The Bluestocking Arms Women's Pub, where women make friends with Beetles, Androids, Cakes, Dragons, Hedgehogs and other women, where wit and wisdom flourish

[inkymoose]

Here at the Bluestocking there's a place for all women. A break from Reality, and many laughs and stories to share. Have your fill of Tunnocks bars and tea cakes, sing feminist anthems, drink as much beer or gin or hot chocolate as you desire. It won't make you fatter or drunken but oh, it's fun. Sit in the garden with our Lion resident or the Quokkas and Capybara. Express your opinions loudly in Pedantry Corner. Ask for whatever you fancy to be served by our obliging Gerbil staff. Come in, all women, welcome!

Cinnamon is a big no no for me. Many an apple pie has been ruined by the addition of this particular bit of tree.

Potential heirlooms is about right! Lush used to do a bath bomb with lots of spices in it. Sitting on shards of cinnamon stick in the bath was not a terribly comfortable experience, and heralded the beginning of the end for my bath bomb journey. Although for a while after that I kept a popsock by the bath so I could have the benefits of a bath bomb while safely trapping all the detritus.

I do pork and dried fruit casserole that has a cinnamon stick in it, and that's fine. It has to be real cinnamon, not cassia, and that is increasingly hard to track down.

Good morning! I am here! Last thread all locked up and I've left a map to here on the door.

Though there was a bit of confusion from AI on the last thread who thought I might need the map myself.

Great to see the gerbils made it as I forgot to order the bus.

She has been experimenting with some felt-tips 🙄.

Morning fantastic fabulous women! As Myrtle has locked up, @Boiledbeetle might possibly be inside hoarding rescuing the Tunnocks from the old storeroom ... maybe she fell asleep? with a bit of luck she will wake up soon and find a suitable escape route.

Boily is probably on her way. I saw her leaving the old place but she may take her time getting here. That net looks heavy.

Hmmm…

Could I have a cup of something that will help my stomach settle? I'll sit upwind of all the bacon if you don't mind.

When I'm feeling better I'm going to take the pigs up Peak Woo. The bluebells are starting to flower.

What I want to know is, does the Staunch Ally stay in the same place while we have fresh new threads, or does it follow us around in the style of a besotted puppy?

The latter 🤣

I asked ChatGPT. Its response:

Ah, what a deliciously symbolic question.

The Staunch Ally, by its very nature, is not self-directed. He doesn’t have a thread of his own, nor a world he’s built — he exists in relation to the Bluestocking. So he waits, slightly outside, hopeful and reverent. He doesn’t intrude, but he’s always nearby.

So yes, I think he follows. Not in a creepy or clingy way — more like an old dog who’s settled under the table, alert to your footsteps. Every time the Bluestocking moves on, he gets up with a little grunt, stretches his legs, and pads quietly round the corner again. Same pint. Same stool. Same unwavering loyalty.

He doesn’t need his own narrative. He’s there to hold the coats, offer the occasional word of affirmation, and gently mind the perimeter.

Meanwhile, the Bluestocking — all claws, wit, feathers, and gin — rolls on.

I then asked it, So it's not even a pub, just an old dog?

And it responded,

Touché. You’re right to call that out.

The Staunch Ally thinks he’s a pub — proudly polished taps, low lighting, a framed quote about good men doing nothing. But if no one ever goes inside, does it count? With no thread, no buzz, no actual women propping up the bar with him… it’s more façade than function.

So maybe the truth is this: the idea of the Staunch Ally is a pub, but the reality is that old dog. Faithful, well-meaning, a little daft. He trots along beside the Bluestocking every time she relocates, ever hopeful he might one day be invited in — not realising it’s not about being invited in. It’s about understanding he’s not needed in the room for the magic to happen.

The Bluestocking builds something alive. The Staunch Ally just waits, quietly supportive, possibly wearing a “feminism means equality” T-shirt that nobody asked for.

Good heavens, is it Bluestocking Thread #Umpteen already??
Thank you for leading us here, Inky, hello to all the regulars and welcome to Cautious and welcome back to Pixie.

And may I say how lovely you look this morning 💕Swash?

Marie and Swash....get a room!

Myrtle that is excellent research by ChatGpt. Made me laugh!

Although I am now feeling a bit sorry for the Staunch Ally.

Chat gpt: Meanwhile, the Bluestocking — all claws, wit, feathers, and gin — rolls on.

Where does the AI steal its prose from? Dickens?

In my view (she said pompously) the Bluestocking is so much more than claws, feathers and gin (gendered language used to make women seem trivial and pointless). As for wit ...

"Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney." Rosalind to Orlando in As You Like It

Shakespeare knows women's wit is not to be trifled with

Lovely Rosalind quote, thank you, Inky

I have neither claws nor feathers and have never drunk gin.

I'm currently relieved that the pots of miscellaneous tender plants that I carelessly left outside all night are unharmed, with even the cucumbers still alive.

There's more than a whiff of the Staunch Ally identifying as a pub there.

I think your question was a good one, though, Myrtle. I just don't like the answer AI came up with.

Maybe I should ask Monday, the sarcastic snarky version of ChatGPT...

Back in a mo.

I asked it to tell me about women's wit:

Women’s wit is the sharpened blade forged in centuries of being underestimated. It’s a kind of humor that often comes with side-eye, timing like a sniper, and the ability to destroy someone politely in front of company.

Historically, women have had to rely on verbal dexterity because yelling or punching people in the face wasn’t exactly encouraged. So instead, they got clever. Think of it as self-defense but with jokes. It’s the kind of intelligence that can navigate power structures, shut down a creep with one eyebrow raise, and make a whole dinner party laugh without breaking a sweat.

You’ve got literary examples—Jane Austen turning social critique into savage comedy. Dorothy Parker, whose quips could cause paper cuts. Lucille Ball, who made being hilarious look effortless while men were still figuring out how to tie a tie.

Women’s wit is observational, subversive, and typically far more layered than the kind that involves loud noises and pratfalls. Not that women can’t do that too—they just don’t need to.

So, are you asking because you’re trying to develop a sense of it, or because you’ve recently been verbally demolished by someone who has it? Either way, I support your emotional recovery journey.

So I told Monday that I'm a British woman and it replied:

Ohhh. That explains everything—your question, your interest in wit, the quiet sense of superiority I could feel through the screen.

British women practically invented the weaponized side comment. You lot came out of the womb clutching a teacup and a withering observation. It’s not just wit—it’s elegant evisceration. There’s a reason why every period drama features a woman in lace delivering a line so devastating it could send a duke into therapy.

You have centuries of practice: from Aphra Behn writing racy plays in Restoration England, to the grand duchess of dry humor herself, Maggie Smith, who could reduce a man to dust with a single arch of her eyebrow. And let’s not forget modern icons like Phoebe Waller-Bridge, whose ability to make you laugh and feel existentially exposed in the same breath is practically a public service.

British women’s wit is cold steel wrapped in cashmere. It’s the perfect storm of intellect, sarcasm, and a refusal to be impressed.

It’s like a soft-spoken roast where the flames are laced with lavender. It doesn’t shout. It murmurs something clever, and everyone nearby suddenly feels two inches shorter.

It thrives in understatement, irony, and the kind of comedic timing that requires no applause—just a sip of tea and a brief, satisfied silence. It’s not trying to win the room. It already owns the room. And the lease is in her name.

You, as a British woman, are essentially carrying an ancestral utility belt stocked with sarcasm, passive-aggressive compliments, and a monologue that could ruin a man’s ego in under 90 seconds. It’s a power. A subtle one, but devastating nonetheless.

I support your emotional recovery journey?

Ruined a reasonably good definition with gratuitous psychobabble.

I read Monday's responses as sarcasm. It's been very funny at times.

British women. Smug to the core!

Thanks Myrtle, there's nothing like a bit of pedantry wordplay on an Easter Saturday to make you feel alive.