When I was a small person, smaller even than today, my Grannie used to tell me stories. She told me about Matilda who told dreadful lies and also what happens up the airy mountain with the little men.

She told me about Hiawatha and about Harlequin&Columbine and their doomed love

She also told me a story that I found myself thinking about last night when seeing the Izzard Fawning and the lack of analysis into what it means when a male rewrites entire other groups of people.

Through the mists of memory&the retelling of my dear Grannie the story,which you might know, went a little bit like this: Once upon a time there was a very beautiful young man. He had hair as blonde as fairy gold and eyes as blue as a summer’s sky.