over the pond.

At my sister's wedding last weekend, my Grandad pointed at the ink bramble on my shoulder blade and asked how long I had had it for. He rolled his eyes and asked me how many tattoos I have now, and why I spend money on them. I laughed and told him I liked them.

Often people ask me why but I rarely give them the whole answer.

Its true that I like them. I think that tattoos can be beautiful, that having somebody's art on your body is privilege and a joy, that they add interest and detail to otherwise plain stretches of skin.

But its more than that.

When you have had your body taken away from you, when someone has made you feel small and scared and out of control, when you look in the mirror and cannot recognise yourself anymore- you look for ways to reclaim what should be yours. For me, this has included cutting off my hair and getting tattoos.

There is something powerful about choosing what gets sunk into your skin, how far it goes, how wide it spreads. So often we get stuck with things we never wanted, things we carry around for years, things that permanently alter who we are.

There is relief in the fact that the person who hurt you no longer knows every inch of your skin, can no longer picture you fully when they close their eyes. They are stuck with a version that no longer exists. You are more real than they can imagine. You have outgrown them.

I got my seventh today, hand-poked by a gentle, 6"7 giant covered head to toe in ink. I got a single word: enough. I got it as a celebration of myself, I got it because I faced my abuser and did not crumple or fall to pieces, I got it because I did not hide behind a partner, I got it because I worked hard and spoken out and fought for as many safety measures as possible and protected myself because of them.

It's a statement that I've had enough, that I'm standing my ground, that you must respect my boundaries.

Its a word that is buried beneath my clothes. I won't post a picture on Instagram or Facebook. No one will see it unless I choose for them to see it.

My body is mine once again.

There was a time when the word love made me angry. Sometimes I think it still does. The lies people tell of this wild and wondrous thing that is nothing but an emotion, as transient as frustration or delight or fear. Love is not solid enough for you to hang your life on or pave your path.

There was a time that giving love terrified me, a fleeting thing so insubstantial in the palm of my hand, something I daren't offer to someone knowing that one day I might take it away.

I had just ended a relationship in the name of love when my father did the same. There were vast and monumental differences between our situations, I did not cheat, I tried not to lie, I cared about those who were left behind. But, despite this, the parallel timing of our decisions and the weekends facing the raw pain of my mother alongside the weekday pain of my ex-boyfriend internalised a belief that we were the same. That inconsistency, selfishness, and the ability to indescribably hurt another was etched into my genetics, that I was destined to break people. That I was not fit to offer or receive love.

My mental health rapidly deteriorated. Amidst the agony of my family deteriorating, I could not separate what I had done with what he had done and I had no-one to tell me otherwise. My mother was hurting too much, my ex-boyfriend still angry and sore, my friends in Canterbury bitter at my actions, my father actively encouraging the comparison to make himself feel better about what he did.

I did many stupid and painful things that year, punishing myself and letting myself get hurt again and again whilst crying out for validation. A scared child seeking safety in those who would make me feel as awful as I believed myself to be.

I was not innocent. I was a selfish twenty two year old who slipped into a dream of a life without wanting to turn back and see what I'd left behind. But I was not wrong to leave, to end a relationship when I felt too much for someone else.

As my self-hatred grew, I believed that I would never be worthy of love, that someone as awful as myself would never be safe to be in a relationship, that I was always going to be a danger to those who were close to me.

I told Connor that he wasn't allowed to say that he loved me.

I promised myself that I would never let myself enter into a long term relationship, never allow myself to care for someone, never put myself in a position where I could hurt someone else.

A dull ache is better than a sharp pain, that's what I repeated to myself. Feeling lost, lonely and unwanted was better than the soaring high and plunging depth of love and loss. I became self-sufficient and closed, dating without getting attached, scoffing at those who still rolled the ineffectual word love around their mouth.

There was growth and understanding in this time. I learnt how to better care for myself and how I wanted my life to unfold. I started to be kinder to myself, forgiving myself slowly, finally starting to separate myself and my actions from the irreparable damage my father caused.

I let myself be loved by my mother and brother and sister.

Love took on a new meaning. It was not romantic or whirlwind or momentous, it was robust and sturdy, exchanged amongst friends along with trust and hope and compassion. Not a single strand too quick to be cut, but a thick practical rope, sturdy enough to bear my awful weight. And that helped me to feel lighter. Less horrendous, less of a burden.

When Connor reentered my life, I was still wary of relationships and romantic love. I convinced myself that his visit would be platonic, a meeting of two friends, two pen pals. Something fleeting. I did not hang my hopes on it, I didn't dare believe anything solid and substantial would come of it. It would be nine lovely days showing him England.

The girls at my work asked me if I loved him.

"Of course," I'd reply, "But that doesn't mean anything." And I truly believed it.

And then he came. And I couldn't help it, I started to let myself love him, properly love him, again.

Almost a year later and I am still learning that this life we have together is valid and safe. There are still times that I push him away, refuse to let myself be consumed with love, hold back when he draws me near. But I am starting to make plans again, trying to let myself dream of a life shared without spending every moment scared that it will crash and burn.

I still fear hurting him. But I know that pain is a part of the patchwork struggle of two imperfect people doing their very best. And that we will try our best to soothe and comfort each other, but sometimes lash out and cause harm. I know now that this does not make me a monster. I know that I am not an inherently terrible person. I believe that I can love and deserve to be loved.

Love is still just an emotion. But it is also the only word we have to describe connections that make us feel less alone. And I think we all need to feel less alone. Even if that reaching out may mean that we one day have to let go, it is still worth reaching out for. Arms outstretched, chest exposed. Waiting for the love we deserve.

Today it was Canterbury Pride.

And, just like last year, the weather was perfect.

I remember how warm it was, how happy everyone was last year. I arrived at the field and got smothered in glitter by a girl I barely knew and was embraced by a group freely dancing to the crackly speaker music at 3 in the afternoon.

I was wearing my newly sewn mustard dungarees. A girl shouted at me that she loved them.

I wandered around and bought some earrings shaped like mushrooms from an art student and sat on a barrel of hay with my friends listening to middle aged local artists performing quirky love songs.

But I wasn't happy.

I was surounded by proud straight allies and proud queer folx and I, closeted and scared, was neither.

A year on and I am no longer closeted, still terrified of women, but more at peace with myself and my own sexuality. Maybe this year I'd feel more at home at Pride.

Coming out wasn't an experience I ever wanted. Having spent years pushing the quietly queer, not quite straight side of me as far away as I could. But when I finally faced it- finally looked myself in the eye and admitted that maybe, just maybe I did like women- I no longer wanted to push it away.

The people closest are always the hardest to be honest with. I'm getting there slowly.  This essay is on my long forgotten blog and not my facebook page.

But I'm writing it and I'm sharing it and I'm proud of it.

Being bisexual, it can feel simpler to squash yourself into a hetero mold, to bring home men and leave women in the dark of nightcubs and dancefloors.

Being bisexual, it is hard for people to see you as anything other than straight when you are in love with a man.

Being bisexual, it can be difficult to feel valid in LGBTQ spaces, despite being a part of the acronym.

But I am valid. And I'm not a proud straight ally, dancing with the glorious drag queens at pride. I am queer.

And what a lovely thing to be.

When I wrote this post almost a year ago, I had no idea what our dear Conservative government would do with the political mandate bestowed upon them by the election result. I had lived five years under a Conservative/Liberal Democrat coalition, I had lived under David Cameron's leadership before, would he really do any more damage with a full Tory government?

This past year living in the states, I have spent a lot of time educating myself on the American political system, and, as a result, my own country and its failings have been placed temporarily on the back shelf. But what I have heard has left me incredibly angry.

The response to the opposition of junior doctor's to Jeremy Hunt's contract proposal is not just cowardly and stubborn, it is downright dangerous. I could write a post about why I believe the contract itself is wrong, but others have written far better articles and blog posts about it. The reason why I am so angry goes beyond the awful ideas of our health secretary to the fundamentally flawed and ultimately terrifying state of the so-called democratic system.

As the government push through legislation to impose a life-changing and NHS-destroying contract on the junior doctors, they refuse to acknowledge any opinion or idea other than their own. They are deliberately and maliciously ignoring the voices of the people they apparently represent. Not even in the face of a two day strike that could potentially endanger lives. Like children, they put their hands over their ears and pull faces at the young men and women who are fighting for the right to a safe and sustainable NHS. But David Cameron and Jeremy Hunt are not children, and their refusal to acknowledge the needs of their people is not childish, its tyrannical.

In the past year the government has repeatedly ignored the cries and protests of the people it has authority over. And with another four years of almost absolute power due to their majority win, it seems like there is little that the public can do to stop the destruction of our NHS, power hungry military attacks such as the unnecessary missile strikes in the wake of the attacks on Paris, cuts to disability and welfare benefits, or indeed anything our leaders stubbornly set their mind upon.

Their message is loud and clear: you can protest all you want, you can march the streets, you can quit your job, you can write letters and make videos, you can scream in their faces or lie bleeding at their feet, but they will not listen.

And that frustrates and terrifies me. We are at the mercy of indifferent and unfeeling politicians who we voted in. Under the name and authority of "democracy", the Conservatives can do as they please.

I want to believe in the voice of the people, in the role of art, in the force and power of intelligent and motivated activists and groups to influence and bring about justice. But right now I feel suffocated and helpless.

I'm writing this post, angry and upset, with the freedom to say how I feel. But what good does that do when anything other than the opinion of those in leadership is discounted, muted and ignored?

We will continue to protest, we will continue to fight, we will continue to pressure and push the government towards compassion, as I wrote back in May last year. But I no longer shout it or truly believe it will be effective. And, sadly, that is what they want. For those who want to cry out to realise that they will scream until their voices strain and break to no avail and therefore not say anything at all. It will be an exhausting fight, but in the face of such opposition, we cannot stop, we mustn't stop. Or we place the autonomy they so ardently desire in their hands, and I for one cannot live with that responsibility.

From time to time people ask me to start writing for my blog again. As you few readers who still venture back in anticipation of a half hearted travel recap are well aware, what was once a lively space has now fizzled away.

I know I don't owe anyone an apology, but I feel like there is something I want to get off my chest.

Before I posted the link on my facebook I was incredibly guarded about who should and shouldn't have access to this space. There was a link on my instagram, sure, so it wasn't as if it was completely private, and I would give people the link if they asked for it, but it wasn't exactly out there in the way that it now is. By promoting it as a blog for my year abroad, I found myself having to write posts about my study abroad, whether that was pretty pictures of cities I visited or rambling monologues about making friends and investing in a new life in America. At the beginning of my year abroad, this was absolutely fine, I was busy and overwhelmed with my new place and friends and experiences; I didn't want to write about anything else.

Then life happened, and as things happened that I couldn't write down or think through online in such a public forum, I found myself withdrawing from this outlet. I began thinking more about politics and social interaction and self-expression and a whole bunch of things that weren't related to my year abroad and weren't appropriate for the audience that I had accumulated. Before publishing it publically, I used to ramble on my blog about anything and everything that I thought about, barely censoring myself, using my corner of the internet as a pseudo journal. I felt like I lost that. I found myself attempting to churn out posts about my winter break travels, indeed I have several lined up and unpublished, but they felt empty and dry and forced. It didn't feel like me. But when that is what people expect and want and encourage, it becomes hard to write anything else.

But now I want to come back. Forget the suffocating cityscapes and smiling selfies; I want this blog to return to its roots. Some pretty picture posts, sure, and many soul searching rambles that mean nothing to anyone or anything but simply try to put into words the things that I'm thinking and feeling.

And I am aware that there is still a level of censorship for those who are unaccustomed to my lifestyle choices or thoughts and beliefs which is frustrating but necessary, but I wish to endeavor to be more honest on this space. I want to write for me.

This all sounds very pretentious, as if I have a demanding, attentive flock of followers when very few people search for this blog anymore. And perhaps that is what I am waiting for, for the readership to die and I can slip back into anonymity where I do not know whether people are reading my blog or not, where I can focus on giving out without being overly concerned about the reception. I am proud that this space is my own, this channel of communication opened up so that people can understand me and my life better, not an overinflated idea of the mythical year abroad.

So here I am, I'm back, I'm ready to reclaim this blog, ready to start writing again. Sorry it has been so long, but this is my last apology. Thank you for reading and caring. Or not. Either way, I'll be here rambling away.

A couple of weeks ago I moved to a new country for no reason other than cultural experience. I get no transferable credits from my university course, so my time spent studying is just that, filling my time. I have the privilege to move country, to move continent, legally and without any setbacks, because I was born into a country and family with money. There are millions of people around the world without this luxury, or indeed without this necessity.

I have watched from the states as the refugee situation in Europe gets worse and worse, as images of desperate Syrian families and dying children cover the front pages of British newspapers. And I have seen ignorant comments from privileged politicians and first world citizens alike making excuses as to why we shouldn't let refugees into our country. Our country. What an ignorant, privileged position to be in that we believe that "our" chunk of earth, "our" tiny corner of the planet has been preserved and maintained entirely for the benefit of "British" people. British people are simply individuals who have been lucky enough to have been born into a society with adequate health care, democracy and education. They have no more of a right to this life than anyone else.

The situation in Calais is desperate, the situation in Syria is unimaginable, the situation in Britain is inexcusable. We need to step up as a country to show solidarity with the refugees, we need to see the refugees for what they are; humans just like us.

There are many people in the UK and across Europe who care about this situation and these people, there are many people who are trying their hardest to donate and support the work of charities and individuals in the heart of the crisis. But it is the government who need to step up. It is not enough for individuals to give their time, resources and aid; it is David Cameron and the government whose duty it is to stand up and say that Britain will help. To stand up and say that we can share what we have because we understand that it was not ours in the first place. To stand up and say that after the horrors and trauma that refugees have experienced, the least we can do is to offer hope for the future.

These are not benefit scroungers wishing to leech off the "hard earned money of us poor Britons", these are families and individuals who have been driven to extreme efforts for their survival.

Who do we think we are to say that we deserve safety and security, a roof over our heads and food in our kitchens, jobs to provide for our loved ones and education for our children but they don't? We are ignorant and blind to the lives that these people are running from.

I am aware that this will not be read by David Cameron, that the people who check in on my little blog, my friends and family, are all of the same opinion. But I needed to write this, I needed to share this. I want to be in London for the protest on September 12th, I want to help persuade the government to be compassionate and to offer Britain as a place of refuge, I want to use my little voice to shout about how we all need to get involved, to donate, support and influence. Because these are the people without voices, the nameless, faceless people who are in dire need of help. The photos circulating in the media at the moment are starting to give these people names and faces, to show their humanity, the love they have for the family, the fear they have for what they've left and what they are facing now.

These couple of weeks have been hard for me, starting from scratch, knowing no one, but I know that it is nothing in comparison to the hardship facing the refugees, leaving their lives behind to throw themselves down to the mercy of unknown lands and governments, relying on the generosity of people they have never met and who they must trust with their lives.

I got on a plane to America, my father paid for the ticket. The refugees have not had this luxury, they travel by whatever means they can find, regardless of their own safety, in the hope that they reach somewhere better. And what they reach are inhumane camps run by or ignored by immovable governments and authorities.

I don't doubt the refugees' humanity, I doubt the governments.

Britain is in a position of privilege where we have the ability to make a difference, to save people's lives and secure their future. Instead of burying our head in the sand of our own tiny problems, we must act. The fortune we were accidentally born into is now something that we must deliberately share. And all the fortunate, white, public school educated leaders of our country need to take a long hard look at their selfish, inward declaration that we should not take on "more and more refugees" and try to imagine life outside their entitled bubble. Even the Sun is urging Cameron to take on refugees.

We must act, we must help and we must take responsibility for both our part in the erosion of the societies refugees are escaping and in the rebuilding of their future.

Update: David Cameron has reluctantly agreed to take in some refugees because everyone, even the Sun, even his own back-benchers knew that he was being inhumane and ridiculous. Read the article here.

When I was sixteen years old, the top English classes were divided by gender and, as a joint assignment, we did a debate on whether we had reached gender equality, the boys arguing yes and the girls arguing no. I rolled my eyes, crossed my arms and begrudgingly ended up opening the debate. But I didn't agree with our stance. I thought that because I, Sarah Holt, could do whatever I wanted with my life regardless of my gender, that gender equality had been achieved for the entire planet. I wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted to work up in London at a top firm and did not see why my gender would affect this goal in any way. I was strong minded and stubborn and thought that women were being weak and pathetic and making mountains out of molehills by getting annoyed at sexist jokes and catcalling.

When I was seventeen years old, I went on a sociology trip to the Women's Library in London to see a feminist exhibition on the gender pay gap and wrote 'I am not a feminist' on my feedback piece of paper and stuck it to the wall. All I had read for the past year or so were blogs of young, married, conservative housewives and I had decided that that was what I really wanted from my life. I thought that feminists did not respect my decision to take up a traditional gender role, that they wanted every woman to go into a high power, male-dominated career and that they did not respect women's natural, maternal feelings.

Now here I am, older, wiser, and proudly proclaiming my support of the dirty f word.

How I've got here is not a journey that can be summed up in one neat little blog post, some stories aren't mine to tell, and some things just clicked without a specific light bulb moment, but I wanted to write about why I support feminism and am proud to call myself a feminist. I am not an arrogant, stubborn teenager anymore and I don't often voice my opinions without careful consideration. I like to listen to other people, see other points of view, adjust my thinking when I realise that it has been flawed. I don't want to shove an argument down people's throats. I don't think that I am always right. But I do feel very strongly about the continual fight for gender equality both here in the UK and worldwide.

Today I got very angry with my sixteen year old brother and his constant digs at my support of feminism. He is firmly stuck in the camp that proclaims they are for equality and but not "feminism" as the very word elevates women over men. This is an incredibly common, misinformed, ignorant view that gets caught up on linguistics and fails to recognise the importance of a movement, belief and stance that works for the interests of our entire society regardless of gender. I got very angry, I threatened to smack him, which, in hindsight, is not an exemplary way to express to someone that feminists are not aggressive man haters. But, as I said, I was very angry. And I didn't actually hit him.

The thing is, it made me so angry because this small thing, this tiny little word, creates divisions between people who share common beliefs and should be working together to promote equality within society.

For a long time I did not know what feminism meant and I did not think it applied to me, I did not want to be a part of this hairy, pedantic, silly group of women, I did not want to be a "feminist". But I was. And this is the main point of this post: I was a feminist even when I refused to admit it and even if you are also refusing to label yourself as such, unless you believe in gender inequality, you are a feminist.

At sixteen, I thought that I didn't need feminism because I could do and be whatever I wanted regardless of my gender. However, the achievement of this mentality was only through the hard work and activism of feminists that changed society's view and opinion of women. The belief that gender shouldn't be an obstacle for me or anyone is a feminist belief. I was a feminist.

At seventeen, I thought that I didn't need feminism because I wanted to conform to the traditional, maternal role as a wife and mother. However, what I failed to realise was that feminism is not the elevation of women in CEO positions over women who stay at home with their children, but the belief that both women and men should be free to choose whatever career and lifestyle that they desire without judgement. The belief that I could choose to do with my life what was right for me as an individual and not as a woman is a feminist belief. Yet again, I was a feminist.

The stigma surrounding the word is heavy, the connotations almost entirely negative and many people have called for a new term, to replace "feminism" with "humanism" or "equalism". But the word is not wrong. Whilst there are many repressive social attitudes towards men that need to be challenged, women still require a greater advocacy. Not just in the UK but around the globe. With the world emerging slowly from a patriarchal system, women need more support, we need women's rights activists. Some people struggle with that statement as it apparently means that we are not supporting genders equally, but it is just a fact. It's like the time that the #yesallwomen campaign on twitter was countered by the #notallmen; it missed the point. At no point was it suggesting that all men are involved in some secret patriarchal club where they meet up to discuss the  importance of the ongoing oppression of women and how to most effectively remove their rights, it was simply showing the lingering effects of a patriarchal system and how women in particular are affected daily. Whilst we fight the ongoing battle for equality, we must fight for women. And this is why the word feminism is still relevant today.

It was a long, stubborn journey to get me to where I am now. And I should not begrudge my brother for being at the beginning and not the end. But we shouldn't just lie down and accept people's ignorance, because they are young or because they "just don't understand". I challenged my brother today because I know that the ideas I was fed at sixteen about men and women manifested themselves in my own relationships in a damaging way. It is not too young to be informed. He will sulk, he will pretend that he doesn't care that he upset me, but he will start to think about why I was so angry and why feminism is such an important issue to me. Slowly, through encountering different people and different experiences, he will hopefully realise that feminism is not a dirty word. It is a word that proudly declares that women are important, that what we should and shouldn't be can't be determined by society's pre-packaged idea of gender, that equality is the only way forward. And one day perhaps I will share with him more than I can ever share with this space on the internet as to why I personally am so passionate about feminism.

We need to stop focusing on words and start focusing on actions and changing society. Whether you claim to be for or against the term feminism, if you believe in gender equality, lets actually start fighting for it. There is a long way to go with regards to be actions and attitudes and we shouldn't be fighting each other, we should be fighting together.

Ever since the illusion of change and progress was broken with the results of first the exit polls and then the actual results of the general election, social media has exploded. Friends who voted Labour or green have been expressing their disappointment in the results and highlighting problems with the Conservative party's policies. Tory voters on social media, however, have been loftily projecting that "bloody lefties" are sore losers and that they should get over the result and accept the wishes of the "majority". Someone I know even tweeted that left wing voters don't understand that they are a minority and that they should respect the "decisions of their electoral peers". Aside from the Tory majority only being 37%, an elitist attitude that dismisses the views of minorities surely isn't something to be celebrated in this event of democracy.

Yesterday, people took to the streets to express their dissatisfaction with the new government, as they are allowed to do in a democratic society which prides itself on freedom of speech. Aside from the weak news coverage, BBC only reporting it hours after the event, the focus was primarily on the arrests of 15 protesters and of the desecration of a women's WW2 memorial. The cry of many has been dismissed because of 15 supposedly rowdy people and one absolute idiot who sprayed one line of graffiti.The response from twitter and facebook was unbelievable. The Daily Mail branded it a "hate mob" and as a group of "hard line socialists", and the the top comment on their article read "Anarchists? Looks like a bunch of spoiled hipsters to me".

This attitude is why us "bloody lefties" were so upset by the result from Thursday's election. Because the voice of anyone who does not support the Conservatives is being muted. It's being dismissed as a cry of whiny socialists who don't believe in democracy.

I believe strongly in informed voting. I believe in people voting for the policies and ideas and people who can speak for them in parliament. I would encourage anyone to vote, even if they thought something that I didn't and couldn't ever agree with. If that was truly what they believed. But I find it hard to believe that 22,918 people agreed with the views of Julian Brazier, the Tory MP for our constituency.

He voted very strongly against equal gay rights. He voted very strongly against the fox hunting ban. He voted against laws to promote equality and human rights. He voted strongly for the rise in tuition fees. He voted strongly for the restriction of legal aid. He voted strongly against higher benefits for those unable to work long term due to disability or illness. He voted very strongly against increasing benefits at least in line with prices. He voted strongly against taxing high earners. He voted very strongly against the mansion tax.

Why would anyone vote in someone who is against equality, students, the disabled and the poor and only serves his own interests as a high earner?

If being a "bloody lefty" means that I look beyond myself and my privileged position as a middle class student and care about how the decisions made by the government affect real people, then so be it.

If being a "bloody lefty" means that I value peoples lives over the money that can be squeezed out of them, then fine, throw the insults my way.

If being a "bloody lefty" means that I won't stop "whining" about the policies and decisions that are made over the next five years that affect me and those around me, then be prepared to moan about me being a "bloody lefty" for the next five years. Because we do not have to be silent. We do not have to sit still and be good British citizens and worship our leader. We do not have to roll over.

Being politically engaged isn't a phase. It isn't something to care about for three weeks leading up to the election and then forget about once your "team" wins or loses. Because losing the election doesn't mean you lose your voice, doesn't mean you lose your opinion. It doesn't stop your views from counting. If you voted for reform, push for reform. If you voted for a compassionate government, push the government to compassion.

The government works for the people. And we are all the people. Those who voted left or right. And we all deserve to be heard and spoken for.

Once, Jehovah's Witnesses knocked on my door and asked for my dad. I live in a vicarage, two doors down from a gorgeous village church, and they made the natural assumption that my father was a vicar. The natural assumption, but the wrong one.

My boyfriend, Adam, is ginger. It is one of the main ways I describe him to people who haven't met him and, along with his beard, one of his most dominant features. I love his hair and can't understand why people such as his younger sister (who is also ginger) feel the need to cover it up. I think it is something to be proud of, something a bit different, something that this girl with straight brown hair could only dream of. But since getting to know Adam, I have seen a different side.

This year, in broad daylight, with no provocation, a fully-grown man threw an orange at him simply because of his hair colour.

Our next door neighbours last year used to shout at him out the window, shouting 'ginger!' and then hiding behind their curtains like children.

Adam told me that when he was in secondary school a guy a couple of years above him poured orange juice into his hood.

I struggle to see why it is seen as acceptable and even funny to target people because of their hair colour, as if being ginger is something to be mocked and laughed at despite it being entirely out of their control and entirely natural. If the incidents above were racially motivated, it would be seen as appalling! But even I found it hard not to laugh about the man and the orange- its just not fair.

Adam is pretty confident in life. Everyone I know loves him. But sometimes I know that the prejudice against him because of his hair gets to him. Its hard not to care that the first thing my grandad said when I showed him Adam on facebook was "so he's a ginger minger", despite his own grandchild being equally ginger. It was obviously a joke, I'm sure he couldn't care less who I date, let alone what hair colour they have, but why the instantaneous negative reaction?

It is unusual to be ginger.

With red hair usually comes pale skin and freckles.

Adam has to be careful in the sun, as I wear less clothing to tan, Adam wears long sleeves.

But that shouldn't make him a target for abuse.

Many people are specifically attracted to ginger people. Adam frequently gets approached by women on nights out, sometimes because he's ginger, and other times because he's simply attractive.

If we ever have children, a part of me would be absolutely gutted if they weren't ginger (apologies to any future non-ginger children, I'm sure I'll still love you) partly because if they were then they'd look like Adam, and partly because red heads are unique and awesome. But I'd still be worried about sending them to school, worried about the first time someone singles them out because of their hair colour and makes them feel inadequate. I'd be worried that they would feel like there was something wrong with them for being given nothing more than a different hair colour.

Obviously, I think Adam is really attractive, and he knows that.

He knows that his hair colour is perfect and a really great part of who he is.

I just wish that no one ever makes him feel differently, because its unfair and cruel. And whatever anyone may think, its not funny. Just pure bullying.