Why you shouldn't just turn away when you see I've posted about zombies, again.

I wanted to start by saying 'some of my best friends are zombies'. But then I though some people might feel kind of targeted. So let me try this instead:

Some of my best friends don't like zombies.
Ok, that doesn't sound all that shocking. No one likes zombies. Except maybe other zombies. But even that's dubious as zombies don't really have complex emotions and tend to respond positively only to things they can eat - hence not zombies.

But I disgress. What I meant is that my friends don't like cinematic or fictional zombies, so that when I tell them I've written this really cool post about the zombie apocalypse, or about an eighteenth century feminist philosopher and zombie fighter, they just smile and say 'zombies aren't really my thing'.
Aside from the inanity of their reaction - zombies aren't any body's thing! It's more a matter of who will know what to do when the apocalypse comes and who will just get eaten -  they're missing  out on a whole lot of rich and fascinating social and ethical commentary. 

The logic of zombie apocalypse

In times of great stress, when the world is on edge, reporters often revisit the more unlikely myths. That is the time to interview the man who spotted Nessie, the little girl whose dog was abducted by aliens.

This is a good thing - as otherwise we would never get to find out anything about the lochness monster or alien abductions then where would we be when faced with actual danger? I refer you to the endless horror movie scenes in which the irritating skeptic is eaten by the monster from space. 

So I want to do my bit towards helping you be better informed. Here goes.

Why you shouldn't despair if a zombie apocalypse happens. 

We've all heard it. If - when - the zombie apocalypse begins, we're all gone.

There are two main reasons for this. First, we are bound, by the laws of horror, to do the wrong thing every time, just like we are bound to go and look in the attic if we hear strange noises caused by a demonic entity, or to open the front door and step outside to look when a murderer is lurking in our garden. Nothing can be done about that. If you would like to know before hand which stupid things you will find yourself doing in the event of a zombie apocalypse, then head over to the Oatmeal who offers a fairly comprehensive guide.

The second reason we are led to believe by the literature on the topic that zombies will eventually exterminate us is more dubious. Zombies, it is said, will reproduce faster than us. There will be millions of zombies for every pocket of surviving, shivering, arm-missing humans.

But what exactly are our grounds for thinking that this is the case?
It's not entirely clear how, precisely, zombies are created and how they reproduce. The consensus seems to be that zombification is the result of an infection, of sorts, kind of mixed up with voodoo magic, and maybe extra-terrestrial influence. Any way. 

The point is, how exactly does the infection spread? Does it spread only to corpses? Corpses that have been exposed to zombie saliva? This makes sense. So: if you are bitten by a zombie and then die, you will in turns become a zombie. But that requires contact and chance. The zombie must catch you. It must bite you. It must kill you. A zombie may well be lacking mobility or speed. A zombie is traditionally a rather clumsy heap of rotting flesh. Not as fast as your average unfit, overweight, stroller pushing, shopping carrying forty year old. So, unless you're actually stuck in an elevator with a couple of zombies and no blaster (not sure whether these are actual weapons or just things they have on Buffy, but they seem like they would be kinda effective on zombies - messy, mind you) - you'll be fine.

The part of the story that usually scares people is the thought that all the buried dead will come back as zombies. This is no where more obvious than in Halloween parties where people see fit to dress up as Victorian zombies. I mean, come on, people, use your common sense. Why do you think zombies are all torn off limbs, leaky eye ball, and exposed bone? Because they are rotten corpses. And how long do you think it takes for a buried corpse to fully decompose? (I can't believe I googled this). The flesh is gone within a year and in fifty years, so are the bones. So Victorian zombies? I don't think so. All you'll get out of a graveyard is the recent dead.Only those corpses that are sufficiently complete will become zombies. The rest may want to get out and eat our brains, but they won't have the means to claw their ways out, or if they do, to bite us.

I'm sorry to be blunt here, but, as a philosopher and a blogger, it befalls me, in these troubled times, to set the record straight. To believe that we would be suddenly invaded by armies of zombies is the result of a simple error of reasoning.

Of course, there are still ways in which a zombie epidemic could go bad. Zombies could attack a hospital, finding thousands of potential victims tied to their beds, and, let's face it, probably glad of the opportunity to become brain eaters so they don't have to swallow any more hospital food.

Another bad stroke of luck would be to have an epidemic in Egypt, where corpses tend to keep longer. But then it's not clear whether that would count as a zombie apocalypse rather than a mommie apocalypse, and if the latter, it's outside of the topic of this post.


So I will conclude by advising my readers not to be overly worried in the event of a zombie apocalypse, but to get a blaster, or, if you can't get hold of one, avoid getting into lifts with people who are obviously rotting corpses.

A rare genetic disorder

This morning, as Max was getting into the lift to go down and wait for the school bus, I noticed that his rubber boots were split at the back. The whole length of rubber was gaping. So I unrolled his trousers a bit to cover as much of it as possible. Not too much: the reason the trousers were rolled up was to hide a big tear at the bottom.

These are not old clothes. They are not even second hand, or cheap. I bought the boots two weeks ago and my husband picked up the trousers around the same time. I have no idea why our children's clothes are always stained, or torn.

Well, maybe. Ours do the same thing. So it's probably  genetic.
That's it. There is a gene for not being able to keep clothes neat.
I can prove it.

We wash our clothes in our own washing machine. My husband is anal very careful about putting them on the right cycle. I'm not, but then I never go near the wash basket.

For the past eight years we've had a person coming in regularly to clean our house - aren't we lucky! - and she irons all our clothes. She's way more careful with them than we'd ever be. If we knew how to handle an iron, that is.

She's not so great about putting them away in the right place so I do that. And I am very careful anal about it.

Clothes that need to be dry cleaned are, eventually. Things are repaired when they need to be.
So our clothes are extremely well cared for (well, sort of: we don't have suit bags, shoe horns, padded hangers, fuzz ball removers, we often don't handwash stuff for ages, and only if it really really has to be handwashed and I don't bang it in the main wash 'by mistake' after it's been in the handwashing basin for several weeks - erm. I'm in danger of losing my point here).

So you see, our clothes are perfectly cared for. 
Then we wear them.
We don't climb trees (often).
We try not to walk in the mud if there's a dry pavement (unless we don't see it because we're talking).
We roll up our trousers, or tuck them in our boots if it's raining (then forget to tuck them out again).
Still, we're a mess.
Always.
There are no wardrobe malfunctions.
That's just how we are.
Any cures for it?


This was my post for Mama Kat's Writers Workshop. The prompt was: a wardrobe malfunction.

Weekend Charter: Turning 40

This week our theme came from Sister 3. We called her up late last night - as she was just coming home from work!!! - and said we were stumped. So she said: ' why don't you do something on birthdays?' And of course that would come to her mind. This time of year is big on birthdays in our family. Both my sisters and my father had birthdays recently. And even my husband's family treats this month as 'Let's be born and Party' time. In fact, he's in Istanbul right now having a joint celebration with his mum. He's just turned 40 and she 70. 40. I know. More on that in a minute.

My husband took our daughter with him for a bit of quality travelling , and Max and I decided to stay home. We're having a good time of it so far. He's playing lots of make believe games and watching everything he likes on tv (unlike me: why isn't Glee! on my streaming channel yet?). He's even persuaded me to make some chocolate crepes. Husband and daughter report having a really good time too, and MIL told me yesterday she's loving her celebration. So, so far so good.

Except I'm left here worrying about turning 40. Because Husband and I were born a few months apart the same year (1970 - an excellent vintage for philosophers).

It's not that I'm worried about getting older. I've come to realise over the years that this tends to happen on a day to day basis rather than on big birthdays. No, I'm fine with that. It's more to do with the realisation that, come forty, you're meant to be a certain way. Respectable, maybe. Adult, definitely. Better dressed. So with a few months to go, I'd like to review the list of 'Things I'm meant to have got right before turning 40' and see how I score. Why don't you see how you score too if you're not 40 yet? And if you are 40, feel free to add things to my list!

Things I'm supposed to get right before turning 40

1) I suppose I should know how to drive. And I should own a car. You know, one of those big things that stand high on the road, has a big boot for putting all the bikes and shopping bags, and the kids are permanently strapped in the back sipping juice from boxes, making crumbs, and peeing in bottles. Everyone else I know who's 40 drives and has one of these. Except my husband. Plus it's just not going to happen.

2) I think I ought either to wear heels, or 'sensible shoes'. I don't think I'm going to be allowed to wear Converse and Harley Davidson boots once I'm 40. And I might as well give up on the idea of buying the new pair of DM's I've been wanting for the last ten years (as my old ones died just as I was leaving England). No one is going to sell me them once I'm 40.

3) Probably there will be compulsory trips to the hairdresser. Maybe I'll turn grey and have to 'colour'? Or cut it very short and dye it blue? It's not that I don't trim my hair. I'm aware of the dangers of split ends, and what they can do to your general health and well-being, as well as the social stigma. So a few weeks ago, I took the pair of scissors that I got for free from Boots ten years ago, and I trimmed. So what if it's not very regular - my hair is one big long mess anyway, who's going to notice?

4) They might make me wear make up, mightn't they? I might have to attend a class in a department store on how to apply it. Foundation and all. Maybe I could get a friend to plaster it on on the day they test me, and then the respectable police will leave me alone.

5) I once read in a novel by the woman who wrote Sex and the City that forty year old women now look better than thirty year old ones. That they've lost weight, had 'things done', and are generally more toned and better dressed. Oops. Shit. Not gonna happen.

6) Oh yes, I should be somewhere on the property ladder, shouldn't I, not leaving on University accommodation. Well, we've been looking at the ladder recently. There's this cute little house in Selcuk, near Izmir, we'd really like to own for our holidays. It's cheap but not so cheap we can buy it outright, and borrowing money in Turkey if you're a foreigner can be complicated. So probably not going to happen.

7) Re: money. I'm pretty sure we're supposed to have more than we do. But hey, we've got retirement funds! Yes, we have! And some savings! (though not enough to buy a very small house in Turkey, and probably not enough to buy a car in the UK). And no debts! Hurrah!

8) I should have written a book. Not a philosophy book, been there done that. But a novel. I should be a best selling novelist by now. And very rich so I could buy lots of cars I can't drive and cute little houses on the sea side.

9) Should I have had another child? I was hoping to have three. But with Max's diagnosis and the life complications that ensued we decided that probably not. Not before we're 40 anyway. Plus we can't afford a third. Plus two is far too much work already! How am I supposed to hold down a job, save for a house and write a best-seller if I have three kids?

10) Know who I am. Well, fuck that for a lark. I'm a philosopher, I'm entitled to skepticism about personal identity. So that's one I won't worry about.


I would have thought a few pictures of Istanbul might conclude this post nicely. Except I'm not there to take them. So instead I'll treat you to a photo of what Max is up to while his sister is away.