I’m not sure how many of you are familiar with the Women’s Institutes. I know them well, but I live in a village in Cornwall. Since they’re a rural institution, it makes sense that I’d know more about them than anyone who happens to live in a city.

For those of you who aren’t so familiar then: The Women’s Institutes (Hereafter referred to as the WI) is a network of… clubs… populated by women. Their goal isn’t as clear as their existence. Why they do any of the things they do is also a little hazy.

The Women’s Institutes don’t have a clear mission statement, unlike many other establishments of a similar nature. They run charity events, and sing in choirs, and have meetings in which they can sell each other the shit they find around their houses. I mean, maybe they’re doing a service in this sense: Some of the women might actually have a need for the useless shit that the other women don’t have a need for, but that they buy anyway.

Sure, I’m fine with people playing bingo and discussing how nice their cream tea was over another cream tea. But let’s look at it this way: I’m a fan of necessity. I do things once they need to be done. It may translate to laziness when it comes to academia, because you’re really meant to start work on something early and not the night before. Regardless of my current academic prowess, let’s call this the “rule of necessity”. And it states that you do things when they need to be done.

And this brings us to the problem I have with the WI. They’re not necessary. In the few minutes of thought that went into this article, the only purpose I could find that the WI serves is one of self-esteem. We have bingo clubs, charities, bake sales, car boot sales. Every function that the WI provides is also provided by another establishment that you’re likely to have nearby. And they usually do it better.

Without these unnecessary functions clouding your reasoning, it’s clear that the WI exists solely to make its members feel important. Suddenly the housewives, who have to stay at home because there aren’t any jobs in the countryside anyway, have something to do with their day. Their lives have meaning, because suddenly they’re baking tasty treats and collecting all the useless shit they can find in order to sell it to women who are equally house-bound, who are just going to sell it back to the original owner anyway.