace within the group. That's all very magnanimous of her, but isn't there a reciprocal benefit ? As a female I know that you can't put a price on peace and quiet and what of her own sexual pleasure ? Also, what of her own increased standing in her peer group as a peace maker ?

I ask for your opinions on altruism (and do please feel free to comment) because last weekend, I raised the level of magnanimousness to infinity, I agreed to take LP to a "dance competition" in Blackpool. If the truth be known, I was rather looking forward to it because I had never been to Blackpool before and also, I knew she would enjoy the experience because she has been training SO hard, (for which read, almost taking the cat's eye out in the living room with various contortions which would have Madonna reaching for her cod liver oil).

On arrival to the recommended hotel (which by the way, I wouldn't order a sub to stay in), we were greeted with the familiar base beat of the music which was to haunt my life and my dreams for the next 48 hours.

Every parent's worst nightmare (aside from the very obvious) must surely be your treasured child, having consumed three cans of red bull, cartwheeling across the reception area of a hotel, almost knocking the zimmer frame out from under Glenda, recently arrived back from her trip to the local bingo. Ordinarily, I would die before I would allow my little darling anywhere near red bull, but here I had to concede because this is the way it's done at "comps". The dancing that they do is high energy, high effort and in repeated rounds, so if your little treasure wants to do well, taurine it is, like it or lump it.

One gets to an age where night clubs just no longer hold any appeal, the loud music, blinding lights and having to roar at each other become tiresome, a good meal out with some laughter becomes far preferable and to be honest, the thoughts of having some gobshite try and bellow some cheesy lines at me at the bar of a noisy nightclub in an attempt to get me under his duvet just fills me with horror. GET. LOST.

So, here's where the altruism comes into play. I placed myself in a darkened function room for two days, with two hundred wild eyed little princesses, all decked from head to toe in sequins and flinging themselves around to the incessant bellow of massive speakers, HELL.

Of most curiosity were the Mothers who wondered past with a broad beam, "...you enjoying yourself ? It's a great atmosphere !!"

ARE YOU QUITE MAD ??

From time to time, I took time out to retreat to our hotel room, and in spite of my immortal terror of them, I could enjoy the sight of several large rats scampering over the bins at the back of the hotel, (told you it was a dump) mainly because I was two floors above them. I allowed myself a flight of fantasy and pictured what it must be like as a rat. I'm sure it's pretty shit overall, what with natural predators, poisons, not to mention those eejits on a "life of grime", but at least they don't have to sit and "enjoy" two days of some truly dreadful music which would drive squatters and bed bugs out, never mind hotel "guests".

So in the end, I gave up. Sod it, if you can't beat them, join them and I necked two red bulls just to join in the hysteria and see what I was missing out on. Bugger all actually, but at least it convinced LP that an early night was in order if only to stop me doing my "Ebeneezer Good" rave moves on the dance floor, mission accomplished.

In the end, when I had all but voluntarily signed myself in to the nearest secure unit where I could draw with some nice non toxic crayons all day, came the moment, that which made it all worthwhile.

She had done it and lifted a very large trophy over her head, to tumultuous applause, and screeches from her amassed completely delirious and cross eyed peers.

"Altruism" my backside, the reciprocal feeling of maternal pride was one I won't let go of for a very long time to come.

LL xx

Mother of the Year

It's a very odd situation to be in really, mine I mean. Recent events have conspired to ensure that I am 95% "out", at least in my local area, but that's OK. Had I been asked how I felt about being "out" four years ago, the likelihood is you would have found me in a crumpled heap in a corner, but that's because at the time there was a very large element of a very small community determined to make sure I was "out" to all and sundry and further, to make sure that the full brunt of all that entailed in a small town was brought to bear on both myself and my daughter. How times have changed.

These days I view it as a very strong position to be in because I believe that if it's not a secret, then it can't hurt you. So my neighbours, my family and all my good friends know too, that I am a chubbier and probably narkier version of Belle. Their support and their acceptance mean a great deal to me actually, not that I'm so insecure that I would seek their support but when it comes to protecting my daughter then I will take any help that is on offer.

When we initially moved to Ayrshire some time ago, La Princess befriended a couple of little girls and at first everything was splendid although I did have one or two inner "niggles". Two of the girls concerned began to literally live at my house at weekends, ostensibly because I was a "cool" Mum, in other words I let them bake cakes in the kitchen on a Sunday and didn't have a nervous breakdown if there was some flour left on the counter. Having (at that point) never met the parents of one of the little girls though, I began to have concerns when her parents said it was perfectly OK for her to spend the night at our house and she could come back the following day, um .... whenever.

Quite obviously, I'm not a child abductor or serial killer, but they didn't know that. Again, I'm not nominating myself as "Mother of the Year", but if my heiress to the throne wanted to stay out all night then damn sure I would be down to the house to meet the parents and make sure I knew who they were and what they were about. These "sleepovers" happened on several occasions before I actually met the parents and I'm sorry, but I found that odd. Following on from that came the Sundays. I literally became the "Pied Piper" of the locality and every time I sought to go out on a Sunday with La Princess, there were two little tag alongs, kicked out of the house for the afternoon with a fiver and a "make sure you say thank you".

None of that became an issue until it became known locally who I am. Suddenly, those little girls who were kicked out of their houses routinely because their parents needed "to rest" were no longer allowed to come to my house, or hang out with my daughter. I have to tell you, that hurt. It hurt me, because I had welcomed them in with open arms when they were clearly a "nuisance" at their own homes. Stepping aside from my own feelings though, it hurt La Princess, because she couldn't understand what she had done to create such a rift, and given that I had only begun to explain to her about the nature of my job then I really couldn't explain the actions of some severely hypocritical and bigoted parents.

The good news is, since then we moved again and are now surrounded by the most wonderful, loving and accepting people, who will stand by us and support us no matter what, a position which is very much reciprocated. The irony of it all is, we still bump into those girls and indeed their parents, and it's all I can do to stop myself bawling them out on sight, but that's not who I am and it's not the values I want to instil in La Princess either.

So instead, since they know who I am and I know they read my blog then I would like to say the following -

*clears throat*

Congratulations. Congratulations on teaching your daughters the very values I have gone out of my way to avoid as a Mother. Intolerance, bigotry, prejudice, and downright dogmatism.

Myself ? I'd rather continue to teach my daughter acceptance, assertion, self-worth and a belief that no matter who or what you come up against, let it never deter you.

LL xx

Lies, damned lies and statistics

If Thomas Gradgrind had his way, society as we know it would be immersed in facts and nothing else. In the current heated debates which are going on in the press, on the net and all around us, facts would appear to be an alien and unnecessary complication to an otherwise "worthwhile" fresh assertion from the abolitionists and anti's, hell bent on trying to stop the consensual exchange of sex for money.

If you really don't think a misrepresentation can be dangerous, let me give you an example. Say tomorrow I wrote a blog post and said -

"I've been having a think about my marketing techniques and I think I'm going to make some changes. From now on, every Friday in Glasgow I will be holding a bareback gang bang, £50 for a two hour session, up to ten guys max please".

Now, anyone who knows me (and my sense of humour, more to the point) would snort with laughter and email me with "ye daft bint". Unfortunately, there are 5 out of every 100 people who would read that blog post and believe it, THAT'S where the danger lies. So when I read such statements on Twitter as "Everyone knows that 14% of all prostitutes in the EU are trafficked", apart from almost making me choke on my jaffa cake, I realise there is work to be done here.

Let me qualify that last statement by saying that I am of course acutely aware that there are fantastic activists out there, fighting on all of our behalves to put the record straight and not just activists, journalists and academics too, witness this article by Nick Davies where he compares the moral panic around trafficking to that of weapons of mass destruction and further, this wonderful piece by Brooke Magnanti, on the more pertinent question of why Scotland should never outlaw the purchase of sex.

But therein lies my internal problem, why leave it to those who have taken the time to properly research and reference their work ? Sure, I can put together a compelling argument based on my years of experience, but it strikes me that when this debate is going to get as dirty as you could possibly imagine, then in the end, cold hard facts are what will win the war.

I could pour my efforts into undermining the "opposition" in their personal capacities but to me, far more can be accomplished by strengthening our own position, rather than hurling accusations at the "enemy". If they want to make themselves look like spiteful malicious bringers of the wrath of doom, so be it. The truth is that I have several academic clients who have been verbally scalding me for not following the blatantly obvious path of fact.

So, the proverbial worm has turned. Just when my pals will be sipping cocktails on the Costa Del Sol and enjoying surreptitious shags in the shade (I really need to get past this alliteration thing), yours truly will be on a lounger in my back garden with several kilos of cat thereon and academic reports to digest and best utilise.

Before I head off into the dark recesses of red bull and anti-socialism, I wanted to draw your attention to the fantastic new national ugly mugs scheme launched by the UKNSWP and with the hard work and dedication of Amy too, it's a credit to everyone involved and a huge step forward in the protection of sex workers.

‘Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!’ said Mr Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. ‘Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals!

Wish me luck.

LL xx