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Here in Brighton, we think nothing of seeing gay people hand in hand under rainbow umbrellas, ballet dancing over puddles. It’s not a choice. It’s not a decision. It’s not like Teresa May and Corbyn sitting down to try and work something out. It just is.

But not in Brunei, where new Islamic laws make sex between two men an offence punishable by stoning to death. Stoning. To. Death. Lesbians get forty strokes of the cane and ten years imprisonment. As a feminist who wants equality I don’t know where to start with this. They are also introducing punishment for theft by amputation.

One Brunei gay man said, ‘You wake up and realise that your neighbours, your family, or even that nice old lady who sells prawn fritters by the side of the road doesn’t think you’re human or is okay with stoning.’

I’ve always been fascinated by hate. Are we all born with cells of contempt inside us, like a sleeping lion, like cancer? Do those cells mutate for no reason, indiscriminate and impartial, or are some of us just evil?

I have read about hate experiments on humans. The Milgram experiment (obeying an authority figure), where men from a wide range of occupations and varying levels of education, were asked to administer electric shocks to ‘learners' if they got answers wrong.

The shocks gradually increased to a level that would have been fatal, had they been real. The whole thing was fake, but the results were shocking. It showed a very high proportion of men would fully obey every instruction to increase the shocks, albeit reluctantly, while the ‘learner’ begged them to stop. Cried out in pain.

The Stanford prison experiment, a ‘jail’ set up in the basement at Stanford University. The prisoners were one half of a group of volunteers, the other half were assigned the role of guards. What followed was described as ‘a metamorphosis of good into evil.’

Well-adjusted young men became increasingly brutal as guards. They stripped prisoners naked, hooded them, chained them, denied them food. Sodomised them. The experiment, led by Zimbardo, concluded that normal people could be transformed into sadist tyrants or passive slaves. Not because of any inherent personality flaws, but because of the dehumanising environment they’d been put in.

Does this excuse the Nazis? Does this exclude anyone or anything? I know when I’m doing something wrong or bad because my stomach, the ‘second brain’ hurts. Would that pain go away over time if I was continually subjected to situations like the above?

Are we all already monsters, or can any man or woman be made into one. How far away from us, is the worst thing we could ever do?

I try and find the good in all things, but am convinced foxes are evil. Everything about them is horrible. The way they scream like a baby abandoned in a burning building. The way they toy with their prey. Their musky smell, like a hint of teeth, like a bad idea. Like something is about to kick off.

Spring has sprung, The dickie-birds are in the apple tree. Outside time has come again, which means my garden needs a lot of work (not a euphemism for hair removal). It’s like day of the triffids in my yard, and my hay fever is already in full swing. I’ll be sneezing away weeds for weeks.

How can I moan though, about my garden coming alive, when heartless developers in Guilford have put netting round trees to stop bird nesting, so they can be cut down? I wonder how this is allowed.

We seem to have no respect for transient homes, be them for birds or people. ‘Anti-homeless’ spikes have been put down outside ‘luxury’ buildings. A Southern Rail staff member was caught on camera pouring the contents on his mop bucket over a homeless man as he lay on the ground at Sutton station.

I can’t help but liken the birds and beggars to those wanting to remain in the EU. Wanting to bury their heads, sleep through it all. Pretend it’s not real. Meanwhile the leavers are felling trees and hosing down hobos to clear the exit. I am not saying either side is right or wrong. It’s the divide that hurts.

The women who started the petition to stop Brexit, has been sent death threats. Why does she deserve to die for giving a glimmer of hope to those who see it that way? Those who don’t want to leave the EU have been labelled ‘Remoaners’ and those that do been called equally childish names.

How can we find a way forward together? Personally, I’ve never had a problem holding up my hand and saying ‘Actually, terribly sorry, but I’ve changed my mind’. It’s not always gone down well, but I’ve never seen contemplation as a weakness.

We don’t need to drive through a decision that won’t benefit us because ‘we said we’d leave so we bloody well will’. It reminds me of when dad used to say; ‘That food cost me a lot of money, you’ll sit and finish it.’

There are two sides. My dad’s, who’d spent all day under a lorry, covered in grease for oily customers. Who came home sore and covered in mud and bruises, only to watch me chase peas across a plate of my mum’s ‘Moussaka’. How to him, it showed a lack of respect and appreciation. Him, who’d had to eat suet pudding for dinner at Grandma Punchard’s house.

Then, on the other side is me. Me trying to finish a dinner my brothers had poured their orange squash over, because that is what brothers do. My vegetables floating in watery Ki-Ora. The dubious looking minced lamb turning florescent. My constant reminders to mum that I was a vegetarian.

My dad, telling me to eat it. Hand on the back of my chair. Me, throat closed with anxiety. Knowing it wasn’t the right time to throw my brothers under the bus or mention my aversion to meat because ‘I really love rabbits’.

Plate clearers often go on to have eating problems. Men who don’t feel appreciated often suffer from depression. Both sides have valid feelings, where’s the common ground? More than this, who is right and who is wrong and why do we have to attack people because they don’t think the same way as us?

My miniature Dachshund is in her month of the moon. She’s swollen and sore and refuses to get up in the morning. I’ve seen my dear Labrador pawing at her back in a clumsy attempt at massage. She’s mad for cheese and the cat is annoying her more than ever.

I feel sorry for her, but she is the size of Toblerone. I’m not getting her spade as I worry she won’t make it through the operation. Although she yaps and wees on rugs and generally drives me mad, she’s spunky and I love her. I see a bit of myself in her. I had a hysterectomy and have never felt fully woman since. I don’t want to do that to her.

Anyway, I was walking her on the beacon, when a furry dog appeared from nowhere and started doings things to her that I wouldn’t allow on a first date, or even a second.

She didn’t seem to mind. I picked her up and explained no one would buy the cow if it gave away the milk for free. ‘At least get his name first’ I said, while the owner of the fruity dog tried and failed to get it on the lead.

‘He’s had a sniff of her now’ he said to me, in disgust ‘He’ll be sex mad all day.’ I laughed but he wasn’t joking so I decided not to mention the dog being a typical male. I just shook the humping hound off my leg and walked on.

Not two days later, whilst out in the same spot, my dog was accosted by the furry-fiend again. I swooped her up quickly and tucked her under my arm. The dog, who we’ll call Marlow, jumped up and poked a hole through my Bat Man leggings with his long claws. Instead of an apology, a woman (I assume the wife) came over to me tut-tutting.

I’d had my Weetabix that morning and the lemon-yellow sun was shining. I was in good cheer, so smiled and said, ‘I think your dog likes me.’ Instead of laughing she sighed and said, ‘It’s not you he likes is it? It’s her.’ I thought that was a bit rude. I can be quite likeable, but before I could tell her as much, she added ‘Is it in season?’

I felt like saying no. That ‘it’ wasn’t in season, just to annoy her, but she was annoyed enough so I said ‘Yes, it’s her special time of the moon’ and the woman said, ‘She should not be walked in a public place when she’s in season.’

The angry feminist in me rose from her slumber and opened a beady eye. ‘I’m sorry? Are you saying that my dog should be punished for having her period? That she should be banished to her basket while she bleeds, while your dog gets to romp about as he likes? It takes two to tango. Why should your dog get to horse about, off-lead, while mine has to stay at home wearing a scarlet letter? I put it to you, good Sir, that your dog needs to done.’

My miniature Dachshund is in her month of the moon. She’s swollen and sore and refuses to get up in the morning. I’ve seen my dear Labrador pawing at her back in a clumsy attempt at massage. She’s mad for cheese and the cat is annoying her more than ever.

I feel sorry for her, but she is the size of Toblerone. I’m not getting her spade as I worry she won’t make it through the operation. Although she yaps and wees on rugs and generally drives me mad, she’s spunky and I love her. I see a bit of myself in her. I had a hysterectomy and have never felt fully woman since. I don’t want to do that to her.

Anyway, I was walking her on the beacon, when a furry dog appeared from nowhere and started doings things to her that I wouldn’t allow on a first date, or even a second. She didn’t seem to mind. I picked her up and explained no one would buy the cow if it gave away the milk for free. ‘At least get his name first’ I said, while the owner of the fruity dog tried and failed to get it on the lead.

‘He’s had a sniff of her now’ the owner said to me, in disgust ‘He’ll be sex mad all day.’ I laughed, but he wasn’t joking so I decided not to mention the dog being a typical male. I just shook the humping hound off my leg and walked on.

Not two days later, whilst out in the same spot, my dog was accosted by the furry-fiend again. I swooped her up quickly and tucked her under my arm. The dog, who we’ll call Marlow, jumped up and poked a hole through my Bat Man leggings with his long claws. Instead of an apology, a woman (I assume the wife) came over to me tut-tutting.

I’d had my Weetabix that morning and the lemon-yellow sun was shining. I was in good cheer, so smiled and said, ‘I think your dog likes me.’ Instead of laughing she sighed and said, ‘It’s not you he likes is it? It’s her.’ I thought that was a bit rude. I can be quite likeable, but before I could tell her as much, she added ‘Is it in season?’

I felt like saying no. That ‘it’ wasn’t in season, just to annoy her, but she was annoyed enough so I said ‘Yes, it’s her special time of the moon’ and the woman said, ‘She should not be walked in a public place when she’s in season.’

The angry feminist in me rose from her slumber and opened a beady eye. ‘I’m sorry? Are you saying that my dog should be punished for having her period? That she should be banished to her basket while she bleeds, while your dog gets to romp about as he likes? It takes two to tango. Why should your dog get to horse about, off-lead, while mine has to stay at home wearing a scarlet letter? I put it to you, good Sir, that your dog needs to done.’

I don’t know what to say about Andy Hill being acquitted of the causing 11 deaths. Maurice joked once, when we took the kids to a steam show, and moaned it was boring, that it wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t fair.

Life isn’t fair. People get away with murder. People who save lives get paid less than people who kick footballs and drink drive. Money buys privilege and freedom. If Andy Hill had been driving a car and killed 11 people, the outcome would have been different.

Was it a fair trial, a fair jury? My husband was in the RAF for seven years. He went along to the Old Bailey while the case was being heard and didn’t have a clue what they were all on about, so how could Joe public have stood a chance? The judicial system was not fit for purpose. A technical case needs a technical jury.

Life is full of back-handers and secret-handshakes and money crossing palms. People are not always innocent until proven guilty. Sometimes they are guilty until their innocence is brought. It’s a scary thought, and as the Idles sang ‘Fear leads to panic, panic leads to pain. Pain leads to anger, anger leads to hate.’

I don’t want to be full of hate and resentment. It’s like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. I don’t want to be full of cancerous thoughts. I want to be full of life. That is the privilege taken away from the 11 men, whose names I don’t believe Andy Hill had any right to read out loud.

If I were to die suddenly, at the hands of someone else, I’d want the people I love to live harder than ever. Not less, not with a belly full of rusty nails and bitter lemons.

I’m not saying it’s easy, or achievable. My thoughts are with the family and friends of the people who died. They were carved from us without warning, like an ice cream scoop in the heart. Stolen from the lives they were leading, the people who needed them, and the places they were supposed to be.