I know the looks, of course I do. They normally come from the front of a van or a truck, or possibly from a car or any vehicle fast enough to escape unnoticed or in which the driver is shielded enough to feel superior. They’re harmless, in a way. Some might even say they come from a good place.

Sometimes the car horn works as attention-grabbing feature, and other times it’s a whistle; occasionally a glaring look speaks for itself. Most of the time it’s the “Oi! Sweetheart!” that pushes it across the harmless line and into dodgy territory, or the encouraging hollering of the lads at the back of the van. A compliment becomes a power struggle, and everybody knows who’s losing. Most likely it’ll stop here – but the fear just doesn’t go away that easily.

I was going to write about Hollaback LDN, and those were going to be my opening paragraphs. I was going to argue that these ladies, though they have a point, are attacking the problem at the wrong end, and that hollering is a symptom and not a cause. I was going to say that I don’t want to live in a society where we’re all walking around staring into the ground out of fear of looking at something beautiful or smiling at a stranger, and that Hollaback LDN makes the problem worse by creating an irritation where there shouldn’t be one. But I can’t.

I’d read about them as an organisation that hopes to end commenting, shouting and staring in the street, but when I visited their website I discovered a much more multi-faceted picture. “We are here to abolish the cultural acceptance of sexual harrassment,” says the about page, and continues to explain how our social situation conserves the idea of a woman’s body as public property, an idea so widely accepted that most people aren’t even aware that they subscribe to it.

It turns out Hollaback LDN isn’t at all just about shouting back at those who shout at you; it’s not just yet another forum for complaining. I may have a problem with their choice of name and in part with their brand identity, but the truth is that they’re attacking the problem exactly where it should be attacked: bang at the core of it. They march and hold workshops and run a magazine. And if I can’t admit that that’s brilliant, then I’m just another one of those feminists I wrote about who do more harm than good by attacking other feminists instead of supporting them, because of tiny, almost irrelevant details. And fuck it, I don’t want to be that girl. So holla at Hollaback LDN!

I wrote back in October about how it was “refreshing to see a publication that could easily fall into the conservative, dry bracket become thought-provoking, open-minded, and bold” and noted, surprised, that perhaps I was part of the pool of potential new readers that The Economist had identified. I have since read some of their articles and enjoyed them.

Yesterday, however, I was reminded of the side of The Economist that made me a sceptic in the first place, as I came across the article The anti-cuts march: Ed Miliband’s bad timing.

I expected an anti-Labour view point, but I didn’t quite expect what I was about to get: a twisted take on society, completely soaked in neo-liberal bias.

The first paragraph, where the writer reasoned around Saturday’s anti-cuts demonstration and Hyde Park event with the conclusion that “viewers who worry that the current Labour leadership is beholden to the unions and public-sector vested interests will hardly be changing their minds,” was enough to send alarm bells ringing. Who are these worried viewers? Right-wing sympathisers who are sick of Cameron’s bullshit and are hoping that Labour will turn into an equally conservative alternative? When did Labour holding hands with the unions and the public sector become a bad, even surprising, thing?

Anyway, at this stage I felt more confused than I felt angry, but that was about to change. The writer went on to not only criticise Miliband, who spoke in Hyde Park, for “appealing to people who are already certain to vote Labour” (does he suggest that party politics should be populist and policies adapted to suit any group of voters that appears to be momentarily undecided?), but also to blame him for exclaiming that “David Cameron, this is the big society!” despite knowing that surely somewhere amongst the hundreds of thousands of peaceful demonstrators there would be a violent few, whom journalists would use to make his speech appear embarrassing. The Tories “must not be able to believe their luck,” The Economist explained.

And then it got worse: it’s not just Miliband who’s made a fool of himself, but also the “decent and good-natured majority” of those opposed to the cuts, since they are “wilfully oblivious to the need for any spending cuts at all”.

The condecending tone with which The Economist analyses huge parts of the working and middle classes is just incredible. But in addition to being patronised here, I think those who feel betrayed by the current coalition are also being hugely underestimated.

The Economist writer refers to Labour as “a party that is already seen by voters as too left-wing,” but I think he’s jumping to conclusions. I think it’s possible that the masses have had enough, that this time there’s a real class war going on, and that a true left-wing alternative is the only thing left for the average voter to believe in – finally.

The fact that you have to wear a balaclava and smash windows to get The Economist journalists to even reflect on what’s happening out there amongst ordinary people is a whole different debate. One which reminds me why The Economist will never be my main source of news.

For another controversial, thought-provoking read about why we’re all in this together, peaceful and violent alike, check out this Guardian article by Leah Borromeo.

It is “crystal clear that teaching creationism is at odds with scientific fact,” said Secretary of State for Education Michael Gove recently in response to a letter from the British Centre for Science Education that suggested that current government legislation would allow creationists to attack science education. At a time when the framework that distinguishes one religion from another seems to get vaguer by the day, and after a discussion with a friend recently about whether or not there needs to be a distinction between religion, general spirituality and ethical reasoning at all, I wonder if the focus needs shifting for a bit.

I won’t argue for a second with the idea that teaching creationism in place of evolution is madness, whatever one’s personal beliefs may be, but to say that these two teachings should be at odds with each other is to oversimplify the debate. It’s the labelling of the subjects that concerns me, and I think this is where we have to be clearer.

If our aim is a wide-ranging curriculum that promotes open-mindedness and acceptance, the more we teach the better. And whether or not you believe in god or go to church, surely we can all agree that certain subjects fit under the label of ‘Religion’, or even something as fluffy as ‘Spirituality’, while other theories should be taught under the umbrella of ‘Science’.

Sure, in a society that can more or less be called a liberal hegemony, the general consensus will probably be that science – or facts backed up by evidence – is more important than spiritual ideas. It’s even possible that teachers, as products of such a society, may enthuse about scientific theories in a way they won’t when teaching religion. But at least a smorgasbord of theories that are labelled after what we call them as opposed to whether or not we believe them to be true, opens the door for any parent to add to the picture whatever spiritual or secular values they like. And the school can’t judge.

When Gove says that it’s the teaching of creationism that is at odds with scientific fact, however, I don’t think he means that these could never possibly be taught in conjunction; I think he is saying that in an environment where the former is taught as part of a religion which permeates everything, from the morning prayer to the sex education (or the lack thereof), the latter will always be portrayed as crazy talk. That’s our problem, because right there and then, religion has lost its religious label and become unquestionable norm. Somehow, perhaps because of freedom-of-religion regulations or other, when teaching religion at non-religious schools, we manage to keep an open mind.

Personally, I see many potential problems with religious free schools. The same way that creationists aren’t keen on evolution being taught as written in stone, I don’t see how it’s justifiable to allow for religion in any shape or form to affect the teaching of unrelated subjects, as if religion is bigger than all the rest – and I say that in defence of spirituality as a vital part of any primary or secondary school education, believe it or not.

It’s like this whole discussion forgets about the idea of diversity, as if living in a multicultural society is somehow enough: we see each other at school every day, so why bother learning about each other’s history and beliefs? We can name a number of great world religions – who cares about non-institutional convictions? I think spirituality as a whole is important, for religious kids as well as for atheists, and the more of it we can fit into the curriculum the better – as long as it’s labelled as such, that is.

Can a brand be greater than its products? My answer until recently would’ve always been a non-hesitant no. The Apple brand is almost flawless in its simplicity, but it only works as a brand because the products are brilliantly simple, user-friendly, and incredibly clever. Innocent is blunt and to-the-point because it can be: because its products are completely honest and have nothing to hide.

But the other day I went to The Haberdashery in Crouch End. The Haberdashery is the loveliest café you could imagine, with hand-made toys and paintings by local artists decorating the walls, alongside shelves of vintage tea pots and cups for sale. The coffee is served in what might be seen as pretty pretentious ceramic bowls, but it’s proper: the flat whites are to die for, not to mention the almond croissants.

At the heart of it all is a guy who loves what he does: a proud café owner with an eye for design and buckets of people skills. He is the soul of the place, and that’s very obvious.

With all these signs of top quality, and prices to beef up my expectations, I was shocked to be served a pathetic excuse for a sandwich with some tired leaves representing a side-salad. Disappointed, I looked around me and realised that none of the dishes served looked particularly appetising, most of them served in quirky ways but still small and randomly thrown-together enough to make any customer run a mile.

The interesting thing is that The Haberdashery is busy, always. The Crouch Enders love it so much they even buy carrier bags with its logo on and tweet enthusiastically about it. So what is it they love? The atmosphere, the colours, the owner: how it makes them feel. Not the food. What are they actually paying for? I think they’re paying to belong to that world, to be one of the people who fit into that pretty décor. And maybe that’s what The Haberdashery is selling: a way of life.

I adore The Haberdashery from a purely aesthetic point of view: it’s just beautiful. But I still have the taste of the dry bread and burnt rasher in my mouth, and I just can’t pay for that, be it part of a romanticised lifestyle or not. So it’s with reluctance that I’m writing this post as a ‘brilliant brands’ as opposed to a ‘brutal brands’ – because not only does it prove that brands can indeed be greater than their products, but it also shows how superficial the Crouch End lifestyle can be at times.

Turns out English yeast doesn’t quite work the way Swedish yeast does (anything to excuse these stupidly tiny buns), but then again, I’ve never claimed to be a goddess in the kitchen. Here’s to trying!

When I was about 16, on March 8th, some students decorated the school I was in at the time with big placards covered in slogans, and paintings highlighting the big day. Five minutes later, a small group of young women brought out their own placards, stating that Every day is our day. Women don’t need a day dedicated to them, thank you very much, they argued. Women are women every day of the year, and should be respected as such – not just for a day.

I knew they had a point, yet it upset me back then. The argument between the two groups, the need to point out the flaws in each other’s campaigns: why did the detail become bigger than the cause? At the end of the day, they all wanted equality.

But International Women’s Day is offensive in itself, clearly both to feminists and to their opponents. The same way that feminism has somehow become a dirty word that in the mainstream world is most closely associated with angry, annoying people who will never be happy no matter what they get, probably mainly because they’re so ugly or unhappy or something, this day has become a symbol for that same desperate fight, a fight that we’re all starting to believe can never be won. So anti-feminists make sexist jokes about it to distance themselves, and feminists insist they don’t need it.

So do we need it? And, in the words of some critics, where does equality go if there isn’t an International Men’s Day? I like the gimmicky aspect of a day like National Grammar Day, but I’m not that big on days dedicated to anything, to be completely honest. I’ll happily use the argument of the students above in regards to Valentine’s: just tell people you love them every day, or at least on whatever day you feel it the most. But – and of course there has to be a but here – if you ask why there’s no International Men’s Day, you’re completely missing the point.

Nobody’s claiming that women should be celebrated once every year but men shouldn’t, or that we suddenly deserve some respect for a day, like some kind of novelty. In fact, it’s not about celebrating at all, because oppression is not something you raise glasses or congratulate each other to. And that’s where the difference lies, in that little word: oppression. (And the anti-feminists shrug in their seats. Oppression? How cute.)

Yes, we’ve come a long way. Yes, things are improving. But this is not about appreciating something you once didn’t have (you’re allowed to work, so shut up and be happy), or about pretending that the world would be a better place if women were in charge (thanks, all you feminists who made arguing for the case of feminism so much more difficult by saying that). It’s as simple as admitting, and highlighting on March 8th every year, that women in different social and political situations are still systematically oppressed – and we should remember that fact, remember that things can change, and remember that by making conscious decisions, we can still be a part of that change. If we can be bothered.

For another view on the same discussion, meet Josie.

Dear Mrs Dunne,

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In a world of instantaneous feedback and cleverly targeted marketing, I really don’t know if I’ll be able to deal with this.

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the snobbery that united the millions of people who watched My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and the superiority that unites Swedes when travelling almost anywhere outside of Sweden. I figured that if, as Lucy Mangan wrote, snobbery consists of envy and insecurity, then Swedes are probably jealous of the fearlessness in not always striving for perfection.

“Maybe nobody really wants to be the teacher’s pet once the school days are over, but we’re just so socially programmed to keep up our morally flawless behaviour that we can’t stop it,” I wrote.

So when the international insurance company RSA published the results of a study that concluded that Swedes are the second most worried nation in the world, with the threat to the environment being our greatest concern, I found it interesting that Johan Wennström of the Swedish national daily Svenska Dagbladet inferred that, “it seems an obvious conclusion that the explanation for the stress of the Swedes actually lies in our desire to please” [my translation].

Other nationals worry about unemployment levels and immigration. Swedes worry about a global problem on which their impact as a nation is as small as 0.2%. I don’t know what would be most appropriate: a sense of pride or a feeling of hopeless frustration.

I used to always say that I admire people who don’t give a shit what other people think. I used to think that the reason I liked these people was that they always asked questions and spoke their mind, regardless if they knew that people would roll eyes and sneer at them.

Then I read Do More Great Work and did an exercise where I had to list some of my role-models.

My list ended up including strong-willed, well-spoken, sometimes blunt women who indeed always speak their mind: women like Mary Portas and Elin ‘Grynet’ Ek. People who don’t give a shit what other people think. Or what was it again?

That’s when I realised I’d been wrong all along.

There’s a fine line between not giving a shit, and giving a shit so much that the only thing you have left to compromise with in the end is yourself and your reputation. And after days of thinking about all these inspiring people, I realised that they, too, were only human – and that was part of the reason why I liked them. Even the most confident, blunt of people want to be liked and care deeply what other people think of them; but what sets my heroines apart is that they are ready to take the shit people throw at them, just because they care so much. Because telling the truth, doing the right thing, is just so much bigger than they are.

I want to be a writer who tells the truth – the truth the way I see it – even if that means that some people will shake their heads. I want to be that kind of person, in private and professionally.

But that’s not to say that I don’t care what you think. In fact, maybe it’s the other way around: maybe care is all I’ve got.

I was quite amused by Lucy Mangan’s column about My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, and surprisingly so for someone who doesn’t even watch the show. “It’s a serious success. And why? Because we’re all such massive snobs,” she wrote, and I nodded.

Lucy moved on to conclude that in a hierarchical culture, where “the class system is one of our most successful and enduring creations”, we are united “in our mutual and most assured utter rightness”. In this case, knowing better than to get caked in make-up and spray tan and dolled-up in fairytale-like, ridiculously puffy wedding dresses somehow makes us feel good. Surely, this is evidence that we’ve got taste.

I could claim that since I’m not one of the almost eight million UK residents who follow the show, I’m not part of this culture of snobbery. But I won’t.

Why did I smile in recognition when I read Lucy’s musings? Because I’m Swedish.

Bring a bunch of Swedes to a flat viewing in London, and they will smile and roll their eyes as they quickly list the flaws: the lack of an extractor fan, the single-glazed windows, the dated kitchen equipment. Send them to Spain and they will laugh out loud at the lack of computerised population registers and tax returns. And don’t get them started on sexist cultures and governments made up exclusively of middle-aged men.

United, because they all share the experience of superiority. So is snobbery really the only thing we, as Swedes, have left to hold on to? Have we nothing more exciting in common?

Lucy Mangan believes that snobbery consists of two key ingredients: envy and insecurity. Does she mean that there’s an exhibitionistic little gypsy in all of us, that we’re simply too fearful and reserved to let it show?

Her thesis makes a lot of sense, but I won’t bet any money on its adequacy in regards to the know-it-all Swedes. It’s quite possible that we’re all a bit sick of everything being perfect all the time, of there being a right way, and one way only, of doing everything. Perhaps we secretly wish that we could care just a little bit less; maybe nobody really wants to be the teacher’s pet once the school days are over, but we’re just so socially programmed to keep up our morally flawless behaviour that we can’t stop it. And maybe, maybe we have learnt to think that we are what we do, and if we don’t display a polished front as proof of the righteous life we’re living, we’re scared that no one will love us anymore. If that’s the case, maybe she’s right and we’re not united in utter rightness, but in fear.

Swedishness is a topic I happily exhaust, but I think it might be time I put a lid on it. After all, maybe I’m not at all justified in representing the entire Swedish nation; maybe I’m the biggest snob of all, and reading this column just made me happy to feel that actually, I’m not alone.