Skip to main content

The Concrete Ceiling

Forget the glass ceiling. According to newly released results from the Equality and Human Rights Commission, women now face a concrete ceiling while trying to shin up the greasy corporate ladder. The latest figures show that ownership of a penis is essential for all those looking to hit the Business Big Time.

Actually, it's not just in business that having a fine set of balls really counts - the worlds of politics, the police force and the legal professions are just as admiring of the Y chromosome. The really worrying bit is that the drop in equality has taken place within the past five years, with the numbers really starting to fall in the past year.

Guess it really is a man's, man's world after all. Maybe we women need to get off our complacent butts and realise that the legacy our mothers left us wasn't enough after all. The big question is: what comes next in a so-called post-feminist world?

Comments

Tim Atkinson said…
And just look what a b#*lls-up they make of politics, the police and the legal profession (to say nothing of almost everything else.) Come on, women - the world needs you!
Kate B. said…
Totally with you on that, Dotts. We just need to breed more enlightened males like you and we'll be laughing all the way to the top.

That's the secret - indoctrinate the males of the species early enough and we'll be on to a winner... Bingo.

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

What Price Romance?

Let's talk romance for a moment. Manhattan Mama clearly feels deprived in this department and this is one of the most bewildering aspects of life with her. My latest attempt to remedy this is to make a reservation at A Voce--some interpretation of Tuscan cuisine--that the NYT recently gave three very optimistic stars. I've been a few times on my employers expense, so I know it's nice but I also know what it's going to cost. I'm thinking lucky if we get out of there for less than $150. Tack on another $50 for the babysitter. Then drinks, cabs, etc. Better not to do the math. It's not that MM wouldn't be perfectly happy with a kabab or a trip to the hipster taqueria, maybe some flowers from the corner stand. None of that would register in her mind as this mythic thing know as a DATE, and thus would win me no more points on her end than remembering to take down the recycling. Making a DATE means you're thinking of her, which means you're engaged with h...