Recently a friend in Britain sent out invitations for her upcoming 45th birthday celebrations. Her sentiments were unambiguous: “45 is Old, Old, OLD!! Come commiserate with me over a drink or 45!”.

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When I was a rookie journalist in Malaysia in the mid-1990s, I was assigned to the “women’s desk” to cover “women’s stories.”

We often worked with feminist organizations to push the male-majority government to pass badly-needed legislation on rape and domestic violence. Later, there would also be calls for legislation on sexual harassment at the workplace.

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“If tomorrow, women woke up and decided they really liked their bodies, just think how many industries would go out of business?”

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I never used to be a big fan of Salma Hayek – not until she played in “Frida” the biopic of the Mexican surrealist painter and feminist icon Frida Kahlo, released in 2002.

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As a journalist, you sometimes spend an inordinate amount of time chasing stories.

No actually, let me rephrase that: you spend an inordinate amount of time chasing people whose quotes will hopefully flesh out the story for which your editor is breathing down your neck.

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Imagine a society divided not according to wealth or education, but on its capacity to remember. Humans are either lowly Monos (those who remember only yesterday) or enviable Duos (who can also remember the day before). The only connection to the past is an iDiary (hello Apple!) in which people record and keep track of all notable events – or at least, their version of them.

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Despite some earworms from her 1989 album, I admit that the singer, Taylor Swift, wasn’t someone I’d ever “fangirled”. At least, not until now.

And she’s not caught my attention for her artistic work either, but rather for her unswerving stand against a radio DJ who “grabbed a handful of my ass” (her unapologetic words in court).

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