So, erm, yeah, it looks like I won't be attending the SlutWalk this Saturday.
Yeah, it's Saturday. I didn't know either. In fact, I only just found out today when it was. It was heavily publicised last year, but either it fell of the radar or I did this year, and therefore I didn't know when it was on. Given my tendency towards self-deprecation as a defence mechanism, I think I prefer me making the mistake.
I had plans for this year's SlutWalk. I enjoyed last year's, after all, including my holding of a sign declaring my absolute innocence and my resurrection and liberation of a bee, who sped off gloriously into the sunlight - a symbol of hope for the future, maybe. And a lot of luck.
What I wanted to do this year was walk through London with a cabal of south-eastern sex bloggers, holding a banner and protesting loudly against rape. Y'know, because that's what the SlutWalk's for. I'm sure a lot of fellow sex bloggers would want to go. Hell, I'm sure a lot of them are going. I, however, am not. Why? Because I committed myself, back in June, to something specific on this one specific day and it's not something I can get out of.
Not like I didn't try. I even asked when it finished (it's not important what it is; suffice to say, it's not interesting either) so I could slip off at lunchtime and join my slutty whatever-the-female-equivalent-of-brethren-is. But I can't do it. I can't go, and that's that.
But if anyone reading this is going, spare a thought for those who aren't, and appreciate that we'll be with you in spirit. Or at least I will.
Save another bee for me.