Chauvinistic or a good idea? Is equating women's clothing with urban decorum really implying that women are 'no more than benches or hedges'?

By Claire Cameron

Last week, the Southern Italian town of Castellamarre di Stabia announced its intention to ban the mini-skirt. Not only would the Italian Glamazons be prevented from showing a bit too much bronzed thigh, but the town mayor, Luigi Bobbio, has clarified that the mini-skirt will not be the only victim. Anything deemed ‘too short’ is to be targeted. This includes: low-cut jeans, revealing tops, teeny-weeny bikinis, hot pants, and whatever else you can imagine spilling out of. Bobbio has stated that women in ‘racy’ outfits should be stopped by police and fined up to 300 euros for disgracing the public decency: “One glance should be enough to judge.” But how does one judge Public Decency? If the heads of the policemen get turned twice? If a girl gets a ‘honk’ from a passing car? Maybe she’ll get some lewd comments thrown in to the bargain? Having been to Italy several times and with many friends who have lived there in the past, everyone I know who has spent more than a day there has experienced all of the above. And yet I do not wear a mini-skirt every day, I don’t enjoy feeling like I am about to tumble out my top and my beach-ware is far more socially acceptable than that great staple of Italian men everywhere: the Speedo. And even if I did want to wear hot pants every day, there is a sharp contrast between a dress with some cleavage on display and causing grave offence to ‘decency’. In response to the measures, centre-left politicians staged a protest sit-in in the town council. Angela Cortese, a councillor, said: “By equating women’s clothing with urban decorum, this measure implies that women are no more than benches or hedges.” Civil pride has come to rest on the image of ‘acceptable womanhood’. I agree with Cortese: using women’s’ appearances as a marker for civility and respectable conduct is not good practice. The reputation of a town does not rest on whether or not someone is showing underwear every time they wiggle as they walk. It isn’t the first time an administration has announced such a ban in recent years: Uganda tried to implement a no-mini law and Chile attempted to prevent women working in the public sector from wearing a mini, citing the clothes as a ‘distraction’ to men and a potential hazard. Who knew a few extra inches of flesh could cause road accidents, a decrease in productivity and encourage sexual harassment in the work place? I can understand a man getting a bit hot under the collar if he saw his work colleague in suspenders and a ‘GET IT HERE’ sign around her neck, but a short skirt or a low cut top? Quite frankly I would not expect sexual harassment even if I were wearing a paper bag. I would be less shocked if this news story came out of a country in which women are actively curtailed in their freedoms and prevented by law from expressing themselves. But this isn’t Iran. It is Italy: a member of the European Union, a democracy, and an apparently liberal society. The last time Italy asserted political control over its female citizenry was before the Second World War. Is it not worrying that these attitudes find their historical parallel in a fascist state? Surely an enlightened western country cannot support the institutionalisation of the female form? Causing undue offence? Yes, that should be disciplined. A person’s clothes should not be within the bounds of legislation. A bit of bum cheek on show might be tasteless, but it is never criminal.

Despicable Me

I was a little bit worried about Despicable Me. The crowning glory of all family films – Toy Story – has only just left the building. The book was finally closed on Shrek’s fairytale. The king of computer animation, Disney’s Pixar, is basking in the glory of a flush of beautiful and critically acclaimed animations – and they keep getting better with every new idea. How can a new animation film hope to stand beside such competition? Not only that, but I found out Russell Brand is one of the leading characters. I have a very particular aversion to Brand in any form; non-representative animation included.
I can safely say, with doubts banished to the far corners, Despicable Me is one of the funniest, light-hearted, and clever films I will see this year.
Steve Carell stars as the twisted, polo-neck wearing Gru: a villain whose lack of success has confined him to the horrors of suburbia. Always trying to cement himself as the Greatest Villain of All Time, Gru is horrified when a complete unknown manages to steal the Great Pyramid. In order to win back his reputation, Gru comes up with the ultimate heist: stealing the moon. However, in order to fulfil his dream, Gru must first do battle with his nemesis – the super-nerd Vector. Gru hatches a plan to adopt three orphaned girls to deploy their cookie-selling skills and get him past Vector – but when he starts to form a bond with them, he realises that being the Bad Guy isn’t what’s really important in life.
At times hilarious and at others heart wrenching, Despicable Me guarantees to entertain you. It may even appeal to The Youth – it’s sound-tracked by Pharrell Williams of N.E.R.D fame. One of the best comic aspects of the film for me was the fabulously awful adoption homeowner Miss Hattie: a Sarah Palinesque, twin-set wearing, evil Stepmother. Played by Saturday Night Live performer Kristen Wiig, her sickly sweet voice and pervasive hostility was as hilarious as it was terrifying. The audience is almost relieved that Gru, a nefarious criminal, takes the poor little girls away from her harpy-like clutches.
And that is the real beauty of this film: it is one of the very few portrayals of a single father, nay, an unmarried single father, that is actually positive. It is not fashionable to show a single man as a loving parent-figure, particularly for three cute schoolgirls. It brought something refreshingly original to the much-exploited plot of ‘Criminal Fights Criminal (Except One is the Nice Really)’.
Directed by Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud, Despicable Me is a highly enjoyable film that does not resort to toilet humour to make little children laugh and leave adults bored out their minds. I even thought Russell Brand was, I admit, funny: a real triumph for any film. And as with all vaguely successful films these days, I cannot wait for the sequel.

Currently sitting in Iain's flat, without Iain...without anyone actually. Shockingly they haven't taken the bin out despite leaving it empty for the coming week. Smelly.

I moved all my stuff into my new place. I can't sleep there yet though, as my mum confirmed the stain on the bed is probably bodily fluid. She said it was bloody vomit in her medical opinion. Not highly pleasant. Certainly I can't sleep there until there is a new bed put in. We have already told the landlords, but who knows. They seem to think they can get away with having the place in a shitty state because it is only students going in and out it. But you know, blood-borne viruses are not nice at the best of times. And so I ain't sleeping there. Perhaps we will threaten them with a public health inspection or something.

It is always a surprise to me when I have been staying in Glasgow for a wee while how windy it is here. It is just blowing a constant force 3. The clouds move across the sky at such a vast rate of knots...it does look lovely though. The purple sky and the lilac-y clouds whizzing along.

Amanda, Lauren and Egle are coming over tonight for foods and wines. I am looking forward to seeing them so much. I havent seen Amanda or Egle in the longest time. I expect to be shocked at Egle's tallness. Ah it will be nice to have the gang together again. And all in Edinburgh. A weird feeling, seeing as I only know them really from Delhi. But ah well, it makes me happy none the less.

Well, I finally saw my new flat. It is a slightly run down version of the flat I last stayed in. My room has a pretty dusty pink fireplace and practically nowhere to store my books and clothes. I will have to see how to go about storing my vast and unruly wardrobe. I might even buy a book case or something, as it is ridiculously unprepared for my course books, never mind my general reading/books I like people to see when they come in my room.

The kitchen is fairly spacious, with an ancient sink and not too many work surfaces going spare. I like the laundry room as well. I suppose it is only right and fitting that Christine and Vicky get the nicer rooms at the front of the flat, seeing as they chose the place. Though I now wish I had been slightly more adamant about choosing for myself once I had seen it. Oh well. C'est la vie. My room will just have to be the coolest and most absurdly decorated of the lot then. One good thing about an old and decrepit flat is you can decorate willy nilly to your heart's content. There are so many tack marks in the walls, I see no problem in reusing them for my own paintings and general paraphernalia.

Lauren came by last night, which was lovely. I have been looking forward to seeing her and Amanda so much since we last parted, so it's nice to have her back in my life. She brought me a fabby painting of the Grassmarket and a handmade card with the Holi photo of Amanda, Lauren and me looking like crazed imps. It is my favourite photo, possibly of all time. She says she will teach me how to use my new D3000, as she has finally worked out what 'aperture' is and so is practically a pro in comparison to me. I just run around snapping things and saying 'huh, that looks great....huh, that's out of focus....huh, that is SHARP!'...and not really understanding WHY it looks nice, or blurry, or sharp, or too dark, or too light.

Got to learn more about Iain's flatmate Dave. He has stab scars and tattoos = hard, especially to our shielded-childhood eyes. He is rather nice though, and I am glad they have him around. His room is a bachelor pad. He has transformed my lowly bedroom-of-yore into a high tech and modern man room, complete with flat screen, mac computer, and candles running along the fire place, which he actually lights (bit too keen if you ask me, they should sit and gather dust damnit.) . I was highly impressed and a bit blown back by the sheer neatness of it all. The decoration. The attention to detail. All most grown up.

I have an interview today. My first ever. And I have already mucked up a bit by forgetting my qualification certs...But oh well. God speed me to the joys of tutoring six year olds who can't spell!

Tomorrow Tomorrow And Tomorrow

So tomorrow I get the keys to my new flat that I have never seen and don't even really know the lay out of. If it is more spacious and furnished than a concrete cell with a straw bed and filing cabinet as a wardrobe, then it is a step up form the past year. I feel a little apprehensive about moving in and getting sorted. What if I don't like it? I trusted my friend's judgement implicitly. Maybe not a wonderful plan. I also don't really know one of my flatmates. Also an issue. But you know our warming date is set and I am trying to figure out what to pack into my car tomorrow morning as I write this. C'est la vie. Either way, I have a nice bedroom in a townhouse flat in Edinburgh. I shouldn't really complain all that much now should I?

Another day, another diary.

From one city filled with life and memory, we move into another: Edinburgh. My semi-permanent home town. One thing about writing my blog in Delhi about the ridiculous minutiae of my life, (I imagine there is more than one post about when I got up and what I had for breakfast), was that it has gathered together a mine of information. An archive of not only the daily grind, but also some of the most exciting things I have ever done and would almost certainly have forgotten, at least in some part. So here I am, armed with macbook and a new camera. Be afraid.

I have two days left of Drumchapel and employment, and then tomorrow night I go to get the keys to my new flat. I haven't seen it. I can't wait to see it.