Everyday sexism in the garden.

How pervasive is sexism, in the garden? 

No, nothing to do with us humans, I'm talking about tools.

The other day, at work, I mislaid my Daisy Grubber. After extensive searching, I wound up at the bonfire heap and there, sure enough, I found it: I'd dropped it on top of the bindweed in my tub-trug, forgotten to pick it out, and thrown the lot onto the rubbish heap. 

Luckily it has a bright red handle. 

Returning to the border which I was weeding, I commented in relief to my Trainee, “I found him!” proudly waving the Daisy Grubber aloft.

“Him?” queried my (female) Trainee, giving me a bit of a Look.

“Errrr.. yes, him...” I replied. 

"Why," she asked - somewhat sniffily - "does your daisy grubber have to be male?"

"Errrrr...." I replied, in an articulate manner.

I don't give my tools names - well, apart from Big Orange, my super heavy-duty ratchet loppers - but this made me realise that all of my tools are “him” rather then “her” or “it”.

Thinking about it, everything in my toolbox at home is also a “him”. Needless to say, my power tools are masculine, but so is the hoover, and so is the washing machine, as in “has he finished his cycle, yet?” 

My current car - Brian - is clearly masculine, but the one before him, my dear little Agila, was female. But this is not necessarily a girlie trait: two years ago I had a Garden Team partner for some months, and his car was called Otto. And, decades ago, an early boyfriend had a car called Simon.

This proves that giving non-sentient items names is just something which we humans tend to do...it's probably tied in with our endless need to anthropormorphise, although I have to say that I draw the line - in disgust - at people who treat their cats and dogs like little humans. No, hang on, before you shoot me down in flames, not in the sense of looking after them - I mean, the ones who refer to them as "fur babies", an expression which makes me want to vomit. Come on, people. They are cats. (Or dogs. But usually cats.) They are not babies. THEY ARE NOT BABIES.  They may fill the baby-shaped hole in your life, but THEY ARE ANIMALS, THEY ARE NOT BABIES! Do not dress them up in clothes, do not refuse to let them live a natural outdoor life, DO NOT CALL THEM FUR BABIES.  

And for heaven's sake, stop putting inane posts on social media with a picture of a perfectly healthy, outdoor, cat, enjoying the outdoors, with a worried message saying "this cat is starving, it stood outside my house/came up to me on the path and keeps miaowing/wants to come into my house, I'm really worried about it..."   Clearly such idiots, well-meaning as they may be, have never owned a cat: cats are inveterate beggars, will take food whenever and from whomever they can, and will always want to come inside, just to see what's going on. And in case there's any food lying around. 

Just last summer, I was happily working away on the computer, as I am now, in my house, upstairs. A cat wandered into the room. Mostly white, with orange tail and ear tips.

"Hello, cat-face," I said, and carried on working.

Pause.

I stopped typing, and turned to look at the cat.

The cat looked at me.

"Miaow." it said. Not "Miaow! Prrrrrup! Lovely lovely Owner! Give me some loving!" Not "Miaooooooooow - get over here and feed me, NOW!"  Just "Miaow." like that, with no particular emphasis. 

I gave it a Look.

It turned and walked out of the room. 

I followed it downstairs. Because I don't have a white cat with orange tips and tail..... memo to self, don't leave a downstairs window open, even on hot summer days, otherwise curious cats will sneak inside and wander around my house.

And then there's Noisy. 

This is Noisy, comfortably asleep on the decking steps outside my patio door. 

She is often to be found snoozing on my decking. 

If I open the doors, she shoots inside at top speed, then starts poking around, in the manner of a rather disappointed Dust Bunny Inspector.  You know the type - "Hmm, I see you haven't hoovered round the back of the sofa for a while. And what's this under here? A pea? " *eating sounds*

If I don't open the doors, she stands with her front paws on the glass, yowling piteously until I do. Hence the name.

Noisy is skinny-looking, always yowling for food (again, hence the name), always trying to sneak into my house - but I happen to know that her real name is Georgie, and she belongs to Steve, three doors up. And yet, if I open the doors and call "Noisy!" she'll come running.

Conclusive proof, m'lud, that all cats are liars, beggars, and unfaithful.

Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, anthropomorphic resonance of tools: are they male or female, and I think we've established that most of them are male.

But then, what about plants - are they male or female?

I don't mean physically, botanically speaking: I mean the way in which we refer to them.

When I move a plant, I often say “he'll be happier there”.

Yet I always think of roses as being feminine flowers. But I never say “she'll be happier there”, it's always “he”.

Am I odd? OK, don't answer that - instead, am I the only one who does this? ? !

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