Meet one of my most treasured possessions. This is my mother’s childhood copy of Watership Down, now held together by sellotape. Both our names are in it, hers in 1976 and mine in 2001. (Awww, look at the Noughties smiley face emoji and the heart in there.) I think Mum got it from America but I’d have to ask her.


Despite white supremacist’s best efforts, you survive and thrive. Hell yeah, take that number from them.

This is such a good comment. :)

I always feel… almost wrong saying I’m part Jewish because I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to deserve it I guess. But it would feel wronger saying I’m not? It’s just so complicated and all mixed up in family history that seems to be very messy. I remember when I was a kid at some rubbish summer camp telling the other kids “I’m one-third Jewish” because that was exciting new information then. And other bits of information came out over the years about my Jewish grandfather (he died when I was 6) and my mum’s upbringing and our ancestors in Russia, and once my dad (not Jewish) told me how his grandfather, my great-grandfather, would have hated him marrying a Jewish person because he hated Jews. (Sucks to be him, then, ha.)

…It’s SO COMPLICATED. Gah. I’m not religious in the least and my dad used to be pretty hardcore Christian when I was growing up (so I ended up going to Christian daycare clubs and stuff) but I’m very very proud to be semi-Jewish. Fuck nazis!


Today Ted Cruz tweeted some insulting nonsense about the NHS and the Alfie Evans case. He got a lot of responses, and one of them was me. I was nearly an American, but it’s a good thing I wasn’t. My parents remained in Britain and my mum got the free healthcare that improved her quality of life. My family didn’t have to go bankrupt.

But I like America! I think it’s a beautiful place. When I was 12 my family went to Florida for two weeks. (I turned 13 while there.) I learned today that while I was asleep at our first night in the holiday villa, there was some sort of major problem with the burglar alarm and the police turned up. They ordered my dad out of the house with his hands up, pointing guns at him. For the whole rest of the holiday he didn’t tell us kids that because he knew we’d be scared. He did a really damn good job, seeing as I’m 30 now and look back on that time with little else but fondness.

Obviously he wasn’t shot, which I imagine is owed largely to the colour of his skin and that he knew how to react in such a situation (having lived in America once.) But god, life seems so fragile in that country.