As women we want to look beautiful. We have made our survival depend on it.

Every magazine displays page after page of beautiful women, yes, as we know…all airbrushed to the hilt. But we don’t care.

Following the Holy Grail, we stand, a glistening credit card in hand. We worship at the temple of department store hush and listen attentively to the lovely lady in the white coat. To honour the Hope in the White Gilded Jar. For our job is to conform, to shine, to erase those lines and lather that cream. To present our best selves as never before.

For we must look lovely.

We have to whiten our smile, straighten our teeth, and pouf that hair. We have to close those gaps, lift that cleavage, smooth those lines, pout those lips, laser those hands, tighten that neck, fill those cracks. Lift those eye lids, paralyse that forehead, and peel that skin.

And look lovely.

We have to gel those nails, toxic manicure weekly, bleach those curls, dye those greys, and wax those unwanted hairs. We have to tighten those thighs, strengthen those arms, lift those buttocks, flatten that stomach, find that core, lengthen that stride.

And look lovely.

We must agonise over our teenagers, referee toxic family arguments, pray that our children won’t be beaten up at school, and pray that no one will know, 

And look lovely.

We have to be moist and ever ready, meditate like a monk and have sex like a goddess. Be smart, ambitious, together, informed, connected, and on top. Smart phone on, IPad savvy, internet driven.

But of course we also must be there for the little children, sport a designer bag, cook like a chef, and jog with an IPod.

And look lovely.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry having written that. I’m knackered.


Houston, we have a problem.


The world is dying. And we dye our hair.

The earth is hurting, animals disappearing, the oceans are polluted, and we hate our thighs.

Prisons are full, wars are raging, teens are suiciding, and we laser our lines.

Women are raped, old people homeless, forests destroyed and we don’t like our breasts.

Children are starving, nations malnourished, and we are buying our next diet book.

Does something, anything, not make sense here?


Am I really THAT alone, or am I the only one going mad here?


Please stop. Take a breath and just stop. Please.

You see, our egos have us by the short and curlies yet again, as well as around the neck, and have chained us to our credit cards. We have lost sight. We have become blind.

To what matters, to life itself.

To who we really are.

Our egos want us to compete in a world of never ending patent pending anti wrinkle claims. Because it’s fun, isn’t it? And necessary. Otherwise we’d be letting ourselves go. Letting ourselves down. Letting Team Woman down. And we wouldn’t be special, wanted, accepted or worthy of love anymore.

So we are hooked. The commercial beauty world is happy, the lipsticks sold, the breasts uplifted and the toes shiny red.

And the planet is dying.

Body, oh body, is anybody listening?

Here comes the crunch. The crux of the matter. Then if you don’t agree with me after this, please put this book down for we are wasting each other’s time.

We have two choices…change or die. That simple.

The changes we make now will determine whether we continue as a viable human race or not. And it does depend on us. So if the evolution of the human race depends on us as its tools, then we had better listen up.

And start listening to our bodies.

For they are the bridge to a different life.

For all on Earth.

Let me explain.


“Chapter Eleven”

Excerpt from The Gorgeous Revolution