Modesty forbids

For several years a female statue has graced the town hall of a small village in north east France without exciting any controversy. Hundreds of visitors have come and gone without it attracting much attention. Now suddenly the Mayor has decided it has to go "because her breasts are too big".

Gerard Cordon, Mayor of Neuville-en-Ferrain, claims the statue was embarrassing members of the public, particularly couples getting married. There would be tut-tutting and indignant comments about its suitability.

He has banned the statue and commissioned a more modest version with a less conspicuous bust.

The sculptor, Catherine Lamacque, is bemused by the decision. She says the figure depicts Marianne, the traditional female symbol of the French Republic, and says she gave it outsize breasts deliberately "to symbolise the generosity of the Republic". Furthermore the Mayor himself chose the original design.

But her comments don't impress Monsieur Cordon. Such artistic and cultural considerations are apparently less important than the over-reactions of a few squeamish villagers.

I have to wonder why anyone would be embarrassed by the statue. Presumably not women, who're very familiar with such items. And presumably not men, who're always entranced by such anatomical generosity.

I suspect if there was any embarrassment at all, it was on the part of women whose menfolk were paying rather too much attention to a female body that wasn't their own. Especially men about to get married, supposedly with eyes only for their dear beloved.

Or are there people so artistically-challenged that they're unaware of the huge number of female sculptures just as lavishly endowed and imagine this is some kind of perverted flourish on the part of the artist? Monsieur Cordon for one.

The fastidious Mayor really ought to get a grip and devote his time to more important business such as sheltering his village from the economic recession. Or just providing a few more benches in the local park.

Pic: the bust of Marianne

Shameful legs

For my entire life I've believed the myth that the Victorians covered up furniture legs for the sake of decency. Now it turns out this is a total fantasy dreamt up by some 19th century writers.

In fact the Victorians weren't particularly prudish and enjoyed sex as much as we do today. Not that prudery ever went away of course, as shown by all those tampon ads that daren't use the word "vagina" or even the words "down there".

If piano legs and the like were covered at all, more likely it was to protect them against cats. Cats were common in Victorian homes to control rats and mice, and a cat constantly sharpening its claws on a table leg can easily reduce it to half its original size.

There's no historical evidence whatever that the Victorians blushingly hid their furniture legs. The myth was fostered by two writers, Frederic Marryat and Frances Trollope, as a casual practical joke that somehow lived on despite the denials.

But we 21st century folk can be pretty coy about sex ourselves. How else to explain the obsession with wardrobe malfunctions, excessive cleavage and visible knickers? We also have our strict informal rules about what is permissible and what is shamefully risqué.

We may boisterously enjoy sex in our own bedrooms, but we still tut-tut furiously at any public figures who seem to be flaunting their sexuality. And many young couples are still too embarrassed to discuss condoms, or even their particular sexual tastes.

We might not cover up piano legs, but we still hide that vibrator that threatens our boyfriend's masculinity. Or that book of nudes our visitors might look askance at. No visible sex please, we're British.

PS: By the way, did I mention, today's my 63rd birthday. Jeez, how did I get to be that ancient?

PPS: Shucks, I didn't make it to the Irish Blog Award Finals. For some reason, the judges were shocked when I offered them bribes....

Distorted self

Our self-image is alarmingly unreliable. The way we see ourselves can be very different from how we actually are, and very different from how others see us.

What do you mean I'm beautiful? I'm just a dumpy housewife who's let herself go. A good organiser, me? I leave everything to the last minute and then trust to luck.

How illuminating it would be if we could step outside our own skins for a day and see ourselves as others see us. We might be in for a surprise or two. A lot of self-delusion and a lot of false modesty might be stripped away.

I think most of us tend either to over-estimate or under-estimate ourselves. We all know the two types - the vain, pompous individuals who're convinced they know it all and the shy, apologetic ones who imagine all they ever do is make mistakes.

I'd say I'm one of the under-estimators. I constantly play down my intelligence, my practical skills, my likeability, my financial resources, my emotional resilience and my enjoyment of life.

People are always contradicting my unassuming descriptions of myself, telling me I'm more capable than I make out. But whenever I compare myself with others, I invariably conclude that they tick all the boxes while I'm obviously lacking.

It doesn't seem possible to have a completely accurate picture of one's identity, everything gets slightly distorted by some preconceived notion of what we'd like to be, or what we feel comfortable with, or what excites us.

The most bizarre example must be the woman who's adamant she's revoltingly fat when in reality her size is completely normal. Or on the other hand, the man who thinks he's Adonis despite his beer belly, hairy nostrils and combover.

In fact our capacity for self-delusion is virtually infinite. You only have to look at some of those strutting politicians and talentless celebs. How our minds do merrily mislead us.

Burkas

I'm fascinated by burkas. What their purpose is, what it's like wearing one, women who're forced into them, the controversies they cause.

Personally, I can't see the point of them at all. They just seem to be extremely impractical and cumbersome, making every daily activity more difficult, including communicating with other people.

Of course for those who believe in male dominance that's exactly the intention - to hamper women and stop them being too adventurous or independent. And to stop them inflaming male lust with their provocative female bodies.

Isn't it odd that there's no equivalent female lust that requires men also to hide behind decency-preserving burkas? How come the blokes are exempt?

But it must be a very weird experience being permanently shrouded from head to toe with nothing visible but your eyes. Rather than something to be appreciated and enjoyed, your body becomes a mere object, just a mechanism to do things with.

Burkas have stirred up plenty of controversy. The French object to them as conspicuous religious symbols in a highly secular society. One British government minister finds it disconcerting to talk to someone so depersonalised and anonymised, nothing but a voice and a pair of eyes.

Many feminists loathe burkas as blatant instruments of oppression, preventing women from being themselves and turning them into cocooned chattels.

Some wearers though deny this and maintain they find their burkas liberating, a way of preserving their privacy and modesty and not being seen first and foremost as male eye-candy.

I have to admit I just find them absurd and ridiculous, relics of a bygone age as quaint as Victorian bathing costumes and whalebone corsets.

Pic: Fiona, Rita, Mavis and Sharon (or was it Fatima, Tasneem....)