S

Phone stalker

2012-02-07T17:22:00.005Z

The same rules apply for phoning up a company as asking what someone’s said. You can’t say ‘pardon’ more than twice, or it'll seem like you weren’t listening (even if they are mumblers and you're justified in shouting 'eh?'). In the same way, you can’t phone a company more than twice, unless you’ve warned them you’re going to do so. You especially can’t phone more than twice if you’ve already confirmed something and ended your conversation.

Last night I discovered a mysterious pain in my mouth. I was retrieving a seed (from a seeded bagel, if you must know) from my gums with my tongue, as you do, when a sudden jolt of pain ran through me. After some investigating (poking around in my mouth/logging onto Net Doctor) I discovered that it was a wisdom tooth infection.

Never the time-waster, this morning I rang a local dentist to register. I did it over the phone and the receptionist asked if I’d like to book an appointment. I declined, after all, I wanted to take some quality time to find out what this establishment was about before I put my dental care in their hands.

Upon biting into my apple slice, I realised that this was a bit of an emergency. I needed an appointment. No bother, I’d just ring back. After much day-bartering (‘No appointments tomorrow, or this week in the evening, or in the morning’) I secured an appointment for next Tuesday, the 14^th February at 8pm. Great, I thought as I hung up, I have registered, checked the cost and made the appointment.

Pleased with myself, I text S-Boy to let him know. It was only after I re-read the text I’d sent that I realised I could not be sat in a dentist’s chair, gripping the arm rests and inwardly crying on Tuesday 14^th February at 8pm. It’s Valentine’s Day! S-Boy and I had arranged to go out to eat and be romantic and shit. I shook my head at my disgusting oblivion to a National holiday (and secretly scolded S-Boy for not realising either. But he wasn’t the absent-minded monster in this circumstance. That would be me.)

I didn’t want to ring back again, especially having already called twice and spoken to the same receptionist (my guess? There’s only one!) but I knew I had no choice.

Avoiding giving her the reason why (‘I realised it was Valentine’s Day and intend on being soppy and disgusting and romantic. Ergo I can’t have a mirrored scalpel in my mouth and a man all up in my face at that time’) I changed my appointment to Wednesday 15^th February. Super, sorted.

Pleased I’d sorted it out, I got on with my work. But wait a minute, I’ll have to wait a whole 8 days to get my tooth agony sorted? I knew I couldn't last that long, but I couldn't ring the dentist again, could I? The same receptionist would pick up. She’d know that it was me again, because she’d dealt with my many queries up until this point.

Sheepishly, I dialled the number before I could talk myself out of it.

“Hello there! Me again!”

I asked if she had any appointment this week in the evening, even though she’d said previously that they hadn’t. I could hear her gritting her teeth as she tapped away at her computer but held my ground, knowing my teeth would thank me for this (though I’m not entirely sure how, they're not so good with the gifts). She gave me a free slot for this Thursday. I took it eagerly and promised that I wouldn’t be calling again. I laughed afterwards to show that this was a funny joke we could all laugh at. She didn’t laugh. I hung up.

I then realised she’d lied before, about there being no slots. If she had just given me the honest list of free slots at the beginning, I wouldn’t have had to make the last two phone calls! And she had the nerve to phone-tut at me?! I wanted to ring her back, to let her have a piece of my mind. But then I remembered that you can never call a company more than two times.

How to go away from the blogosphere and then have the cheek to come back

2012-02-01T17:03:00.004Z

1. Give a good reason for leaving in the first place.

Unacceptable reasons include: snakes on a plane (this only happens to Samuel L Jackson and even if there were anacondas in the aisle of BA0151, you would still be able to type on your Smartphone, silly), finding better things to do (what is better than talking about the menial things that happen to you on a daily basis in the tiny hope that someone, somewhere might care somewhat? No, I couldn’t think of anything, either) and emigrating (everyone knows that Australia has good Internet access).

Acceptable reasons include: moving house, having lots of work to do and turning your hand to baking fresh treats for the whole family to enjoy. Not because I did any of those.*

2. Decide if you’re going to stay forever, or if there’s even a small possibility that you might go away again (NB: people might not care if you go away again but it’ll make you feel better to pretend that they do).

3. Worry about whether you’ll still have any followers if you make a comeback.

4. Worry about the comeback you’ll have to make.

5. Write something rubbish and delete it, feeling the pressure from your (un)interested, long-gone audience.

6. Shamelessly plug your latest creation, as if you’d never left. Christmas was such a hoopla that nobody will have noticed that it’s been over two months – they’ve all been caught up in hand crafting wreaths and forcing mini vegetable samosa's into their mouths.

7. Write a blog post about how to come back after leaving.

8. Feel relieved.

9. Realise you have to think of something good and funny and clever to say in the next one.

10. Contemplate leaving again. Stay and write something not that good or funny or clever. Continue.

* I did all of those.

Escalator Error

2011-11-16T15:57:00.003Z

Now that winter is upon us, we can expect that all transport will fail in some capacity. Trains will be late, tube lines will be closed, cars will be slower and ultimately, we will panic when the glacial pace of the packed crowd doesn’t allow us to rush. Yay! Bearing this in mind, three weeks ago, when I was being barged around Victoria tube station, I was a little delirious. I’d had a rubbish night’s sleep, I was headachey from the soaring temperatures of the underground and I was also feeling a little dizzy from the constant Newton’s Cradling between other people’s shoulders.

Now we all make public errors, which is why what I did next was completely understandable.

As we all shuffled dismally towards the escalators, not quite relishing the almost-freedom we were faced with, I decided to perk up and take action. There were three escalators. Usually two of these go up and one goes down. Everyone seemed to be piling onto one ‘up’ escalator and completely disregarding the free one. Must just be this tube-coma we’re all in, I thought, maybe no one’s noticed. Always attempting to be the trend setter (...), I stepped out of the triple-file escalator queue and headed towards the middle escalator. Yeah, that’s right everyone, I’m not afraid of stepping out and taking the lead.

This is it, I thought, my moment to be brave and consequently smug when everyone follows me. Those sheep. I strode towards the rolling escalator and felt heads turn towards me. That’s right, watch this, folks. As soon as my boot-clad foot reached forward onto the first step, I felt a surge of accomplishment. Here I was, leading the confused people of London to the ticket barrier in less time than they had originally planned when they joined the massive queue. It was only when I was a few steps up that I realised the problem. I wasn’t going up.

In actual fact, I was going down. This should’ve been the moment where I realised my terrible blunder and quickly amended it, but no. I decided that no pesky wrong-way escalator was going to take my moment of heroism away from me, and tried to climb up a few more steps. Everyone was looking as I conducted this unintentional comedy sketch show. After far too long, I let the escalator take me on its natural course, back down to the ground floor. The sham still wasn’t over though. There was still a massive queue to join so there would be no slipping onto the up escalator and running away.

I stood in the queue, acutely aware of everyone, including the balding Indian man next to me, staring. To shy from the pressure, I did what any self-respecting 21st century citizen would’ve done; I got my phone out and pretended to be reading something really interesting, for a really long time. When I reached the ticket barriers, I ran. The moral of the story? Never try to be a hero (or outsmart an escalator).

The Girls from Flat 5

2011-10-13T20:59:00.005+01:00

When we moved into our building, we became aware that the girls in Flat 5 liked to play their music loudly. This was no problem for us, for we were over ten flats away. No biggie. However, one night within our first few weeks of living in the building, we were awoken by heavy bass beats and screaming. In a huff, I got up and opened our front door. As I bent over the banister, I heard the girls from Flat 5 screaming, with a hoard of their deep-voiced friends guffawing. This kind of behaviour continued every few weeks.

From then on, I had a grudge against Flat 5. Not the flat itself, in fact it was quite spacious from what we could gather, but rather, its occupants. S-Boy told me to get over it: “they’re just having fun” he’d say. Well, they can go and have fun in university halls if they insist on squealing like banshees and playing an unlimited amount of drum and bass songs that serve no other purpose but to create awkward moments (you can’t dance to it, you can’t talk over it).

A few weeks ago, we got a knock on the door. We never got knocks on the door. Dubious, I made S-Boy answer it. He swung open the door to reveal one of the girls from Flat 5. In a babble, she explained that she needed a hairdryer because hers had broken, and by the way she was a hairdresser so if we wanted free cuts, ‘just knock’. I let her borrow my hairdryer, all smiles and ‘us girls, eh!’.

Me: So she’s a hairdresser but she doesn’t have a hairdryer?
S-Boy: She does, she said it broke
Me: So she’s a hairdresser but her hairdryer broke? You’d think she’d have a fancy one.
S-Boy: Maybe she doesn’t.
Me: Mmm no. Maybe not. Her hair wasn’t wet, just then, when she knocked on the door.
S-Boy: Wasn’t it?
Me: No. It was dry. I wonder what she’s going to do with my hairdryer.

37 minutes later and my hairdryer hadn’t been returned. I’m not one to get possessive, but 37 minutes is an awfully long time to dry your hair, unless you’re Samson, from that Bible tale. Maybe she’s gone out and forgotten about it. That singular thought riled me up. I asked S-Boy to go and ask her for it. He left the flat, but emerged merely moments later. Sans hairdryer. He said that he’d heard them using it. 39 minutes later and they were only just using it!

Eventually, she returned the hairdryer, along with some hair products as a thank you for letting her borrow the hairdryer. She blatantly just wanted to flog them, having been given so many freebies at work. I accepted them happily anyway.

S-Boy: That was nice of her. See they’re not so bad.
Me: It was nice. I don’t think they’re bad people, they’re just extremely loud. And inconsiderate. But maybe now they’ve met some neighbours, they’ll keep the partying to a minimum.

For the remainder of the evening, we only had happy thoughts for our neighbours, the girls in Flat 5.Then, 2am rolled around and we were woken by, what sounded like, an Asian, camp, male diva screaming. Following this, we heard the girls. The girls from Flat 5.

London Fashion Week Encounters

2011-09-22T12:26:00.002+01:00

Last week I attended London Fashion Week. Having been to the shows for the past two years, I remembered what to expect and understood the protocol (e.g. look cool, don’t eat etc) but I wasn’t prepared for the strange encounters that I was involved in.

As I arrived at Somerset House, I pulled my camera from my bag, ready to pap any amazing-looking creatures. As I did so, a twenty-something guy caught my eye. Well, posing Vogue-stylie all up in my grill was bound to draw some of my attention. Keen photographers were snapping away at him as he posed in ways that people only do when they’re mocking models. I watched from afar, but after his impromptu photoshoot, he strutted up to me and said AT me: “The *John Evans.”
Startled by his excitable disposition, I replied: “What?”
“The John Evans. That’s my Twitter name. I’m a presenter, you know. Yeah, so. Do it now.”

Unfortunately my phone was already in my hand, provoking ‘The John Evans’ to reach for it. I rambled that I’d add him later. He seemed pleased with this response; well either that or he just couldn’t wait to pose for his next load of optimistic, oblivious photographers. I imagine it was the latter.

Merely minutes after this situation, I was stood next to a well-groomed Indian man in a queue; let’s call him Ray as I think that might actually be his name. He was complete with sunglasses, bow tie and entourage. His photographer and PR man were right by his side. When introducing said entourage, Ray turned to an 18-year-old guy complete with man-bag and purple tinted fringe and said: “this is my...date” and then laughed awkwardly. Later, the very same young guy took my business card. So was he his assistant or...ah I see, one of those ‘assistants’.

Ray also had some girls from a London uni with him, filming a documentary for a project. They were filming us having a conversation, when suddenly Ray said: “my Dad once said that if you can’t do anything well, at least be good at these three things: living, working and f***ing. Do you do those?” Cue awkward moment on camera.

Me: “Er, definitely the first two.”
He seemed outraged: “What about the last one? The most important?”
Oh god. “In moderation.”
Ray replied: “No moderation darling, never in moderation!”

After hypothetically dying on the spot, the queue finally started to move and I managed to escape. In the show, Ray and co were sat front row and papped until the lights went down. Well that’s men for you, perhaps more gossip-worthy than IT girls. Watch out for those male diva’s.

* Names have been changed to spare fame-junkies the satisfaction.

Party In My...Brain

2011-09-13T17:47:00.003+01:00

After what felt like a lifetime of suffering from migraines, I was sent by my doctor to the hospital. I saw Dr Sharma, who hit my knee with a little tool and stared right into my eyes with a light. After two minutes of assessment he sent me on my way with pieces of paper and absolutely no clue of what just happened. I detected that I was scheduled to have a brain scan. Bit extreme, I thought, but then I’d rather know now if there’s an uninvited guest having a party on my brain.

Two days later, at 8:40am, I entered the scan room with a man who, despite his friendly face, seemed to have just woken up. I came face to face with the big machine in the middle of the room, whirring away and was asked to lie down on it. What followed was some sort of children’s sci-fi ride akin to No Way Out at Thorpe Park; you know, flashing lights, rotating machine parts and whizzing sounds. Poor brain.

I asked Sleepy Jim how I would find out the results. He said something at me that I didn’t understand and then opened the door for me to leave. At the reception desk I asked the receptionist if I could find out my doctor’s number. She pointed me towards a phone on the desk and told me to type in a random help number. I didn’t want to call my doctor at that point, I’d only just had the scan, like two minutes ago and I thought it was taking the piss a little bit to try and find the results out now. For some reason I still walked over to the phone and smiled at her, before waiting until she became preoccupied, at which point I ran away. Smooth.

After a week of waiting, I phoned the hospital. Trying to even locate my doctor was hard work in itself.
Me: I saw Dr Sharma last week in the neurology department.
Hospital Fool: Which Dr Sharma?
Me: Whichever Dr Sharma works in the neurology unit? He didn’t tell me his first name.
(At this point I felt sad that we weren’t close enough to have a first-name rapor)
H.F: Two Dr Sharma’s work in the neurology unit.
Me: Right. Well he was Indian, as I imagine the other one is, and sent me for a brain scan.
H.F: I’m sorry; I don’t know who you’re looking for.
Me: Dr Sharma.
H.F: Right, but which one?

My free fist was so tightly clenched that I started to get hand cramp so I hung up in a rage. I called a switchboard the next day and was given my doctor’s secretary’s number. I phoned her and she merely said: “we haven’t got results yet,” before hanging up. A week later I tried again. She said that he’d “err write up a report.” I didn’t really need a full blown analysis; just a one-word answer to the whole ‘is my brain wasting away?’ would’ve been sufficient.

The hilarity of the story is that I still haven’t had the results. You may think this signals good news, ‘you’re in the clear, wahoo!’ but having tried to even get a prescription out of the hospital, it seems that they suffered from a hideous case of disorganisation. I’m pretty sure that if an intruder IS taking a dump on my brain, I could sue the hospital for a fat sum of dollar. With that in mind, perhaps I should cut the calling...

Tube Etiquette

2011-09-08T14:17:00.004+01:00

It’s an unspoken rule that you should let a elderly person or pregnant woman have your seat on the tube. Those who don't abide by this easily digestible decree get frowned upon, or they're subject to some not-so-quiet tutting and other angry British-isms, at least.

Last week, I got on the tube and headed North West, a direction I rarely grace. I had a date with a train at Paddington Station and didn’t want to be late, so jumped right on, even though it was sardine city. I rarely do this, I usually tut at those who push their way on like bardy dogs. I quickly nabbed a free seat on the train, mostly because I was suffering from a hideous bout of kidney infection. All I wanted was a sit down (and some slippers. But that would just be for my own personal pleasure).

Seated and as perky as one with wilting kidneys could be, an elderly man stood next to me. Oh god. I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to offer this old man my seat.

“Excuse me, would you like my seat?”
“Oh no love, that’s okay.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, ideal, right? I followed the rules and I still got to keep my seat. Except I hadn’t followed the rules, because even when nice old men protest taking your seat, you're supposed to badger them into doing so because you know they’re just being polite and DO want to sit. I didn't badger him. I didn’t even offer again. I felt disgusted with myself, but admittedly my kidneys were pretty cushty.

He started telling me about his bus driver friend who used to hide his arm inside his coat so passengers would think he was driving one-handed. He laughed a lot. I laughed with him, partly out of guilt and partly because, well it was quite an amusing little tale. Every time there was a silence I yearned to tell him that it was my kidneys, that’s what this situation was all about; I wasn’t a selfish youth from a horrible misinformed generation. Only, I couldn’t seem to find an appropriate way to start the conversation. I missed many chances to tell him that usually I berate elderly people into taking my seat. Nicely, of course.

With every anecdote he told, I could feel his disappointment with my poor choice. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of being judged by old man (as part of the young generation I feel I have to show elders we’re not all looters with crowbars in our bags), the train got to Paddington. Elderly man was leaving here too. Neither one of us was closer to the door than the other so I stood up and insisted he go in front of me. Due to the packed train and minimum foot space, I was holding onto the rail, swaying about in the air as elderly man took his time to decide.

He gestured to me, saying, after you. So I went. If I had hung around the rails any longer I would have most definitely fallen onto the face of the lady next to me. I arrived at Paddington feeling guilty and sad, but then I saw Krispy Kreme and perked up. The moral of the story is; always give your seat up unless you have kidney infection, as that’s a valid reason to stay seated.

The People's Elbow, or something like that

2011-08-31T14:25:00.005+01:00

Seeing your partners parents can be a bit of a nervy time. I get along with S-Boy’s just fine, we’ve met up several times happily but I still worry that I'll say/do the wrong thing.

On one of our previous meetings, I dropped curry in my lap, sprayed it on the walls and managed to get some in the tiny white checks of S-Boy’s shirt. That anecdote gets mentioned every time we meet. I could live with that, just one harmless story that would be told to family and friends afar for the rest of our lives. No biggie.

Apparently the Gods, or whoever’s in charge of this joint, didn’t think that one awful story was enough. This bank holiday weekend, S-Boy’s parents stayed in a hotel in London, so they could see the sights and spend time with their son (and his zany girlfriend). Upon meeting them at the hotel, we all hugged and kissed cheeks (my number one most hated social ritual.) I was hugging his Dad hello, when it appeared our cheek-kissing ended up more on the lips. Hideous, I know, but it happened.

We didn’t make a fuss of that blunder, after all, silly things like that happen all the time (don’t they?). It was waiting for the lift in the hotel lobby that really did it. His parents had booked into a fancier suite than the generic economy rooms, so therefore got to use a special lift that only went to their floor.

As we stood and waited for, what I assumed was just the one lift, a lift nearby opened up. As S-Boy headed towards it, I went to say that we couldn’t get in any old lift. As I did so, I reached my arm out and pointed my finger at the sign above. During this time, S-Boy’s Dad walked straight into my arm and I elbowed him in the face. I even felt his facial features touch my grainy elbow. It was all extremely mortifying.

To make it worse, as we walked into the lift (which, by the way, WAS the right lift after all) I said aloud: “So I just punched your dad in the face and now we’re getting into the lift.” I have no idea why I said it aloud, but it was heard by all.

That lift ride was a quiet one.

I am sure this will be the new ‘curry story’ that will be told at countless events and occasions from now on. That’s what happens, I suppose, when you kiss your boyfriend's dad and then punch him in the face.

Singing Lessons

2011-08-15T17:38:00.006+01:00

Last night S-Boy lured me into participating in a Singing Lessons DVD. I kid you not.

S-Boy is a musician and a singer. In a bid to perfect his vocal chords, he rented this DVD, hosted by American Brett Manning, apparently the world's best vocal teacher. In a bid to unleash my Broadway dreams (watch this space. Keep watching. Rome wasn't built in a day, jeez) I decided that this might be beneficial. In the first section we were talked through vocabulary. Inevitably I got bored and urged S-Boy to move onto the next section. Begrudgingly, as if he was going to miss some sort of magic trick that might transform him to new realms of vocal wonder, he clicked 'next'. I jumped with glee as I heard Brett's nasal tone say: "Vocal Exercises". This is more like it!

I was wrong. They were not the backstage dressing room warm-up exercises I had imagined. No stood at the piano repeating 'ah' in an ascending scale and hitting it note perfect. Instead, I found myself sat at the table imitating a horse whose genitalia had been given the chop. 'Nay nay nay' I sang in a high pitched voice. After repeating 'mom mom mom' for what felt like an eternity, we moved onto a different exercise.

Keeping with the horse theme, Brett told us to do that thing where you blow air out of mouth with your lips touching, so they vibrate and make the funny noise that my dad used to make when I was a child. Apparently age has nothing to do with its comedic powers, as hearing Brett create the 'pissed-off horse' sound turned me into a hysterical idiot. Welling up with the force of my uncontrollable laughter, S-Boy paused the DVD, irritated.

"Oh for God's sake, stop being silly," he scolded, part amused part annoyed.

As with everything you're told not to do, I did the exact opposite. Note, I was not shrieking with laughter purposely, just hearing the S-Boy make the noise sent me into some sort of hooting oblivion. He had to pause the DVD another three times. I was so entertained I took a photo of S-Boy during this exercise so he could see how Mick Jagger-esque his lips looked. You can see that at the top of this post.

A few exercises later, S-Boy suggested that we put the DVD away. Truth be told, I was a little disappointed but I understood his concern. I didn't want to learn too much too soon, you know, become too good. I made a promise to myself that I would still use the DVD with S-Boy, no matter the amazing new vocal planes my voice might soon reach. And let's be honest, that's a given.

Dino

2011-08-12T14:47:00.006+01:00

Last weekend S-Boy and I ventured to my home land. Somerset, where cider is made and every third man goes by the name of Farmer Giles (apparently). On Saturday my over-excited mother took us on the train to Bristol for a lovely day out. Most of the day was spent looking around women's shops (well there were three of us and two of them. The other of 'them' being my five-year-old nephew) but this grew tiresome for S-Boy and nephew.

I should've known that it would get out of hand when we left them in BHS playing with Humungosaur (an ill-proportioned character from Ben 10) on some seats in the Evans clothing department. When I wandered back from browsing to collect them, my nephew was sat on the floor attempting to catch Humungosaur (thrown by S-Boy) in between his little-trainered feet. I was going to have a pop at S-Boy for encouraging things that were impossible (he was never going to catch it between his feet, trust me) but then I remembered Finding Nemo and decided that I didn't want to be Marlon; I didn't want to tell him or my nephew that Humungosaur would never be caught between his trainers so I kept schtum.

We then dragged them to M&S to look at the lingerie. Feeling slightly disappointed as we wandered the Autograph undies, we directed ourselves back onto the main 'path' of the store (you know, the fake lanes) to find the exit. As we were walking and talking, we heard something strange behind us.

Turning around I was alarmed to see S-Boy (at 6'7 tall) and nephew (at...the height of a five-year-old) both creeping on their tip toes behind us cartoon-stylee, their hands up by their faces akin to dinosaurs (picture 2 x T-Rex). Apart from the time he let his hair grow and looked like a lesbian, I've never seen S-Boy look so ridiculous. What was worse was that S-Boy genuinely looked like he had been caught in headlights and came to a solid standstill when we turned around. We carried on walking when we heard S-Boy say: "you were like a mouse!". What the hell was S-Boy teaching my nephew?

Later, when nephew was attempting to 'scare' us roughly five times a minute, S-Boy said: "no you have to do it less to scare them." Nephew clearly didn't listen as two minutes later my ear drums combusted and my face was covered in kiddie spit from a rather abrupt 'AHH!'.

On the train home after a, frankly bizarre, day, S-Boy was exhausted from 'sharing his wisdom'. This didn't stop nephew, as in a moment of quiet, he reached out and tickled my sister's chin. This, of course, prompted S-Boy to tickle me. The moral of the story? Males never grow up and they're worse when there's more than one of them. Proof in the ridiculous childish tickling spree that ensued.

Just a little note

2011-08-12T11:15:00.005+01:00

Oh, hello you! You made me jump! Considering you're here, this is just a quick note to say that the font here will soon be changing. To this. I realise that many of you won't care too much about that, but for fellow OCD font fiends, you are now in the know. My reasoning? 'Arial' was once my nemesis, but I have reluctantly accepted it into my font vocabulary as it's extremely easy on the eyes. Like a little someone else I know (I have no idea who I'm referring to. It's not me, if that's what you're thinking).

So yeah, fonts! See you soon, I hope.

S x

Weekends

2011-08-04T15:30:00.004+01:00

Last weekend was great. Me and S-Boy headed down to our nearest tube station to venture into Central London. On the platform was a young man with the most BEAUTIFUL dog I have ever seen. The little guy looked like a Labrador only a bit smaller in size. The owner guy (OG) saw (and probably heard) me whispering to S-Boy and pointing at the pooch so I quickly flashed him a smile, as if to say: I like your dog. He smiled back, I looked away and knew that S-Boy and I should talk about something else. That's what normal people do isn't it? Move on. Only, I couldn't. After nodding interestedly at something S-Boy was saying about a billboard, I allowed myself a quick glance over at the dog again. Upon meeting his doggy brown eyes, I couldn't resist. As if I was on my own extendable doggy leash, I stood up and went over to the owner.

"Oh he's gorgeous!" I gushed as I reached down to stroke the beautiful golden fur. OG laughed comfortably, as if this happened all the time. He wasn't bad looking so I'm sure it did happen all the time. It made me feel sad to think that I wasn't the only one to come over and pet his dog, but the sadness was replaced with panic as I realised that I had been on my knees playing with the dog's face for far too long in silence. To look less creepy, I asked: "what breed is he?". OG said something about a Canadian breed although I wasn't really listening as I was too giddy that the dog's face was all up in mine. I smiled and strolled back to S-Boy, attempting to look casual when really my heart was experiencing some irregular palpitations.

S-Boy gave me a grin and said: You just couldn't resist could you?
Me: I really couldn't.
S-Boy: The guy's quite good looking. Damn him.
Me: I bet he gets loads of attention because his dog's cute too.

After verbally and subconsciously kicking S-Boy to the lowest of all self-esteem lows, we got on the train. OG and dog followed us through the same train entrance which prompted an inward, overdone: 'yessssssssssssss!'. OG stood opposite us on those pointless body rests that they could've made into extra seats. Dog lay down. I cooed at every movement his head made.

At the first stop, a hoard of tourists clambered through the doors. Flapping about with their coats as the train departed from the station, they seemed oblivious to the dog and stepped one too many times painfully near his paws. "Watch out!" I screamed. I didn't really say that because I realised that the dog was not mine and also I would look like a raving bitch and then the dog would be scared of me too. The next stop was our stop. I pleaded with S-Boy using my puppy dog/droopy sad man eyes but he nodded towards the door and I knew it was time to say goodbye. I smiled at OG quickly before beaming at the dog.

That evening my mother called.

Mum: What did you do today?
Me: We made friends with a dog and then we bought a watermelon.
Mum: Oh right. So strange.
Me: It wasn't. The dog was so cute and I cut the whole watermelon on my own!

That night I had dreams of running through fields with the dog before having a watermelon picnic. Weekends, eh.

Angry Tube People

2011-07-15T16:03:00.006+01:00

People on the tube sometimes get very angry. Not just because it's too crowded, or someone's sweating on them, either. Recently I alighted the train at Leicester Square (strangely where most of my unpleasant dalliances occur i.e. drunken state mentioned in last post). I hopped on and saw an empty seat. Everyone knows that getting a seat on the tube is like finding a packet of unopened Custard Creams behind the copious amounts of tinned soup and spaghetti hoops: rare, satisfying and adrenaline rush to be the first person involved.

I clambered my way over the small children clinging to the centre tube pole and perched next to a lady reading the paper. I was looking ahead at the tube map displayed on the train interior and laughing at the funny names (Cockfosters!) when she began tutting and looking at me. Perhaps I wasn't allowed to look at the tube map. Yes, that must be why, I thought whilst averting my gaze to my lap, ashamed. Wait one cotton-pickin' second! Who is she to tell me (silently) that I can't look at the tube map? I can look at the tube map if I want to! It will harm nobody, least of all, her. I will not be bullied by a woman wearing large-framed spectacles (and not out of geek-chic irony, I imagine). Jeez, making me think that looking at the tube map affected her somehow, eh!

So I regained my confidence and tilted my head up to laugh at the other funny tube names (there weren't any). Newspaper lady did not seem to like this so she dramatically stood up, flapped her newspaper and walked down the carriage. Well maybe she's getting off at the next stop, I reasoned with myself. It's Hyde Park Corner. That's a nice spot. To my dismay, she did not get off at the next stop, but instead seated herself four seats away from me before shooting a nasty glance my way. People sat around me seemed confused. I felt embarrassed. Four seats away! What does that mean? I subtly snuffled my armpit. Nope, Dove was doing its job.

Earlier this week sat at my desk, one of my workmates seemed agitated and upon questioning proceeded to tell me a very strange story. She explained that as she reached for a newspaper on a tube seat NEXT to a woman, said woman snapped, "I was reading that." My friend dropped it feeling a little embarrassed at her rude tone and instead went for a paper on a different seat (why are there so many free seats? Who doesn't want to sit down?!) to be accosted by the same woman AGAIN, nodding to a man nearby and spitting, "He's reading that." Eventually a friendly-looking guy (although at this point I imagine every guy looks friendly - apart from the shady bearded garcon lurking in the corner, of course) handed her a newspaper and said, "This one's free."

What's the moral of the story, you ask? There is no moral. Wait, don't leave! We have learnt one thing after all (*quickly scrapes something together*): being nice to people, or even being human to people does not always mean that they return the favour. Sometimes, aka these stories, they actually go to the other end of the scale and harass you. Yesterday I was stood on the tube when a brash young woman pushed her way on and yelled, "Can everyone just move up? Move up!" The general public did what they were told and shuffled up, even though they tutted and grumbled whilst doing it. Personally I love a good public telling-off. Get a backbone people! Or at least mumble something cowardly under your breath.

Drunk

2011-07-01T20:27:00.004+01:00

Boys always like buying drinks for me. Not because I am easily persuaded into saucy situations, but because I work out cheap. Cheap as in, lightweight. As my friends and family will confirm, it takes roughly 3 alcoholic bevvies to get me beyond tipsy (drunk *cough*).

So it was no surprise on a Friday night a few weeks ago, in a packed out East London bar, I found myself holding onto a tiny stool for support, as my comrades drank on. It was supposed to be a drink or two with some long lost friends, a cosy chat. It turned out to be a drink or two with some long lost friends and their entire male office, all in business suits, yelling inaudible sounds. As I was trying to make conversation with the suits, my friends were plying me with alcohol (read: three drinks maximum.)
It was getting close to 7pm and I had told S-Boy I'd come home so we could cook together. I stood up and realised the reality of my intoxicated situation. I messaged S-Boy immediately.

Me: Iam a littttttetl bit drunk babe.
S-Boy: Oh for gods sake.
Me: I know, I onlyhad a few driunks.
S-Boy: Meet me at Embankment.
Me: Yes SIR. Where is that then?

So I stumbled down the cobbled paths of the East end, trying so hard not to look drunk. I finally met S-Boy, and fell into his arms, not out of romance but rather, a need of stability. He decided that we needed a walk. I obliged to this as we jumped (me, literally, with both feet at the same time) onto the tube. Ten minutes (or in my head, ten years) later we exited the station, and as if to let the London public know of my welfare, S-Boy informs me that I began to hop on one leg down the busy pavements of Leicester Square.

In a humiliated hurry, S-Boy rushed me into a Chinese buffet and sat us down. Clearly demanding that he hop with me along the tourist-filled streets was the final straw. So we grabbed two plates from the pile of off-white crockery and started filling them with amazing greasy produce. It was when I dropped a whole vegetable spring roll onto the foot of a man stood in front of me that even I knew, I needed to go home. I looked up at the man in apology and bent down to retrieve the mislaid spring roll. I placed the now grubby spring roll onto the side of the buffet table. I had learnt in my time that putting it back onto my own plate was not 'the done thing'. Rah rah rah.

S-Boy led me out of the restaurant shortly, laughing in more of a desperation than an enjoyment. As we were walking he leant over and whispered something in my ear, "You know you dropped that spring roll on the floor? Well, as I bit into my crispy wonton, it broke apart and the shell sprayed all over someone's foot in the queue too."

I laughed in a giddy and frankly frightening manner before continuing to hop down the street, S-Boy attempting a hop too, and then I remembered, THAT's why we're together.

Munch

2011-06-21T10:01:00.001+01:00

S-Boy has always liked weird foods. By weird, I mean, random junk food items that you consumed from when you were a little nipper, to when you were a raging adolescent, fuelled by the words of Avril Lavigne and ‘rock gods’ Sum 41 (ahem). So he enjoys a can of Tizer (who else remembers that TV jingle that sponsored SMTV? * for lyrics that I should not remember) and a packet of Quavers, give the boy a break, right? He’s not breaking any dietary laws. If that’s what he wants to devour, then so be it.

I wish I could be so understanding. I do understand his desire for childhood goods and ‘fun looking’ packaging (can’t get more fun than Coco the monkey swinging on the front of a cardboard box looking smug), but being a health-addict-wannabe, I am struggling. To make matters worse, since we moved to London, the choice of food items has become lesser, due to a sans money budget (the worst kind). So not only is he masticating strange children’s junk food in packaging that resembles products from Charlie & The Chocolate Factory and other doped-up hallucinations, he is doing it with basic Sainsburys own versions, as opposed to Nestle.

The first strange thing I encountered was at breakfast time. Whilst buttering his muffin (don’t) I assumed that he would just be having spread, alas he then placed some of the fake cheese he had made us purchase (‘singles’ - the cheese that is an off-orange shade and is unbelievably square) between both halves of the muffin. Like a sandwich. A muffin fake cheese sandwich. At 7:45am. I would have given him kudos if it had been sausage or bacon, to mimic the magic of a McMuffin. But instead, it was just a muffin with a sad square of rubber between it.

After this first incident, they just kept coming. We had purchased a multipack of Sainsburys crisps, containing items such as Cheese Balls, Salt and Vinegar Sticks and Onion Rings. Of course, due to the price and admitted status of the product (aka basic, aka shit) we were not expecting luxury tones of Kettle Chips to emerge from the poorly sealed crisp packets, but I was also not expecting the Cheese Puffs to taste like putrid vinegar. That evening after work, I began telling S-Boy about my disgust:

Me: Have you had a packet of those supposed cheese puffs yet? They’re really...
S-Boy: They’re amazing!
Me: What?
S-Boy: I really liked them, best ones of that multipack.
Me: Are you being genuine?
S-Boy: Yeah. Why?
Me: Because they tasted like undiluted, pure vinegar.
S-Boy: No they didn’t.

I looked away and gave myself the satisfaction of doing the ‘oh dear god, what a freak’ expression, even though the only people who saw it were confused travellers on the escalator at Piccadilly Circus.
We went shopping at the weekend. We ended up purchasing Creature Crunch. What, you ask? The basic equivalent of Monster Munch, of course. Kill me now.

* “I’m red, I’m red, I’m Tizer head, I’m fizzy, fizzy, fizzy, refresh your head, Whether you’re dressed or in the nuddy, I’m your friend, your pal and your bestest buddy”

I don’t know why I still know this, and why I am able to sing it perfectly in accordance to it’s strange pitch and even stranger Northern accent.

Anniversary

2011-06-13T11:52:00.003+01:00

With this whole moving malarkey and also our attempts at keeping pennies in the pig, S-Boy and I decided that for our year anniversary (which would fall on a Monday) we would go to eat somewhere modest on Sunday night. Sunday evening shimmied along, and we scoffed proper hamburgers and onion rings and chips covered in chilli and guacamole, and I loosened my waist belt by two slots as we struggled walking home. It was the perfect romantic venture.

The next day, our actual anniversary, we went about our usual business. S-Boy went off to work, I ran some errands and so forth. Due to our celebrations the night before, I hadn't acknowledged that it was actually the day although it wasn't like I'd forgotten. Really.

I met S-Boy after work. Not because it was our anniversary (because as I said, I hadn't really thought about it, but had not forgotten either) but because I thought it would be a nice thing to do. Predictably I arrived early and got a bit restless waiting, so I wandered down to the newsagent and bought a packet of Munchies. I knew he'd be a bit peckish after work. Making my way back to his building, he suddenly appeared in front of me, cradling a large bunch of flowers and a cheesy grin. I retrieved the flowers from him in surprise. As I walked merrily down the street, with flowers in one hand and him in the other (his hand obviously, not actually him, he's not a Borrower), it suddenly hit me. He has publicly acknowledged our anniversary, presenting me with this beautiful bunch of flowers. Usually its girls who make a big effort to pick out the perfect pair of cuff-links and cannot believe that in return they receive a hug. Well, I have picked out the perfect nothing, I thought sadly to myself.

Wait, the Munchies! All is not lost, I reasoned with myself. I whipped them from my pocket dramatically.

"Look, I got you some Munchies!"
"Aw." S-Boy is far too accepting of my shit gifts. I wonder if he's putting on a front but that smile seems like the real deal.
"I bought them for you because I knew you'd enjoy them, but I got a bit peckish whilst waiting for you, so I ate 3. That's why those ones aren't there," I quickly explained, feeling my cheeks flush as I pointed to the ripped wrapper.
"Haha, that's fine, thank you." S-Boy chirpily responds, laughing and pulling me in closer under his arm.

How is he so happy with this present? How, when he wolfed down his salami and cheese sandwich at lunchtime just so he could pick a lovely bunch of flowers for me, can he be so pleased with this?! I judge him a little bit for being so nice. And then I remember that that is why I am not as nice as him.

I feel sick with guilt. Not only have I given him a packet of Munchies, a 60p packet of chocolate (gone up in price though, rip-off), but I have also gone and opened them, eaten some to feed my selfish hunger pangs and then presented them as if there's nothing wrong with that. I am shameless.

It gets worse. We get home and he gives me a card. Now, before you think I'm awful, I HAD purchased a card (with two penguins on the front actually. Fun) but I'd sent it to our flat, so he would be surprised. Of course the card hadn't bloody arrived yet. So he handed over this very lovely card, fully equipped with red ribbon and other fancy modern attachments and flaps on it, and I had nothing to present AGAIN.

Next anniversary I need to buy him an actual gift, such as cufflinks, to make up for this year. But now he's learnt how awful I am, I bet all I get back is a hug.

Blow-Up Bed

2011-06-08T12:53:00.003+01:00

S-Boy and I have finally moved in. It took a copious amount of emailing and document finding (do I even have a passport?!) but we finally made it to our tiny flat. Of course, any move to London is a struggle, and this is especially resonant when you don't even have a bed. We did order a bed from Ikea. Of course due to the service these days (yes, I went there) we were told we wouldn't be receiving our bed for a good few days, despite choosing a sooner date.

For the first two nights we slept on the floor. We went to sleep with: two duvets, a sheet (useless without a mattress to clothe. It was just an extra layer of skin), and a blanket. We woke up with: broken vertebrae and an understanding of what it must be like to be old. Elders who refuse to sit down because they 'won't get back up again'? I hear ya. It was most probably this idyllic situation that caused us to wake up at 5am on both nights, and get up to start the day. This floor business, it was causing a mischief. We were messed up in the head, man.

So we hobbled to my sister's place and borrowed a blow up bed. Although carrying it home was troublesome on the shoulder (pumps are pretty weighty, all that air) we were hopeful about the change it might bring.

At home, we plugged the electric pump into the bed valve and let our eardrums wilt from the high decibel hairdryer noise greeting us. Bloody hell, this hideous din better be worth it. A minute or so later (speedy) we had a fully-pumped mattress. We lay on it, feeling luxurious and smug. Look at us, on our padded inflatable bed. We cracked open the Disaronno and had a mixed bevvy to celebrate our bed triumph.

A few hours later, we're lying on it watching television, feeling supremely pleased with our new situation, when I realise something. It is deflating. Inevitably, the weight of S-Boy and I would give the air a little push, but not to this extent. S-Boy tells me that my sister had mentioned something about a puncture. I think I was too busy admiring how much room she had in her flat to hear that bit. We'll pump it up before bed time, I tell S-Boy.

8:30pm rolls around and as planned, we pump more air back into the bed time lilo. Perfecto. Nestling under our, now too many, duvets and blankets, we prepare for a great sleep. It was a great sleep, only at the stroke of 7am I turned to S-Boy and awoke to something startling. No not that (though I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't confronted with that). Instead of feeling a sturdy elevated air mattress under my recovering spine, I felt something a little harder (you're sick). I, bleary-eyed, looked around. How are we almost on the floor?! Of course the puncture in our bed had whittled all of our air away during the night, to lay us half-flat on a deflated bouncy-castle. My back has a case of déjà vu. As soon as S-Boy gets up, the whole thing collapses in on me, plastic covering my face.

That day we rang Ikea. "I want my bed!" I cried to the lady, throwing my hands in the air (which was awfully silly considering one of them was holding the phone to my ear). As if to play a cruel fools day joke, she told me that actually the date had been pushed back even further. I laughed. Is it April fools day? Have I missed out on a blinder? Seconds of silence told me that I had not, for this was June and she still wasn't talking. The laughing stopped. I hung up, in need of a lie-down. I shuffled down onto my cold plastic sheet. That's that, then.

Honey I’m Home...

2011-06-07T13:20:00.004+01:00

I know. It's been an unforgivably long time since I have written but I have good reason, I promise. Amidst the stress of flat-hunting, moving into said flat, moving my life around in suitcases and cardboard boxes (the latter isn't true, just for dramatic effect) and fruitlessly job-searching in our lady, the capital city, I haven't really had minutes on the clock to deliver the good quality (...) content that I had been famed for doing so previously (err). It's been a long road for all of us, alas I am back! Of course some of you may have wandered to greener pastures, pastures that actually provide something to read that wasn't written 20 years ago, and I do understand. However, as official followers of this blog (it even says so on the right hand side there) you have made an oath to stay true to my blog, and my blog alone. Sorry about that.

From now, this blog will document my trials and tribulations in a new city, living with S-Boy and dealing with situations that confront me every day (for example the Polish builders outside my house, who, for the past 4 days, have pointed/stared at me every time I've left the building).

Apologies for the absence, but joy for the comeback!

Enjoy friends.

S

Old Man Rivers

2011-03-18T10:11:00.002Z

It's Tuesday morning and I'm at the gym. Dressed in my ancient, hand-me-down Adidas shorts I complete my usual circuit, before eventually hitting the treadmill for my final 20 minute slog.

Nothing appears to be unusual about this day at the gymnasium. Middle-aged folk panting on the arm toners, size 8 fitties pedalling on the exercise bikes at level 1, you know, the usual scene. Double knotting my trainer laces (I'm no stranger to the treadmill plummet) I start to run and after roughly 5 strides, am working up a sweat. Forehead and backside perspiring, I swipe forward and reach for my bottle of water hap hazardously. Unscrewing the cap, I am so desperate for the liquid heaven that before I know it, the cap has somehow left my sticky palm and taken flight. It is flying through the clammy air, out of my control. Soaring now, I watch it open-mouthed, amazed, until it enters the vicinity of an elderly West-American-looking man on the cross trainer. Oh god, please don't scrape across his balding head.

Fortunately, luck is on my side this time, and the cap falls to the grimy grey carpet, evading Old Man Rivers' face. At first, I don't see its exact position and assume it's a goner for good. Trying to maintain my 8.8 run on the conveyer belt of physical death, I crane my neck just to check. Wait a minute. There it is! Still blue, still a cap but now covered in dust under old man's moving feet, it lays waiting for rescue. My new mission? Not to complete 20 minutes of running, but to retrieve the cap.

I lower the setting on the treadmill and hop off, pondering the best way to get the beloved cap without looking like I'm admiring Old Man River's brittle legs. It is at this point, walking past Old Man Rivers that I realise this is no ordinary day at the gym. Never before have I had to instigate a gym mission, other than to sweat (which isn't a mission. It's a given).

I jump onto the stepper machine, which annoyingly is placed in front of Old Man Rivers on the cross trainer. It's the only machine that is in the area and available. It's quite tricky to keep your eye on something behind you without constantly turning around and leading old American-looking men to believe you've got the hots for them. As soon as he steps off of that machine, I will make the swoop.

Ten minutes later and the situation has not changed. Rivers is still puffing away on the cross trainer, I am still stepping (climbing apparently 2.5 stairs a minute) and the cap is still being infested by bacteria. After a further five minutes, I know that I cannot wait any longer. Bloody hell, I should've been outta this place by now. There is only one thing to do. I cease my stepping, grab my bottle and walk around Old Man Rivers. I decide the from-behind approach will be the least suspicious (which I realise is not usually the case in any scenario...) Edging in between the treadmills, and dodging past the cross trainers in some sort of strategically tiring maze, I am now stood right behind Old Man Rivers, my open bottle next to my feet. If he can't see me, he must be able to smell me.

The cap is exactly below one of the foot plates that his old man foot is moving. My hand is going to have to take one for the team. Crouching down, I reach forward and extend my gadget finger to grasp the edge of the cap. Only gadget finger misses the cap, and I lose my balance, forcing me to hold onto the legs of the treadmill. Old Man Rivers turns around, and after looking around confused, tilts his head downwards and sees me, a sweaty girl in tiny shorts squatting behind his machine and holding onto another for dear life.

I panic. It's time to create an exquisite lie and be on my way. I somehow pretend to be doing stretches. I stand up and then squat again, as if that's what I've been doing the whole time. People stretch before they leave sometimes, jeez. He seems alarmed but turns back around and carries on skimming the edges of the abandoned cap.

After two more awkwardly forced squats, I exit the gym. I toss my incomplete bottle in the bin and scorn my failure. Two minutes later, as I am retrieving my stuff from the locker, Old Man Rivers exits the gym. Two minutes! Only now my bottle's in the ugly black bin and it's too late.

Holiday

2011-03-06T20:29:00.005Z

S-Boy and I have established that holidays apart equal bad news. Our communication falters, perhaps because text arguments aren't as juicy, I mean err...emotional, over SMS. I can't throw my ballet pumps at him in an angry rage over text.

S-Boy's parents were planning a last minute holiday, and invited me along. Due to work commitments and my non-stop-worrying, I had to decline. So S-Boy left for Heathrow (not at that very minute) and eventually arrived in Lanzarote for some sunburn action. At first I was glad I had declined. I'm so mature and forward-thinking. I can decline sun, sweet nonchalant sun, for the greater good (though I did have to remind myself at times of weakness that no, tanning is not for the greater good).

After 5 days, my 'great decision' began to take it's toll; all of this texting, the arctic weather here, and his unintentionally boastful tales of heat. "It's warm here, I've got a bit of colour." I was in too much of a dejected state to hit him with a witty comeback regarding his definite lack of 'good' colour, and guaranteed acquaintance with lobster skin. Imagine that, too down to take the Mickey Mouse out of S-Boy. I know.

It's evening and I'm lying on my bed, rolling myself in the deep depression of not being on holiday, when S-Boy rings. Pleasant surprise, he hates phonecalls. He's usually tapping away in the background, and then appears genuinely surprised when I say "I can hear you playing Football Manager." Bless him.
Our conversation begins light and jovial. You know, how is the weather, on a scale of 1 to 10 how red is your body etc. Then, inevitably, it takes a more sinister turn. I can't hide it anymore. I can't pretend that I'm so happy he's eating lovely food and lapping up the sun whilst I am at home, organising my desk (can't actually complain about that, favourite past time) and wondering what his elusive text messages mean. "I had a nice dinner" is too cryptic to decode. Did he really have a nice dinner, or is he being sarcastic? Could the dinner have been nicer, or was it just right? Oh I don't know!

I tell him that he's been away too long, it's only halfway through his holiday and it's time for his return now. He says he misses me too but cannot come home. I didn't tell him I miss him. Presumptuous. My initial approach doesn't seem to be working. I hadn't imagined it failing, it's so simple. I say he's been away too long, he realises the error of his ways and returns. Maybe in Lanzarote the balance is out of sync. I need a back-up plan, and I need it pronto. I turn to my biggest strength. My knowledge.

"You must not have heard about the new law."
"What law?"
"You know, the legal decree that states you have to return home a day earlier than you had planned. I know it's not convenient, but hey, it's the law..."
"What?!"
"You don't mess with the law babe, you just don't. The law, you know. It's big."

S-Boy laughs. I am confused and irritated. Why is he laughing? If my law was real and not fictional, this would not be a laughing matter. How does he know it's not real? Is he a genius in Lanzarote? Scary.

"I think I'll risk it, just this once."
"Well. That's awfully careless of you. I won't be sympathetic when you have to face the consequences."
"I'm sure I'll be able to cope with it."
"Well..."

I don't know what to say to that. I think he knows I made it all up. Who is this Lanzarote mastermind?! The next day we talk as usual. He does not mention my illusory law. Neither do I. I am too embarrassed he has seen through it. We carry on as if it never happened. I try to decode more texts. "I'm wearing three layers tonight." Is it cold? Or are his arms burnt? Lord...

Hot Drink Politics

2011-02-28T22:51:00.003Z

My mum has always told me that as I get older, I will come to appreciate hot drinks such as tea and coffee. You know, adult drinks. 20 years later (she obviously told me this at birth) I find that I really don't like hot drinks, such as tea and coffee.

I go on a work placement to a reputable magazine. Wicked, I think, look at me, being all adult and great. I become familiar with who has which hot drink and so if I am ever in a position of making one, I will get it spot on and they will reward me with praise and good tasks.

"Which tea do you want? Or do you want CreamyChoc?" I heard one of the members of staff ask, one Thursday afternoon.

CreamyChoc?! That sounds...fantastic! Right it was time to leave my comfort zone and explore the drinks machine. Over I go, pretending to know exactly what I was doing. In the kitchenette area, a few other members of staff are making jokes and pouring milk. First job, find a mug. As part of my cool, nonchalant act, I didn't want to ask where they were stored. So instead I open a cupboard, to find my fate. Before me lies a lonesome fork. I do not know why there was one fork in a cupboard, but I do know one thing: this was not where the mugs were stored. After several cupboard/dishwasher/drawer openings later, I find them. Ha! In your face, confusing kitchenette!

Next step, go to exciting looking drinks machine and select one of the options. Then, I see it. I finally understand what the women had been talking about earlier. CreamyChoc! A brand name, sitting there proudly, outdoing the rubbishy 'Hot Chocolate' written on the tab below. CreamyChoc it shall be!

Days later, one of my colleagues starts a tea round. She takes the orders, and when she turns to me, inevitably I coo "CreamyChoc!" Moments later she returns with many a mug. Setting mine down on my desk, my tummy starts to do a little dance, until she explains, "the drinks machine was being fixed, so I got you tea."

I imagine that in normal adult society, everyone drinks tea and this is just the rule of life. If you have a key to your own front door and enjoy Philip Schofield (in such programmes as Dancing On Ice) you are an adult, thus you drink tea. However after years of being pushed into trying it ("you don't drink tea?! Try mine!") I was 100% certain that I did not like tea.

As everyone slurps their drinks contently, I know the polite thing to do is to follow suit. Sip sip. Half an hour later, I look down to find I have only taken a few gulps. Right, I think, when she leaves her desk, I'm going to subtly get rid of this tea. She stands up and heads west of the office. This is my cue. I get up and walk swiftly to the kitchenette. As I wait for others to move out of the way, she suddenly appears beside me.
"Oh hello!" I exclaim, rather too enthusiastically, mostly out of surprise.
"Are you getting a CreamyChoc?" she asks, confused.
"No, no, I'm just...putting sugar in my tea!"
"Ohh!" She seems pleased with this and heads towards the drinks machine.

She picks up her drink and as she walks past, I have a little glance into her mug. I cannot believe what I am seeing. CreamyChoc. Right there in her mug. As I have to endure my now even worse tasting tea, she is enjoying the delights of CreamyChoc.

Tuesday afternoon, week 2, one of my colleagues asks if I want a CreamyChoc. I explain I've already had one that morning.
"You had one in the morning? It's an afternoon thing!"
"Oh. I have one every morning." I say, embarrassed.
"No! The morning?! So I'm guessing you don't want another one today?"

Yes I do want another one. I do want that creamy goodness, and childlike warmth that you can only get from CreamyChoc. But I know that enough is enough. I have made my bed, and now it is time to lay in it.

"No, no, one was enough for me!" I say, giving a half-hearted smile, covering my sad lies.

As time goes on, I wonder if I will ever get the politics of CreamyChoc right. I know there is only one thing to do. Cut the cord. No more CreamyChoc's for me. Not even in the afternoon. I will not be known as the girl who loved CreamyChoc, especially in the mornings. On the last day, they're fixing the machine again and only one drink is available.

I end the day sat at my desk, CreamyChoc sitting in front of me. One more can't hurt.

Uranus

2011-02-21T14:18:00.004Z

A while ago I experienced some mild discomfort within the four walls of my bathroom. A 'back door' problem, I found myself getting flustered and pained when 'letting loose'. I ignored it for a while, maybe it was when we had that hefty bit of chicken last Thursday. That must be why, I decided.

Before Christmas, when the pains began, I took a mini break with S-Boy. There we are, in the Natural History Museum, admiring the exciting bits and bobs, when I feel the urge to go. I run up the stairs to the toilet and seat myself, ready to 'drop the kids off at the pool' (please excuse all of my poor euphemisms here). Massive pain ensues as I try to heave the heavy load from my system. If giving birth is worse than this then no can do mate. I chomped down on my lip to stop myself from huffing and gasping like an asthmatic 70-year-old. Then came the toilet-sweats. Years later, I breathed a sigh of relief, having evacuated the goods (though there was nothing good about it). As I stood, ready to exit that positively hideous situation, I noted that blood had also made an appearance. Hello, undesirable gate-crasher.

Waddling out of the toilets towards S-Boy, I knew that something wasn't right. I'm pretty sure he knew too from not only my creepy limping gait, but my pained expression.

When we got home I went to the doctor. Luckily it was my usual doctor, the woman who had frozen the verruca's off of not only my feet, but my hands too when I was 13 (they're contagious alright) and who had once asked me 'have you had a lot of sex?' when putting me on the pill. We had the trust, the bonds, it would be fine.

I got there and first told her of my migraine suffering. Once she had prescribed some meds for that, she stood up, as if to say goodbye. Cue the issue.

Me: Err actually there's something else. I think I have something wrong...downstairs. Not so nice
Dr: Okay if you lie on the bed, I'll have a look. It won't be very pleasant for you.
Me: I'm sure it's much less pleasant for you (with this, she puts her latex gloves on in agreement).

I lay sidewards on the bed, facing the wall, my jeans (skinny, can I add, had to peel them off didn't I) and undies half way down my legs. Never imagined my undergarments would be half-mast in a doc's office, of all places. She told me she was going to have a poke, and it wouldn't hurt too much. Heard that one before, love.

As soon as her latexed finger neared my terrified 'downstairs door', I had to suppress the giggle I felt rising in my throat. After some prodding, she then told me that it appeared I had a 'tear at 12 'o' clock'. She seemed amazed that it was so specifically at 12 'o' clock. I was more concerned that my pants were down and I was half naked.

She prescribed me with use-twice-daily cream (that, ironically, had the side effect of migraines) and sent me on my way. Within two weeks it had cleared up. Winner. I stopped using the cream, and celebrated by taking a great big…shopping trip.
Ha, you sickos.

Chum

2011-02-13T12:42:00.002Z

It's 8:47am. I am sat at a table in the library, beginning my day's worth of work. It's quiet, only eager early birds like me are wandering around (I am a natural early riser. The early bird caught the worm remember, and apparently that was very good) A girl, in what I can only describe as 'neon attire', walks in and sits at my table. Fair enough, I think, it's a pretty big table. Might have to crack my sunglasses out though, neon blindness. She says hi and smiles. I smile back, wondering if she's going to be one of 'those'. I learn within the next ten minutes that she is one of 'those'.

General chat: what are you working on/how old are you etc. The usual generics that you cover when you speak to someone you don't know and don't care about. She has a proper gangsta Birmingham twang to her voice. You'd think that would make her character more endearing, but in reality it makes me want to die. She lends me 20p so I can add it to my own £30p and get something from the vending machine. The lend was definitely a rookie error, as now she is my new, undesired best friend. "I'm seeing this guy, my friend set us up…". I definitely don't care. I spend a suspiciously long time at the vending machine, pretending to be perusing the options (Snack or KitKat?) but I'm really just lapping up the sound of silence.

An hour and a half later the library is pretty busy, and she is still jibber-jabbering away next to me. I am not being a very good conversationalist. "Mmm" and "yeah" are about all I can manage, yet she loves this lack of vocal from me, and goes for it, "so Luke, the guy said to me…"

What love, what did he say? That you're reserved and shy? A real treat? Something for the grandmas?
"…that he liked ma hair up and messy, you know like a secretary style innit."

After what feels like roughly 68 years, she starts to pack up and says she has to go because she's going to the cinema with 'her guy'. I cheer up a bit. Until IT happens.

"But you'll be here tomorrow right?"
"Err probably not, I don't know," (lies. I will be as I need to finish this work. If I lie completely and she sees me here it'll be even worse)
"Well if you are we can hang out again,"
"Mu-huh"

As she walks away, I scold myself for being judgmental, she's not that bad, she was just being polite. Then later that day I get the friend request. And I remember why I was judgmental again. I don't remember telling her my last name. She must've trawled through, weaved her way through the (very few) things I said to locate me, and then distinguished me from the various other Chinese versions of me. That night she commented on my status. It was not a poignant or interesting status. But she wrote "ha you can tell me about it tomoz".

I don't want to tell her about it tomoz. There will be no tomoz, will there?

There is a tomoz. I discover this when, the next day, the fateful 'tomoz', I sit in the library (a table hidden in the corner) and like the very scenario in my nightmare the previous night, she sees me (how?! I'm not wearing neon. She is, of course) and heads on over after giving me a wave. She calls me 'babe' and 'girl'. I say "Hi...chum." Awkward.

After that day of enduring the same happenings, I decided not to venture back to the library for a while. And to subtly just unfriend her on Facebook. Just quietly, nobody needs to know. There doesn't need to be a scene. Now when I go into the library, even just to return a book, I sport my sunglasses. Not only to protect myself against the neon-rays should I encounter her, but also, more importantly, to disguise myself. Unconvincingly.

Technology Funk

2011-02-01T20:43:00.002Z

Yesterday I finally understood why elderly/middle-aged people get confused with the trials and technologies of today.

So there I am, in the new(ish) Overground station in Shadwell. After realising my error on arrival (that people take the lift because there are roughly a million stairs) I decided that for my departure, I would follow suit.

Above the two lifts, a sign read "for Platforms 1 & 2". Right, you heard the meetkat, it's simples, let's wait for the lift. One arrives (lift, not meerkat, but imagine...) so I pop on in with a fellow passenger until I see that inside the lift it says "Platform -1". Wait! I think to myself, platform -1 was not in the agreement, Lift, you promised Platforms 1 & 2. In complete misunderstanding, I exited the lift, uncertain of what I was supposed to do.
Then a man, who had clearly witnessed the whole encounter, came over and said, "you can go in that one. It goes to the same place,". A bit startled, I stammered for about a year, which caused the man to look at me in pity. The irony in this tale was that he was foreign, and I, a British citizen unable to form sentences, appeared to be a clueless tourist.
"Why did you get out of that lift? Quick get back in!"

I did as he said and scurried back into the lift with the fellow passenger I had just abandoned. As the doors to the lift shut, I saw helpful man laughing and shaking his head. I used my peripherals to see if fellow passenger had seen the whole affair, including the chuckles and head shaking. He had. He was smirking to himself. Bloody hell. Oi oi who's that tourist in the lift? Oh, it's me!

I know what you're thinking. A lift in a tube station is hardly a technological contraption but my god, I did not understand. I realise that I did not need to comprehend the situation – the lift HAD to take me to the general platform areas, as really there's nowhere else it could've gone. There is no secret Tower of Terror basement. Well there might be, but I'm pretty sure that taking the main passenger lift that awaits you in the Ticket Hall does not conduct those type of tours.

I'm on placement at the moment. The building I'm in is new, and shiny. You need a pass not only to get through the lobby, but also to get away from the lift to your department, and also to go to the special, big toilets too. Wonder what's in there? Top secret information, I reck.

When you're in the lobby, there's this special touch screen machine that resembles a tiny silver lecturn which tells you which lift to go to in accordance to which floor you want. You press the floor number and wait to see which lift is The One. I say lift, but really the machine says something else: "Please go to car H". Car? What do I do? Where is the car? I see no car! Ohhh right.

Despite my technological funk and empathy for other techno-idiots, I still cannot respect my mum using a comma instead of an apostrophe in her texts. That,s never okay...

Funeral

2011-01-22T16:39:00.003Z

The other day I spotted a horse and carriage down the street. Not just any ordinary horse and carriage however, but a funeral horse and carriage. Well this is a morbid moment, I thought to myself as my boots inappropriately click-clacked down the road. I saw that the horse and carriage had parallel parked on one side of the road, and roughly 12 people dressed in black were stood on the pavement, just looking at it in silence. I decided to cross the road. Imagine if I just click-clacked in front of them, blocking their view of the carriage, 'oop sorry guys, just squeezing past, thanks then'. Appalling.

So there I am, on the opposite side of the road, and it's coming up, I am soon going to be opposite the carriage, the horse and the funeral party. Take a deep breath and attempt a walk that says, I am not staring at this situation, but I AM full of respect and I give you my very best wishes. The walk I actually manage is more like, I have a limping gait, but I still am genuinely sorry. So, not a complete failure.
There is a young man in black on my side of the road, taking a picture of the horse and carriage. As he's moving back and forth, trying to get 'good' shots, he doesn't see that I'm coming towards him and so we almost bump into each other. That awkward thing happened, where you both go the same way, and then the other way etc. I eventually skirted around him and mumbled "I'm so sorry", before scurrying off. Lord.

The funeral umbrella is a tricky one. Everything is ten times more awkward, uncomfortable and silent than in everyday life. I have only ever been to one funeral and that was my Nan's. Good old Vera, bless her heart. I was about 10 years old, and I remember sitting in my Nan's room with my mum and sister, going through her cassette tapes trying to decide which songs to select for the memorial. As much as Nan loved him [and that she did, she had every tape he'd ever made] we just couldn't face the thought of gran-favourite Daniel O'Donnell playing out in the crematorium, loud and proud. We eventually settled on Over the Rainbow [which I have absolutely no doubt that Daniel O'Donnell covered at some point in his booming career].

The big day came, and I spent the morning in a flurry trying to decide what to wear. My mum had a go at me for not picking the outfit the night before. Since this incident, I have learnt and now usually assort my outfit the night before. Who says you can't learn anything from a funeral? [I actually don't know who says that]. It was my school sports day, the day of the funeral. So once the funeral was complete, we went back to my house for awkward chitchat over ham and cheese sandwiches, and other inappropriate 'party nibbles', and I changed into my sports kit. Upset I was, but I was a leader, a school sports captain, and I was not going to let my team down at the anticipated yearly event.

Off I went, into the school playground, met by hugs from my little sporty friends. "I am here," I announced [with a tone of voice that now reminds me of the voiceover man on the X-Factor].
Of course under my leadership, we went on to win various races, including the skipping, which I took the title for. "Nan will bloody love this," I thought, as I skipped over the finish line in first place. That day was a day of celebration, victory and colourful poorly-made banner shit from the younger classes lining every tree in the park. And that's why I love funerals, the end.

It Burns

2011-01-17T14:40:00.002Z

Lately I've read a lot of articles about beauty creams and their lies. You know 'we guarantee firmer skin in ten days'. How is it that I've been using it for roughly two years and my skin is still nothing like the woman's on the bottle? Two years consists of a lot of days. Definitely more than ten. Despite knowing the brutal reality of these fads, I can't help but buy into them, convincing myself [with a little psychology] that they WILL help, and 'ooh it looks like it's working!' two days later. No no S, that's not firmer skin you're seeing there, that's a patch of now-moisturised cellulite and a helping of delusion my friend, a big serving at that.

For Christmas I asked for another beauty cellulite busting cream. Sit Tight, by Soap & Glory had been recommended in a variety of magazines leading up to Christmas, so I figured maybe this one was the real deal. Tearing away the red snowman paper that Christmas morning I discovered the 'miracle cream' ready for me and my thighs.

The instructions were pretty simple, apply generously, wait for a few seconds for it to absorb and then put clothes on and SIT. Just sit down and it will start working. As I poured some into my hand I could smell the infusion of chemicals. Lord I thought, this smells pungent. Slapped it on, massaged in until my hand felt numb and sat down. Oh my god. The bottle says 'slight burning sensation'. Slight? How about, your ass will catch alight with a deep burn that can only be experienced in the sauna that is Hell? Wow. Smells crazy, feels crazy, this better do some crazy fast work.

One day I got a bit massage-happy when kneading it into my thighs, and it must've spread a little too near a certain area. Unaware of this at the time of massage, I sat down, happy as Larry, ready for the now familiar burn. And burn it did, right in the wrong place. I quickly grabbed the bottle 'if in contact with undesired areas, wash with cold water immediately'. There was no time, I fished out a face wipe and scrubbed until the burning felt more like a numb tingle. And not in a good way.

After this experience I became super careful with my application of the cream. Well you've gotta be haven't you? Don't want any, you know, damage below. No burning my bits off today please. A few days ago after a shower, I applied it [CAREFULLY] and whacked some lovely big pants on. It absorbs better with bigger undergarments, I discovered. I then sat on S-Boy's lap, waiting for the magic to happen [with the cream. Not with him. Hardly going to happen with my granny pants on. God knows why, they're gorgeous]. Suddenly he pushed me off and yelped.

"What?"
"It's burning!"
"What's burning?"
"My…parts!"

So not only had the miracle cream given my downstairs an undesirable soldering, they had also apparently absorbed into S-Boy's genitalia and ignited. He hopped about like an absolute goon, whilst I laughed/pretended not to laugh.

I think that this cream is working you know. Firmer skin, a deep burn in my buttocks every morning; refreshing and reassuring. It must mean something. S-Boy isn't best pleased. After the incident, he has nothing but disgust [fear] for the cream. This makes me like it more. Tight thighs AND a cruel taunt every now and then should he behave poorly? This IS a miracle cream.

OCD.

2011-01-12T13:37:00.006Z

I have always been a little bit OCD. You know, a neat font here, the drawers shut tight there. Due to my freakishly clean and tidy nature, the odd, idiosyncratic actions have just tagged along and those who know me have accepted this flaw/quirk of my personality. I'm not a number counter, or an excessive washer [though I should be] but instead, just little things get me going, in a massively unsexy way. I've always been aware of the irritations, but I've never taken action about them in public. After all, there's a time and a place.

However, the worst of my issue came of late in two separate incidents.

Incident numero une: I was sat in the library, contently doing some work, when a familiar Britney song flows through the headphones plugged into my iPod. Whilst I am an avid B.Spears fan, I decided that this was neither the time nor place for gyrating with a snake in jeans, a crop top and unfathomable amounts of Johnsons baby oil, so touched the iPod to light the screen up, and thus change the song. Something struck me. A grammatical error. No apostrophe. 'Im A Slave 4 U'. Just like that. No punctuation. No remorse. Nothing. This was my own doing, what a fool to not have amended it when it first entered the realms of my iPod. Very unlike me too. I whipped my BlackBerry out and made a note on the memo-pad to change it when I got home. Now, what would my punishment be?
Then I realised. I was mental. A compulsive monster, an obsessive specimen, etc. Perhaps this was my punishment, realising my irrational, habitual degrees. I immediately cleared memo-pad.

Incident numero deux: Sat in the hairdressing salon, in front of the mirror, with my feet on the little foot bar, and my bum nestled into the seated leather delight. All is well. I am having my hair cut. Hurrah, hurray etc. When the hairdresser is drying my hair, and then puts the hairdryer into the holster still ON, as she's fiddling with my hair, I try to ignore it. I think, she's being practical, this will only take a second, nothing will burn or set alight, this situation is okay. Whoo, I thought to myself, talked myself out of that irrational panic. Then I look down at my feet and it stares me right in the face. Two plug sockets next to each other. One is on, with the hairdryer plugged in. The other is also on...but nothing is plugged in. I don't even think, I reach down to turn it off, but the hairdresser starts talking and I suddenly realise what I am doing. You're not at home, mate. Don't touch other people's plug sockets, because 1: they're not yours. And 2: you will look like a loon. A lunatic. A big fat mentalist.

That's when I realised the fate of my issues. Obsessive, compulsive, neurotic, irrational fears. After saying it aloud I realise how awful I sound. Oh god. I should give you my pro-list now, having seen the cons. I have a great sense of humour and I'm awfully good fun, honestly, I'm a hoot. I'm afraid you're all going to hate me now. Even S-Boy. Though he calls them my little 'nuances'. I don't know why he just doesn't come out with it and say FREAK. I know that's what he's thinking when he frowns at me, disbelief dancing in his beautiful blue eyes, everytime I try to arrange the candles on my windowsill at the same exact distance apart. What a psycho.

Games

2011-01-05T09:57:00.003Z

It must've been at Christmas that it got me. After playing all of those board games, and entertaining the 3 year old nephew, I got the fever for games. There was one in particular I was looking for.

Me: Where's The Sims? Is it at your place?
Brother: Yeah, haha, sorry
Me: Ohh, I was going to take it back with me after Christmas.

Ten minutes later, I found the game in my old room, stashed beneath some old CD's [hello A1, Anastacia and Five's Greatest Hits]. Ha, in your face intolerable brother, I have found the goods!

Now you may wonder why someone of my age/gender/intellect [pah] is still interested in such computer games as The Sims. Truth be told, I never really stopped loving it. An addictive time-waster, whilst also fulfilling the role of an optimistic future for yourself and your other friends, turned Sims. Would you ever really have a steamy affair with Bob Newbie, the generic Sim next door neighbour? Only in Sim world. This is why it's vital to play. Fulfil your dreams!

Last night S-Boy and I sat in bed with the laptop and installed it. 4 discs later, we were ready to go. I was a little rusty at first, forgotten how to buy lots and bulldoze houses, but eventually we got the hang of it. We created ourselves [way too unrealistically of course. When have I ever had toned arms and eyes bigger than peanut shells?!] and then after a sneaky money cheat, we built a house. It took ages, and plenty of disagreements.

"No, the pinball machine can't go there because they won't be able to get to it!"
"Yeah they will, they'll be fine,"
"No, you don't understand, they physically can't get to it, I remember!"
"Well we'll move it if that happens,"
"It just distresses them!"

Furnishing the house was the highlight of our arguing plight; where things would go, if we really needed the massive TV or if the smaller one was a better choice. Was the sofa too close to the television?

I asked S-Boy, at the point of decor exhaustion, "Will they even watch television?"
"Our efforts won't go unnoticed, they'll love them,"

Oh god. It was happening. We were virtually furnishing our virtual house as a virtual married couple, buying into the realness of it all. If we argue over where the phone goes in Sim world, what will it be like when we do it for real? We ended up rebuilding the whole house. It was much smaller. S-Boy claimed, "That's much better." He didn't say much when we couldn't fit the necessary items in it. Eventually, we started the game play. There we were, me making a lunch meat sandwich, talking Sim-glish to him, when suddenly Darren Goth from down the road entered our house. Suddenly, as we panned over to the right, we were filled with rage.

"Why is Darren Goth in our hot tub?!"
"Ask him to leave babe. Just do it, he needs to get out,"

No, I think to myself, WE need to get out. Waaaay more often.

Relight My Fire

2010-12-22T11:05:00.004Z

It's coming up to Christmas and the New Year now [had you not noticed] which means some reminiscing and concluding must be done about the year that has just passed. I began my ramblings roughly this time two years ago, yet despite growth in age, wisdom [pah!] and body fat [boo], I find myself in situations with exactly the same ridiculous value.

A few days ago I went to a bar with S-Boy and my housemate. S-Boy gigs at this particular bar, and it was the Christmas special, so we skidded along for some festive treats. There we were, in the warmth, with candles and festive decor, I was wearing my new boots – it was simply delightful. The night kicked off, and S-Boy began tuning up on stage whilst I tried to grab my belongings so I could get a better view.

So I lean over the table to grab my bag, when I smell something unsavoury and suddenly, right before my very eyes there is a massive silver spark, not dissimilar to that of David's star ['a Christmas miracle!' You cry] Following the spark there is a bang, also right up in my grill. I sense after this sudden, surreal event, however, that this is not a grand firework display or a Christmas miracle, but instead a grave disaster.

I pull away from the table/spark area to find my hair, singed at the ends, and a sore burning pain on the skin of my neck. Lord. I look down. Amongst little shattered ends of my hair showering the table, there is a deceivingly innocent-looking tea light. Just sat there like nobody's business. I understood. This little...monster set me and my hair alight!

People looked, of course, but not only did they see, they heard and more shockingly, smelt, the nightmare. It reeked of ashes and burnt stuff ["smells like a turd covered in burnt hair!"] so strongly that even I, culprit of the disgust, gave a little throaty cough when no one was looking. The girls sat at the next table laughed and asked what happened. I, still in shock, exclaimed 'my hair caught alight!'

A friend came over, and asked 'what was that? I heard this massive bang!' What a way to steal S-Boy's thunder. He had no idea, strumming away. Perhaps they thought the deep boom was part of his set, rather than the spark of his girlfriend's hair in a flame. Let's hope so.

Once the fuss had died down [this took a while] I tried to comb my fingers gently through my hair. On retrieving my hand from my thick mass, a few hairs emerged, clearly unattached to my head. Oh god, I thought, this is it, this is the defining moment in my life when I lose my hair, write to a magazine to tell them my trauma and have to adapt to a life where nobody fancies me and I partake in some sort of hobby that makes me a hero for 'just getting on with life'. I had been hoping that this moment would never arrive.

I tell my sister, she texts back: You should sue!
What, for me being an idiot?!

S-Boy finished his set, and I [with tiny dark hairs all over my white t-shirt] pretended not to be phased by what had just happened. He came off stage, still unaware of the drama, and showed me a sore wound on his finger.
S-Boy: Look at what the strings did! It's really sore, death guitar!
Me: I can top that. My hair, and neck, set alight. With a massive spark and bang.
S-Boy: Oh yeah, I can smell it. Really badly. What happened?
Me: I leant over a candle. Then before I knew it, spark, bang, smoke, pain.
S-Boy: Oh dear [starts to laugh]
Me: It's not very funny. There's a burn on my neck!
S-Boy: [tries to put on serious face but can see the quivering smile struggling underneath].

The ironic part of this hideous tale? I have a genuine fear of fire. Classic. Bring on the New Year. With a bang. Ahem.

Hide and Seek

2010-12-15T09:24:00.004Z

When I first moved into our new house, I came into encounters with this guy who lived a few doors down. We knew each other through friends of friends, and although I didn't really know him, I always said hello when he popped out of his house [suspiciously always when I was on my way somewhere]. He frequently appeared on the pavement, filling me with [unfunny] anecdotes of his 'mad weekend'. I always told him I was off to S-Boy's house, but that seemed to make him keep me even longer. After a while, it started to get a bit creepy, and I'd never understand why he was always present on that little curb when I stepped out the door. I knew that he was probably harmless, but probably isn't really good enough when someone's always loitering by your house and making you late to meet your boyfriend.

So I hadn't seen him for a while, he must've been having 'mad weekends' galore, and felt at ease that I probably wouldn't see him for a long time. Jinx. A few days ago I strolled home from work, but decided to walk straight to my car to put my new tax disc in. My vehicle is parked quite a way down the road, away from my house, so I trotted on towards my horrendous little car. Suddenly I saw him loitering on the pavement with a mate.

Oh god.

I didn't want him to see me. Nobody else was around at this point. Damn boots, so loud on the pavement. So, in complete insanity, I started to TIP-TOE towards my car. He was walking in the same direction as me, on the opposite side of the pavement so I figured the sooner he walked out of the road, the sooner I could get to my car, as he would have no reason to stop and turn around. If he did he'd be in for a treat. Me, tip-toeing like a dramatic cartoon villain.

Suddenly he stopped at the end of the road. No, you moron, what are you doing?! Him and friend stopped on the corner by the street sign. So of course I had to stop too, as the end of the road is quite close to my car, ergo quite close to stalker and pal. Then, just to make my life hell, they both turned and faced each other on the corner, so that I would definitely be in their peripheral vision; this tall girl in a white bobble hat and a thick camel coat, tip-toeing down the road. Shit. This situation could've been amended easily. I could have turned to walk the other way, I could have popped into someone's driveway for a few minutes but instead I chose the most ridiculous 'solution' of all.

I dropped down dramatically [think spy film] and ducked in between two cars. I should point out that it was still daylight. I heard a couple coming up behind me. They'll understand, I thought [who will ever understand?!] Unless one of these is their car. Oh my god. Luckily they walked straight past, I'm pretty sure they didn't see me, I was wedged in there quite tightly, the ultimate disguise. So there I am, wedged between two cars at the side of the road, peering out past the two bumpers, spying on the creepy guy and his mate, stood at the end of the road. 5 minutes later, I looked again and they had gone.

I jumped up from out of my little nesting area, and strolled to my car. It was only when I had stuck my tax disc in, and was heading towards my house that the absolutely idiocy of my actions had hit me. If someone had seen me from their window, I must've looked like a crazy person. A loon. A lunatic.

Haven't seen him since. But I imagine least when I expect it...

Mother

2010-12-07T16:59:00.005Z

The day I waved goodbye to my hometown and was sent off into the world of drinking, poor cuisine and 'snaking' I was well aware that my mum would be ringing me every day of my university life from then on. I just did not realise how absurd it would get.

At first it was as constant as I had expected ["did you cook soup okay?"...] then, surprisingly, it toned down for a while [so much so that my friends noticed. Lord]. Alas I knew such good fortune would not last long, as just like that, she was back on it again, giving the old blower everyday use. I understood that she was worried, and missed my loud presence in the household, but she could have at least thought of relevant reasons to call, so that I did not feel harassed/panicked/babied.

I was walking home from work once at 8pm, when she rang.

Mum: Are you walking home alone?
Me: Yes
Mum: Be careful
Me: I am, I live like 10 minutes away
Mum: Is it dark?
Me: Look out the window as I'm sure it's the same darkness everywhere, mum.
Mum: Well, be careful.

These irrelevant, almost childlike conversations occurred frequently, just phoning to find out if I had bought baked beans as I had mentioned I'd run out. Lordy this being away from home malarkey was a lot more exhausting than I had expected, and not even for the work load or heavy nights.

The breaking point however, was a mere few days ago. I had 6 missed calls from my mother. I had been busy and therefore not checking my phone, so when I finally saw all the missed calls angrily waiting on CrackBerry screen, I panicked. What made it even worse was the text that soon followed "call me." Oh god, something's happened. Uncle Bob's died, my old diaries have been flooded, my brother has been arrested, the guy next door has stolen my PlayStation2 AGAIN; just something must've happened.

I text her back, "I'm a little bit busy, what's going on? Why did you call so much?"
She replied, "What starter do you want for Christmas dinner?"

'FML' is the acronym most appropriate for this situation I believe. I rang back immediately.

Me: Are you actually joking? You rang me SIX times to find out what starter I want for Christmas dinner, even though we have the same thing every year, and nobody ever cares what I think of it?
Mum: Well I'm trying to make the Christmas shopping list
Me: You must be bored shitless, mum.
Mum: No, I'm just getting organised. Just checking what you want. Your brother will make that then.
Me: No he won't. He never does. He did it once mum. It's not officially his starter.
Mum: Well anyway.

I'm looking forward to going home. Maybe my mother will stop calling me. I doubt it though. I am 99% sure that I will get a phone call from the kitchen, whilst I am stood in my bedroom, "I'm doing a light load, do you want anything washed?" Lord.

Chicken

2010-12-01T12:12:00.004Z

Work is a place in which you earn money, do a job and make work friends. You do not expect to go to work and get chatted up alarmingly by a Texan student over the phone. I should really come to terms with the fact that these things are going to happen to me. Not because I am magnificent, but because I am the butt of all ridiculousness.

So there I am, going about my business, when a manager comes over and says there's a guy on the phone for me. At first I think, oop is it some sort of head office call? Am I about to be tested? But it turns out that it's this American guy, who has just moved to the UK and needs advice on what to buy a girl. I can do this, I do this without my male friends even asking [which looking back, is probably very annoying].

So I pick up the receiver and ask what's up. The guy, with a fully Southern drawl in his voice [like in those old Southern farming films or Oklahoma the musical] explained, with bags of charm, that he is going to a girl's party and doesn't know what to get her, and could I possibly advise him something to buy from our store, as he doesn't want to come down and find nothing. So I start asking the regulatory questions: how well do you know her/what kind of clothing does she wear/what is your budget? Etc.

Apparently these regulatory questions call for very unexpected answers…

Me: So if you come down to the store today I can help you pick something out
Texan Friend (N.b don't know where he's actually from): are you hitting on me?
Me: Err no, I have a boyfriend
Texan Friend: Coz if we were in the States, that sounds like you'd definitely be hittttin' on me
Me: *laughs nervously*
Him: Coz if you want we can go out for cheeecken
Me: I don't think I want to go out for chicken, but thank you
Him: Alright alright yo, so I don't have a lot of cash, how much should I bring?
Me: Well £20 will do it
Him: Maybe I'll bring 30.
Me: Why?
Him: So I can take you out for some chicken yo
Me: I really don't want to go out for chicken
Him: Sho you do
Me: Nooo, no I don't

At this point, many members of work are stood close by, listening to my answers and laughing. Lord, this does not seem like a work call anymore.

Him: I hear the girls where you work are pretty fly. Are you hot?
Me: Err no, I don't know
Him: I'll find out when I see you
Me: Erm yea. But there are lots of hot girls here, so maybe you'll find one you like
Him: You'll set me up?
Me: Fo sho. I mean, for sure, yes.
Him: So I come in today at 5?
Me: Well I finish at 5, but someone else will be able to help you
Him: Nah I'll come in at 4 for you babe, that aight?
Me: That is aight. Alright, ahem.
Him: So just so you know, I'm black and look a little bit like that Drake guy, you know, the singer?
Me: Oh yes [no]
Him: Okay, alright, so I'll see you then. Holla later, holla.
Me: Goodbye.

Wow. Just wow. I had never been asked out for chicken before, especially not by a guy who looks like Drake and sounds like someone from the BBC adaptation of To Kill A Mockingbird.

It came to 4pm. I collected an American friend at work, for moral support and we moved to the shop floor. Texan was a no-show though. After all of those promises, nothing. Heartbroken, I was. I quite fancied some chicken.

Bun In The Oven

2010-11-24T09:19:00.003Z

Getting pregnant and having a baby is some girls' idea of heaven, a lovely little family and all that jazz. For me, however, it is more of a nightmare. Of course I want a family later in life but right now I could not think of anything worse than getting up the duff. Me and S-Boy have a usual amount of 'pill-scares', but none that have ever amounted to anything. Something a bit weird happened recently though.

I woke up one morning to find a deep ache in my bust area. What was this? It felt like puberty all over again. I Googled it. The results reassured me a bit more about my new, larger pair. Apparently having a vast amount of sexual activity can increase rack size. Excellent. Wins all round. S-Boy's happy, as am I.

I decided to relive my awkward 14-year-old hell and get my bra size re-measured, just to check. There I trotted, into M&S, with my appointment. After a few tape measures here, and some mild groping there, it emerged that I was a whole cup size bigger. Jeez. That must be some sex we're having, I thought.

When the measuring lady left the cubicle I whacked my BlackBerry out and took a sneaky picture of my new one-size-bigger-bust to send to my mum. Once we had got past the unfunny remarks ("you'll be the same size as me soon!"…"I'm not a J cup mum"..."neither am I!" etc) she then posed a slightly uncomfortable question that ruined all of the bra fun: "Are you sure you're not pregnant"?

Way to go Mum, ruin everything why don't you.

So then I became worried. Usually I'm cool about these things, but for some reason I felt panicked. Next thing I know I'm in Asda looking for pregnancy tests. God. You'd think that Asda would do a standard test that you could just pick up off of the shelf and Bob's your uncle. Alas no, they insist on boxing even the cheapest tests in indestructible plastic boxes, so that I'd have to go to a cashier to get it removed.
I headed for Boots. I eventually found their own branded one (£7! Since when did it cost so much to find out if you're harbouring a little nut?) Usually I would strut right on up there to the counter, but this time, I felt different, maybe because I was a bit scared. So I headed towards the food fridge, to settle my stomach. After carefully selecting some food items, I joined the queue. I bought my pregnancy test with a meal deal. It was the least I could do; hide that awful test between my Christmas-filling sandwich and the Shapers low-fat strawberry cheesecake.

So I get home, and whip out the test, think let's just get this over with. I open it up, and see all of the regulatory items. I decide I don't really need to read the small print, I'm aware of the protocol. I perch and get ready to urinate. Oop it starts to emerge so I get my stick ready for some 'bad weather'; only then it stops. There's no more. That was it. A drip. Oh for gods sake. As I'm packing the kit away, telling myself I'll do it later, I have a quick read of the instructions, just in case. Thank god I did, as it told me I would not be allowed to take my test for another few days due to my pill dates. Is this for real? Am I really going to have to stash this test away and wait around to find out if little Finn is nestling in my womb?

Well to cut a long story short, I took the test on the permitted dates, and as usual, I was in the clear. S-Boy takes this as a sign that it's the sex enlarging my cup size, and uses it as a reason to get more. Surprise.

Car

2010-11-18T09:39:00.003Z

I have not had the best luck with cars. I have only owned one car, and this one car alone has caused me almost a lifetime of hassle. I am an adequate driver. Neither Fast nor Furious, yet also not elderly, I am safe, and get from A to B with little fuss. Of course there are the odd horn beeps, and road rages [why would you cut someone up, tell me why!] and mini panics on busy motorways, but other than that, I am pretty standard.

When I first got my car, I drove it from my family home to Southampton. This is roughly two and a half hours. For someone who had never driven on the motorway, this was slightly alarming. Yet it wasn't the roads that were the problem, it was the unwilling car, which refused to enter 5^th gear without a clutch-pumping fight. That whole adventure resulted in me rashly pulling off at Winchester, entering a waste tip via the exit, parking up and watching bald men load up skips with old fridge freezers whilst I calmed myself down.

Since then, car had been behaving, and my little journeys to Tesco were no problem at all. Admittedly the air bags weren't working [I think when S-Boy and I were packing up my car to move house, my hoards of shit must've knocked something in the car] so that wasn't ideal, but I had been driving super carefully. Then it took a turn for the worst.

The hassle began when I was driving to pick S-Boy up from work, innocently pandering along into a queue of traffic. I slowed down and waited in the queue. Finally it started to move again, green light says go, so go I shall, I thought. Only my car had, dead silently, giving me absolutely no signal or warning, turned itself off. It was not a stall situation, for I had not even realised/heard/sensed that the car had decided to have a little sleep. Zzz. So there I was in the queue, having to start my sleepy car up again, with all those cars behind me thinking I'd gone and 'done a stall', even though this was not the case.

So this was the first problem. One day I was driving home with S-Boy when, on a ROUNDABOUT, car decided to have another little sleep, except I hadn't even slowed down for any traffic lights, I was mid-movement on a bloody roundabout [which is pretty big] and it just came to a stop. Just keeled over and died in the middle lane. FFS. Luckily I managed to get going in time before the next lot of cars came hurtling toward the middle lane. Jesus. All I thought during this moment of panic [alongside F*** SHIT BOLLOCKS] was 'my airbags don't work'. So had car failed me entirely and decided to bed down on the roundabout in the middle lane, I'm pretty sure I might have been a goner.

Anyway, that was that, we were nearly home and I had started to breathe again, under the reassurance of S-Boy. Then something strange happened. We were turning into my road, the road I live on, we were basically home, when my steering wheel locked as it would in a dangerous skidding/anti-brake situation. I couldn't move the wheel, then it came to a slow before bunny-hopping forward in a highly alarming, erratic manner. JESUS CHRIST. Strangely this issue troubled me more than the roundabout-sleep. When a steering wheel locks and you're still turning that corner, you feel pretty certain that it will keep turning and you will mount the pavement and the street sign before bursting into flames. I have a fear of fire. Now I have a fear of my car too.

Mum: You can't keep driving it. It'll be tempting fate to drive it when your air bags don't work. You'll have to take it to garage.
Me: How do I get it there if I can't drive it? I can't drive ten minutes to the garage. What if it goes to sleep on a crossroads?

I haven't driven it for a few weeks now. I'm too afraid. Bit of a killer though when it's pissing it down and you need to get somewhere pronto, and dry. But must not give in to, THE CAR OF DEATH [said in similar style of 'ring of fire' with evil laugh following]. Ahem.

Broody

2010-11-07T13:56:00.002Z

I am broody. It started all very innocently, you know, you see them around town and feel an ache. I'm at that stage. I want one. I pester S-Boy frequently. Can we get one, please? His answer is always the same, "you know if I would if I could, but we just can't." I know he's right, but it seems massively unfair.

The soft of the fur, the depth of the bark, the innocence of the eyes, that puppy sat over there on the bench should be mine. He should be nestled into my bosom in bed, and my sidekick on little walks to the park. Although the context is slightly different [only slightly] I imagine this is what it's like to want a baby. Except I hate babies. Ha ha I'm joking [...] but every fibre in my body yearns for a puppy. A dog. A loyal friend. Someone who will listen to you and not shout you down. Not tell you that, yes it was stupid to pick that fight with S-Boy the other day. And that actually you are shit at cooking. Dog-friend wouldn't do that. He'd support my every decision, grinning and barking enthusiastically at my every master plan.

I am the sicko that coos. Like a broody woman coo-ing over her friend's babies, I am the embarrassing, sickening schmoozer who squeals anytime a canine strolls by. I've even been known to coo when I see one humping another in the park. That's how far this ridiculous cause spans.

I am not an irresponsible teen who wants a handbag dog, something to play with when I'm bored, that I will eventually get sick of. No no no, I have thought [and ached] long and hard about this one.

The other day I decided to tell my friends about this new feeling that had consumed me. Sat in the kitchen, I decided to test the waters. Innocently, I said, "how cute is this dog?" followed by showing my three housemates a cute picture of a dog on my phone. They seemed to enjoy this so, feeling good about it, I took it a step further and explained, in no detail, that I'm freakishly broody for a dog. This was the wrong decision.

Housemate#1: Um, why do you have pictures of dogs on your phone?
Me: Er
Housemate 2#: Did you just upload them to your phone from the internet?
Me: No! [yes]

What I was most confused about though, was why we had gone back to the pictures. We had done so well getting past that, nobody had questioned the cute labrador picture, it all seemed legit; just fine. Why did they have to go and bring it up again? Had they not listened to the bit about being broody? My condition, my broody disease? Jeez, some friends.

After this incident, I decided not to tell anybody about my puppy-ache. It would be kept a secret. That's until the next dog walks along in the park and I squeal and jump up and down like my nephew when he's playing Buzz Lightyear. Maybe I can't have a puppy. But I CAN have a baby. Wait a minute...
Poor S-Boy.

The Parents

2010-11-01T16:53:00.002Z

Everyone says that one of the awkward parts of a relationship is meeting the parents for the first time. Once we had passed that stage and I had met S-Boy's parents, and vice versa, things felt a bit more dandy. It had all gone well, we were all acquaintances. Excellent work.

When S-Boy's parents came down to take us to dinner last week, I assumed it would be perfect, after all, we had already experienced the first meeting, and it had been successful; this was just a nice little dinner. Admittedly in the time in-between where I hadn't seen them, I was informed that they had actually stumbled across my blog at the time of the 'sex blog' written about my sexual deviancy with their son. Of course that's the only blog they see of mine. Despite this, I knew we were over that almost-hurdle too. And so at first the evening was perfect, chatter and poppadums and great times.

Soon after this little treat, came the main courses. 4 curries appeared and were laid on the table. Evidently excited, I went straight in for mine. There I went, loading my fork with the ole Pilau rice and some of that beautiful lamb Rogan Josh. Yes boy. Load it right up. Just as I was about to lift the fork higher and place it into my anticipating mouth, my hand slipped a bit and gravity forced the fork to descend back onto the plate, causing a crash and a definite backsplash. My poor dusty pink silky blouse had been attacked by a hot, thick curry sauce. S-Boy's chequered shirt had also been a victim [funnily enough the only part of the shirt my curry had assaulted was the white checks]. As if this was not bad enough, and trust me it was, we also noted how the curry had sprayed the wall. Lord. I gave it a little wipe when I felt it was the least conspicuous time [there weren't many of these, not when you're trying to blot at a wall in an Indian restaurant].

I dabbed at my blouse until the stains were just dark splotches, and subtly buttoned up my tiny 3-button cardigan, covering absolutely nothing, but feeling slightly less messy. We joked about it, and as much as it broke my heart [poor blouse] it was quite amusing. So that was the mishap of the evening, my silly clumsiness exposing itself to S-Boy's parents in a bit of a tragic manner. Ha ha ha, we were eventually past it.

Phew. Until of course, I drew even more attention to myself. After swigging down some h2o to cool my burning cheeks, I hastily placed my drink glass back down, on what I thought was the table, but was actually a glass jug and a loud clinking almost-smash noise surrounded us. With usual poor luck, the parents had seen and heard the incident. It was impossible not to I suppose. It was pretty loud. The kind of loud where someone smashes a plate in the school canteen and everyone goes "wheey!". Except this was a bit more civilised. And there was no smash. Thank god there was no smash. That would just have been bloody marvellous.

After dinner, I felt I had done all I could've done to humiliate myself. Alas no. Then came the goodbyes. In lovely spirit we all hugged goodbye, as I knew and hoped we would. Only I'm a bit awkward with these things. An avid fan of the hug, and not so much of the cheek-kiss, I always, without thinking, go for the hug even if the other person kisses my cheek. How creepy must that seem? They want a polite, mature, not-too-close kiss on the cheek and I grapple them into a forced bear hug like a child hugs dress-up Mickey at Disneyland. Of course I did that to S-Boy's mum. Poor woman. Luckily when I got to his dad I had realised the error's of my ways and decided to abandon the hearty hug.

I'm as cool as le cucumber seeing S-Boy's parents, yet apparently that's a mistake as I make an ass of myself. S-Boy gets a bit nervy with my parents, yet he's as good as gold and makes no mistakes or errors. No curry sauce down his top. Well there was, but that was my fault. The backsplash and stuff.

Airs.

2010-10-25T18:02:00.005+01:00

There are certain things in life that you strictly only do in front of certain people. For example, I rarely get wankered with my mum and have a cheeky slash down an alleyway with her standing nearby, cheering me on. Friends are usually the one neutral group in front of which you can do mostly anything. For example my housemate is accustomed to releasing a hideous burp after mostly every dinnertime meal, knowing that she is in the comfort of her friends.

When you first get into a relationship, you watch what you say and do, so that there is no way of scaring your new partner away. There are definitely things you don't do in front of him. But after a few months, you just get a bit...lax. You don't care if he sees you in the morning after a big night out with a cheesy chip stuck to your face [we've all been there]. You really don't mind that he witnesses you looking like a teenage boy at a swimming gala when you get out of the shower. These are all lines that are eventually crossed, usually unnoticed.

There is one line however, that is a more of a thinker. Now I am no belcher like my housemate, but I'm not shy of letting one or two mischievous 'airs' escape from other outlets of my body. Cue the most recent development in my relationship.

So there we are, me and S-Boy, a few months in, sat at the kitchen table just hanging out. My legs are balanced upon his and everything is swell. Before I know it, IT has happened. I have been the first in our relationship to release an unsavoury 'air' out loud. This is worrying because he has not done it in front of me yet. Does that mean that he'll think I'm an ogre for doing it in front of him?

Anyway, I instantly own up to the error, "whoops that was me", he replied "I thought so" and we left that situation behind. On to happier days. Or so I thought.

Yesterday we were lying on the sofa watching TV with my housemates. A standard night in. Again my legs were upon his, when IT, THE air decided to make an exit, from my body, into the shared CO2 of the room. I, again, admitted it was me [no point lying when he can FEEL it] and we all laughed. Ha ha ha, wasn't it funny etc. This morning I came downstairs and at the precise moment I turned to S-Boy, who was stood in the kitchen, he let one go. He gave a little grin and we laughed and did not think about the implications of this action.

Later however, I could not resist. Had we crossed that line? Did he feel that just because two of mine had accidentally made their debut, he could roam around free letting his out whenever he felt like it? Did we now accept such 'airs'? My mind was akin to a whirlwind.

I came to the conclusion that I was glad this had happened. I am not a 'girlie' girl and have no qualms about being open ['hideous' has also been used] and telling people when I've got a massive wedgie, or when I need to 'lay a brick' etc. But words are just words, actions tell the real story. I'm not sure what kind of narrative letting one out captures. It is certainly no fairytale, but at least an 'air' ensures a happy ending. The end.

Phone Frenzy

2010-10-14T21:28:00.004+01:00

Having a phone is fundamental these days. Even 12 year olds are swanning around with their little Samsung Tocco's, as if touch-screen is 'so still in the loop'. Scary, but in today's world phone's are something we rely on. We're made aware of them at almost all times. They buzz in lectures, they ring on the train, they go off on dates. My phone seems to go off at the most inappropriate times too.

I have one of those Smartphones, so emails, Facebook comments and all sorts of wild notifications get delivered to me right on the dot. It's useful, as I obviously need to be notified that Aaron has invited me to his '21^st BIRFDAY PISS UP' so I can immediately hit 'NOT ATTENDING'; but you can probably imagine the constant demand for attention can get a bit tedious.

I always make sure that my phone, Crackberry [as the celebs call it] is on vibrate, and not loud, as nobody needs to hear 'Gin N Juice' during a seminar on website publishing. A friend of mine told me that once his phone went off during chapel [he attended a private school], so during the holy sermon, the chapel echoed the dirty beats of 'Candy Shop' by 50Cent. Incase you can't remember, the lyrics go something like this: "I'll take you to the candy shop, I'll let you lick the lollipop, go 'head girl don't you stop, keep going 'til you hit the spot, woah." What an awkward time to hear ghetto profanities.

Crackberry goes off routinely during sexy times. I know that it will probably be some sort of spam email, but sometimes I like to entertain the possibility that someone might trying to be reach me, yet devilishly, I'm unavailable at that time for reasons other than sleep/dead battery. Hehe. Snigger. One time I got up to find that my mum had tried to call me three times in a row, whilst I was 'busy'. I phoned her back, as I was a bit worried it was something serious.

Mum: I called you three times
Me: I know, that's why I'm calling you back
Mum: What were you doing?
Me: Having sexual relations, mum
Mum: Oh, that's disgusting.
Me: No it wasn't. Did you ring for a reason?
Mum: Yeah. Just to see what's new, what's going on.
Me: Oh right. Well I just, you know. That went on.

It also interrupts romantic moments. S-Boy will be doing something lovely like licking my face, or punching me in the head, and then 'zzzzzzz'. Crackberry is shouting his mouth off again. We both sigh, and I yell something supposedly angry like "for god's sake! Leave me alone people!" as if I'm important and sought after, when really we both know that it's just Vodafone telling me my bill for this month, or that Viagra email again [that I suspiciously get quite frequently. Hm?]

The useful thing about my phone going off every five minutes? At least one of those times will be some sort of tagged photo on Facebook that I can be aware of before the damage is done and everyone, from my employers to my dad, can see. Nobody needs to see me perching drunkenly on the toilet, after all.

Tall Order

2010-10-05T13:24:00.006+01:00

Height is an important factor in life. Height matters when you're a kid and you desperately want to go on Space Mountain. It also matters when you need to change that lightbulb and are only in possession of a toddlers stool; but I think it matters the most, in relationships. Some guys have a 'short guy complex' if girls are as tall as/taller than them. I knew one guy who met a great girl, hit it off, all that jazz, but he just couldn't get over that she was a tiny bit taller than him [an inch at most]. He couldn't let it go, and eventually his pride got the better of him and he chucked her [not physically, he couldn't get the height]. Just because she was a bit taller. Mental.

Being a girl of substantial height [5'10] I have encountered all tall issues, from bending down to give hugs to worrying about wearing heels. I used to be loosely nicknamed 'Canoe' because, in the words of my ex dance teacher 'you're so long and thin. Like a canoe'. So you can understand how height is a factor in my life; I have been compared to a wooden mode of water transport, enjoyed by boy scouts and dads.

It was inevitable that I was looking for a tall boyfriend. I wouldn't have written a guy off if he had been shorter, but it's nice to be with someone who doesn't jump to the 'no, we're the same height, if anything I'm a bit taller' defence when people ask.

When S-Boy and I first met, I didn't really notice [I noticed I met him obviously...I mean I didn't notice his height] It was on the walk home that night, with his arm around me, that I realised he was taller than me and I was wearing heels. The skies opened, and trumpets played a tune of gaiety and revelation. You must know that this never happens to me. I am the tallest of my friends and always the alarming transvestite to the vertically challenged guys.

Having a tall boyfriend was very exciting at first. Me and my boyfriend, not being out of proportion to each other, just being a normal couple. Wicked. It was only when we started mixing with our friends aka normal-sized people, that I realised; we are giants. Of course we are not giants, no Goliath's here, no sir; but compared to our friends, we are some sort of super couple.

We recently went to a friend's social gathering. We were just tuning in to one of my best friends [Anon] having a conversation with his mate:
Anon: We should've invited him
Friend: Yeah! Damn-it!
Me: Who?
Anon: Britain's Smallest Man. We met him last year when we had to do that project. I wish we'd have invited him. Give him a ring!

At this point alarm bells are ringing in my head. *Please don't invite him* It's tricky enough being tall amongst standard-sized people, but to loom over a tiny, pint-sized man would be the last straw. He might die of shock, like a miniature animal. It would be like a Godzilla disaster, without all the hair. [Well.]

Luckily, Britain's Smallest Man was not invited. Apart from feeling like less of a tit, having a tall boyfriend has its benefits in the shape of protection too. A friend at the gathering was jokily flirting with me, but then followed with, "I should stop doing this when your really tall boyfriend is standing there." Apparently height = strength. Not necessarily accurate in this case, bless him, but nice for us all to pretend. Being tall has its advantages.

Presents

2010-09-23T08:50:00.005+01:00

Whoever said presents are the ways to a girl's heart was a bit of a mentalist. I don't know if anyone actually said that, but it's what men seem to believe is correct don't they? I am not very good at receiving presents. I love the gesture that someone has thought of me, and thus has proceeded to get me something, but I don't love the thought that they will see me open it and hope I love it, and actually, I might not.

I'm easily pleased, give me a piece of tin foil, I'd go wild, but there's always the worry 'what if I hate the gift?'.

No matter how good you are at 'faking it' [read into that what you will], you cannot deny or cover up the 0.5 seconds of reaction that will spread across your face upon opening a present. In that moment, your real reaction will be clear, so any attempt at a different reaction is impossible.

You can imagine my worry when S-Boy informed me he'd bought me a gift on his holiday. I questioned, a tacky souvenir?
He replied simply: no, but I can get you one of those too?
Me: Nooo, I didn't realise you'd already got me a gift. I'm scared.
If it was a tacky souvenir, that would indicate that it was meant to be light. If it was a bloody gold-plated necklace, I'm guessing it's not supposed to be one big fat joke [unless you're dating a millionaire who thinks Tiffany's is akin to Poundland].

I spent ages with my housemate, trying to guess what S-Boy had bought me. Eventually, I whined and told him I can't let people see me open presents, and that due to anxiety, I needed to know what it was.

Me: I do hate people watching me open presents, and I hate watching people open presents too.
S-Boy: Did you hate watching me open my birthday presents at home?
Me: No because I hadn't bought you those gifts, they were from your parents!
S-Boy: Oh right.

Truth be told, the fear was first instilled in me when I received a piece of obscene chunky jewellery from a good friend a few years ago that I absolutely detested. I couldn't even look at it in admiration, I had to keep it in hiding so that I wouldn't feel sad that a friend, who I thought knew me well, clearly did not. Since then, the whole opening gifts thing has haunted me.

S-Boy: I need to get a lift to your house, your present's so big I don't think I'll be able to carry it
Me: Are you actually having a laugh? It's not very funny. Is it a massive picture of your face? Because that's not funny either.
S-Boy: I'm just playing, the present is tiny, don't get your hopes up.
Me: No this is good! The smaller the gift the better!

How relieved was I when S-Boy handed me a Pez sweet dispenser [old school] that evening! What was all the fuss about eh? Though not long until Christmas. My rules are: exchange gifts and then one of us must leave the room. I'm all about the romance, me.

The UnSexplainable

2010-09-16T18:18:00.006+01:00

Last week S-Boy went on holiday. We'd only be apart for 9 days. Eaaasy. However, during this time, I was struck down with something not so jolly. Sex withdrawal symptoms seemed to appear. [Can I state for the record, I am NOT a nympho/sex addict/ sexual predator.] Suddenly s-e-x was all I could think about. Lord, I thought, this is a bit much.

As you can imagine, we were both excited about maintaining certain aspects of our relationship [...] but I think he was under the impression that I wanted nookie the normal amount. You know, the non-creepy-amount. He believed this because I put on a great act:
"Yeah I'm excited too. But you know, not that excited. Just normal. Except it will be exciting. But not more than usual..."

Unaware of my newly-existent sexual frustration, I think he was taken aback when he stepped into my room that Tuesday. Calm down, girl. There's no need to say it, I mean you all know what happened next, there's really no need to verbalise; we're all adults here. *Cough* we had amazing sex *cough*.

You'd think that my problem would be over. I'd had my love-making dosage, now back to sexual normalcy. Alas, no. I found myself wanting it equally as much, if not, more. Say what? We ended up making play again that night, with a surprising over-the-top scenario, due to my uncontrollable, and frankly quite embarrassing, urges. I've always been an avid enjoyer of sex but never to this extent. [God, he must've felt like a big shot. Bless him.]

The next day the worry set in. What if we don't have sex tonight, because we went a bit crazy with it last night, and this morning? He text me during work that fateful Wednesday:

S-Boy: I can't wait to cuddle and chill out tonight
Me: Yeah. And have sex. What?

Bloody hell. To ensure the nookie, that night I decided to prepare a wonderful meal. That ought to get him into bed, whether he wants it or not. I was a monster. I found pork and apple burgers, new potatoes and an unusual excitement for cooking.

We both got home from work that night. I was excited about my master plan. That was until:

S-Boy: I don't think I'm going to eat tonight. I don't feel very good, a bit sick.
Me: Oh. Well you probably should eat something, you know, to feel better? [I am shameless]
S-Boy: I don't really feel like it.
Me: Maybe you shouldn't eat then, maybe you should just rest and, err hurry up and feel better.

It turns out it was all unnecessary. Those pork and apple burgers stayed in the fridge. And he miraculously felt better. Must've been my natural allure, or probably my desperation. You don't need to know so I'm not going to give anything else away. Except, we both slept happy that night. Cough.

The Trials & Tribulations of Being a Musician’s Girlfriend

2010-09-05T17:24:00.009+01:00

To clarify, the idea of this blog was not originally mine. I'm sure you can all guess whose idea it was. Nonetheless, after batting it down, I realised that actually I did have something to say about it [surprise] so here I am, feeding S-Boy's ego, and voicing my rubbishy opinion.

Being a musician's girlfriend is like being the daughter of a pet store owner. You and your friends all crowd around the terrified animals, coo-ing over Flopsy [who is humping his hutch-mate] and co. Your friends eventually leave empty-handed, with sad faces and aching hearts, but as soon as those doors are closed, you go home to your puppy, very own Flopsy and a house full of other little terrors.

How is that similar in any way at all, you ask?

At a gig, I, alongside other keen females, watch BF play on stage. We all enjoy it and we're all in the same dreamy boat. But as soon as he steps off stage, and it's home-time, it becomes clear that it's me he's going home with, and it's me he's with full stop. And like the little animal-loving friends, the females house sad faces and aching hearts. And I laugh in their faces. No, not really, but some of them deserve it with the dirty looks they give me. He's not THAT good ladies. I'm joking, he's really really good. But this is the first time in my life I've had actual reason to be a bit smug [don't hate me, this is a rareity for me]. So this is why it's quite fun being a musician's girlfriend. The End.

But wait. What about the not so good bits, you say. There must be some? Well you're constantly worrying that every slightly negative, unloving song he writes is about you, and it's his way of telling you that he really does hate it when you flick his ear, and he's getting a bit fed up with you altogether actually. But maybe that's just me, egotistical and all that.
You also sometimes get a case of 'Crazy Girlfriend', and worry that he'll go to a gig, find some beautiful Taylor Swift, they'll make sweet sweet music, become infatuated, make sweet sweet love, run away on a tour bus and have musical babies, like the Von-Trapp family, only better looking.

A further negative to being the partner of a musical genius [how much did he beg me to write that, you're wondering] is that you feel a bit talentless, watching him magically violate guitar strings and pro-actively melt girls hearts in front of an audience, whilst you sit there and sip your vodka lemonade like the useless bit of cardboard you are.

S-Boy doesn't live a crazy rock n roll lifestyle. There is no drugging/drinking, wearing of trilby hats or flashing his Rolex at jealous guys. This is partly because he doesn't have a Rolex, but also because this isn't the lifestyle he wants [though note, he does want the Rolex].

It's nice to have a boyfriend who plays his songs, comes home at the end of the night and doesn't flob on your driveway or ask if his hair looks straightened enough.

Of course the biggest plus [apart from being proud of him, blah blah] is that I'm essentially a muse. Similar to Picasso's many lovers [without the sordid affairs and dirty Spanish loving], I am the artist's muse. There will be songs about me. I don't know what the lyrics will consist of, hopefully they won't include any of these: annoying/unfunny/whiney/rubbish hair/shit in bed/cuddly toy fetish/eats a lot/needy. But one can only hope.

www.youtube.com/user/kevw11
A shameless plug.

You’ve Been Told

2010-08-30T20:14:00.003+01:00

Until last week, I hadn't been told off since I was 16, sat in Food Technology, flicking my pen across the table, defiantly not learning about the coagulation process. Being told off is for insolent school children, a vocal punishment for naughty teens who need to learn. When an adult tells a friend about being told off at work, they do so with an exasperated tone of voice, and a look of pure inconceivability; absolute disbelief.
"She told me off at the photo copier!"
"No! No she didn't! No! I don't believe it! Who is she to tell you off?! We're not children!" [she says, stomping her foot]

Being scolded at any age above 17 is something of an infuriating novelty. So surprised I was, when walking innocently to town I was verbally stricken by a middle-aged woman in the street.

I had just approached a crossing. Now, this is no ordinary traffic light crossing. Traffic comes and goes from 4 different ways. After crossing said road many a time, I had became aware of the system; the order in which the lights change. Sad you say? When you're forced to sprint across the traffic for fear of being skimmed by an on-coming Skoda Octavia I don't think you'll be the one laughing. Well, neither was I on that Wednesday afternoon.
Despite knowing the traffic system, I wasn't really focusing that day. I'd had a poor breakfast, the cereal didn't fulfil its potential, and my bagel was toasted a little over perfection. So not a great start already. At the crossing, I noted that the cars to my right had stopped. I don't know why I felt that this was my cue to move. I knew that the cars to the left would start to move in roughly 5 seconds, but this information did not seem to process on that fateful weekday. So off I started, toward the opposite side of the pavement. Of course the danger of on-coming traffic stopped me in my tracks. I was the idiot people secretly [and openly in Southampton, actually] mock, trapped in the middle of the road, waiting for the cars to stop so I could race to the finish before the next set of lights changed. Luckily, I wasn't alone. A middle-aged woman with a Millets bag was stood next to me, also feeling like a knobhead.

She said to me, "we didn't look the other way did we?"
Thinking she was just making friendly, relatable banter, I replied "no, I wasn't even thinking"

Millets: Well, I always look usually. I only went because you did.
Me: Oh right. Well the lights will change soon.
Millets: I just followed you into the road. I followed you out, thinking that the road was clear. I only started moving because you did.
Me: [freaked out by her mimicking ways and scornful tone] Okay.
Millets: Infact, if you had looked at the on-coming traffic, we both wouldn't be stood here in the middle of the road would we? [big angry teacher sigh]
Me: [I get the feeling that this is not just friendly, relatable banter, but rather an attack]. Hm.

The cars finally stop to my left. I aim to hurry away from crazy Millets, but she says something when I'm still in polite listening distance. Don't ask me why I feel I have to listen/be polite, especially as she was talking to herself under her breath, but I wanted to hear her for one last time.
Millets: Thank god for that. Young people just don't look at the lights. Could have got me hit by a car. Tss.

Er no I could not have gotten you hit by a car, unless I was driving said car; which I now wish I was. You, 40-something Millets, accomplished traffic system navigator, should be able to cross the road on your own. If Millets had been an elderly woman hard of sight then I would've taken that blame, damn I would've linked her arm, done a little jig and escorted her across the road personally. But a lazy middle aged woman, too idle to look left, so instead just followed whatever was in her view; deserves no such remorse.

Walking ahead, shaking my head in disbelief, I swear I caught a glimpse of her walking behind me. Into Ann Summers I went, right towards the electricals. You wanna follow me now Millets? Yeah didn't think so. Pshh.

Cat Friend

2010-08-25T10:56:00.004+01:00

Isn't it nice when there is something that can instantly cheer you up? I'm easily pleased, a friendly hello, or a nice ripe orange in the fruit bowl, just two examples of things that can make the day that little bit more bearable.

A while ago, I was walking into town when, out of nowhere, a happy little tortoiseshell cat appeared on a wall ahead of me. He looked me right in the eye and sidled up to the edge of the wall, saying 'come stroke me' with his kitty eyes. Unable to resist, I paused and gave him a little stroke. Purr purr purr. Luckily nobody was around, so our conversation went unnoticed and uninterrupted. Eventually, after much bonding, I decided that I should probably get on with my life, and move away from friendly cat. He did not seem to fully support this decision. It took some polite hand gesturing to get him to stay on that wall and not follow me.

Off I toddled to town, feeling somewhat cheerier than before, thanks to this sociable feline.

A few days later, having forgotten about my furry acquaintance, I strolled on down the road, and there he was again! Hello sir. I stopped by the wall, and gave him some familiar love. Oh, he really was lapping it up. He purred and I fed him some classic lines 'ohhh who's a good boy?' We were having a whale of a time, when suddenly I heard footsteps behind me. Oh god. It's decision time S.
I had two options: either pretend that the cat is mine, that I live in the house he is guarding and that I am just saying a long, and over-enthused goodbye to him before I head out. Or, quickly step away from the wall and move on fast, subtlety the key. Of course I panicked and chose the latter; I ended up leaping away from the wall and getting my quick step on, so that the person behind me would not have seen our on-going affair. I'm sure she definitely saw it all, as she was behind me when I was stood there making kissing noises and calling him 'a good little kitty'.

As soon as I sprinted away from the wall area, to get on with being normal and such tasks, a wave of guilt came over me. Friendly cat had witnessed my cowardly getaway, and he seemed disappointed with my fickle behaviour. The walk to town that day wasn't so cheery.

So it's the week after, and I'm walking down the road. I don't want to expect anything, but I have a sneaky suspicion that he'll be there, ready for some love. Oh he's there alright, he is definitely there, sat on his brick throne, but does he come over, or beg for attention? Does he crave my baby talk? Nope. He's not interested. The damage is done. I've hurt his pride and now he is hurting mine.
Walking past the wall, feeling slightly sad about this new development, I think to myself, this is BAD. I have been merked by a cat. This is worse than being pied-off by Steve Brookstein [who? Exactly]. Humiliation. He's just a cat. What am I doing? He's just a CAT. He has no feelings, no conversational skills.

Though I think if I see him again I'm going to try and win back his affection. No one wants enemies, and all that.

Fruit Mishap

2010-08-15T14:40:00.004+01:00

Don't you hate when people see you do something that you wish you could've kept private? I'm not referring to sexual acts of deviancy [though they really should be kept private, the general public don't deserve to be subject to that, stop it, close those curtains you filthy exhibitionist]. I'm talking about the little things that spur a stranger to make a bad judgement of you.

A while ago I was in Switzerland. Wandering the breakfast buffet innocently, I was pondering which of the glorious continental delights to pile on my plate first. I decided on the fruit, a great starter for warming up the palette. Over I went with my little bowl, eyeing up the various fruits available. Before I knew it, a queue had formed behind me. I better get on with it then. Here comes the melon, there's the peach. Ooh a large mixed fruit bowl. I'll have some of that too. I dipped the silver ladle into the big bowl, ready to scoop me some assorted fruit salad. Wicked. As I lifted the ladle, and began to transport the big spoonful of goods into my bowl, something happened.

The fruit in the spoon of the ladle slid from the comfort of it's nook, and just, took flight. It landed, splat, on the decorative area around the fruit display. Splat. Just like that, juice and all. I swear some of it even backsplashed onto my cardi. The Dutch woman behind me may have wiped her spectacles too. The whole queue saw. The nosy, impatient queue all witnessed my clumsy fruit mishap. The colourful collection of fruit items lay there, lifeless on the tray. I actually spent about two minutes staring at it. What's worse is that during this time, I came to NO conclusion about what to do. What was I supposed to do? Collect it with the ladle, or my hands? Would I place it in my bowl, or not collect it at all? Would it be awful to scoop it all up and put it back in the big bowl? Yes it would. God don't even think about it you Martian. Not with the angry-looking woman behind you having full vision now her glasses are clean again.

So I did what any inconsiderate British citizen would do. I pretended I hadn't done it, glanced over the rest of the fruit to check that nothing else took my fancy and moved away. Shirty four eyes behind me looked down at my fruit mess, absolute disgust covering her already unsavoury face.
I noted that the queue did not immediately move forward. Despite their hungry tummies, I think they were still startled by what had just happened. Some even left the queue, confusion all over their faces. Tinned peaches, orange segments, apple slices, all stuck to the once-tasteful fruit display area in a substance that can only be described as congealed juice. It was no sight for an optimistic breakfast-goer. Head towards the croissants mate, it doesn't look good by the fruit. I went back to my seat and watched from afar. Like a horrific accident, I saw that people couldn't resist having a look, although they knew they would regret it if they did.

I put my head down and carefully, with more caution than an elderly lady on an icy road, placed a small spoonful of fruit in my mouth. No more accidents here, no sir.
Our family friend returned from the buffet area 5 minutes later. Looking down at his bowl of fruit, and shaking his head disapprovingly, he said, "someone made a disgusting mess of the fruit up there. It was awful. Nobody's cleaned it up. Nobody. Awful. I think it was that Dutch woman there, with the glasses".

"Yeah I think you're right. I saw her do it. Some people."

The words just flew out of my mouth. The mimicked shaking of the head seemed to followed. Let's hope that karma is in a good mood in the next few weeks.

Decisions

2010-08-11T10:28:00.003+01:00

The other day I made a little visit to the computer room at uni, to do some general Internet research/aimless pissing about to kill time. As I walked in, I was surprised to find that it was quite busy. I approached the main computer area and suddenly found myself panicked as to which computer to sit at. I eventually chose a seat by myself, so that I could 'work' [ahem] in solitude. I am not always so lucky though.

In life, there are some situations where you have to make a quick and easy decision, one that doesn't really determine much in your life, but it must be made so you can move forward rather than stay stationary. It's usually on these trivial decisions, that I spend the most time contemplating.

A few weeks ago I was boarding a coach, heading for Heathrow. I mounted the coach step, and stared down the aisle ahead of me. There was a singular person sat in every single set of seats. Isn't that annoying, when you have to sit next to someone? I always wish that when the passengers get on at the first stop, they all think sensibly and nominate a group leader who will say 'let's all sit together so that there are more free seats for everyone else, and the coach can be filled up logically'. Of course this would never happen. Everyone wants that cheeky two-seater to themselves.
So I began my disappointing expedition down the aisle. I walked past the few first seats. Nope he looks like he smells. Not her on the right either, she actually does smell. Walked hurriedly past the guy with the duffel coat; to accompany the suspicious choice of coat he also looked highly devious. Definitely not the next guy either, guaranteed pervert [hands in lap, creepy smile, adoring stares at Polish girl opposite].

So there I was, walking slowing down the aisle, rejecting seats because of their neighbours. Nobody wants to sit next to a hyperactive 11 year old for three hours, or a slightly obese man, who appears to be playing with a Swiss army knife. You know, you just don't go there do you?

I realised that I was almost three quarters of the way down the coach, and I still had not found a good seat. I had passed a few potential coach partners on the way, but they were all fake sleeping. I knew their game, try and keep the seats to their greedy selves. I stopped. The men seated at the back of the coach looked up at me expectantly, silently questioning me, 'what are you gonna do?' I knew that the unspoken coach rules stated clearly that once you've made your way, you can't turn back. I did the only thing that could be done after such a mistake. I slid in next to the sugared-up 11 year old boy and hoped that he wouldn't continue swinging his Nintendo DS in the air.

I learnt my lesson; don't be so picky, if you see a potentially harmless coach partner, nab them before the other passengers can. Don't put yourself in the position of having to choose between a middle-aged pervert and a kid with ADD.

By the time we got to Heathrow, I had watched about 5 games of Bomberman and was sure I was going mental. Rather that than be knifed or groped I suppose though.

Boner.

2010-08-04T13:06:00.004+01:00

I remember this one time [at band camp] I was sitting my GCSE exams, and a friend told me that the boy sat next to her in the Science paper had started to play with himself once he'd finished the questions, apparently just as 'something to do'. I laughed at the story, as is expected, and we told it to various shocked friends over the space of a couple of weeks; but I never really believed it. I just didn't think people, even horrid 16 year old boys, thought about their 'goods' at any random time in the day; at that age, I was sure that penis thoughts, actions and any other things related, were all saved for morning/night time affairs. There would be no touching or arousing the male genitals until alone and in the dark, right?

The other day, I made a pit stop to Pret, to abuse the free Wi-Fi [due to lack of internet in my house]. I took my usual seat, next to the plug socket and was tapping away, when a man sat down next to me with his cup of coffee. Nothing strange about that. Just an everyday man with his everyday latte.

After about 40 minutes, he was still there, and I was still unaffected, until the accident happened. Suddenly he dropped something in his lap. I instinctively looked to see what it was [nosy]. It was a pen, in case you were wondering, blue ballpoint, not Parker, not Biro, an in between. What was alarming about this incident was that I noticed, whilst looking at the pen in his lap, he had what is known as a 'boner'. No lie, the man sipping his frothy latte next to me, was nursing an erection. I don't mean a wilting semi from browsing the top shelf magazines in Smiths, I mean an actual, 'how's your father' erection, apparently straining against the black suit fabric of his trousers.

Bloody hell. I obviously quickly averted my gaze, shaken by what I had just seen. Why did this man have a hard-on at half one in the afternoon, drinking his latte in popular and public coffeehouse Pret A Manger?! What was he thinking about?! I didn't even want to know. Instead I immediately packed up my things. He then retrieved the pen from his lap, probably arousing his 'friend' somewhat more. He didn't seem that bothered about it either, just carried on sipping his latte, people-watching, la-di-da. I had to get out. But oh god, i-Tunes was almost done re-installing. Come on i-Tunes. Finally, i-Tunes heard my cry for help and finished installing.
As I stood up, he looked at me. Not just a passing glance, he actually looked up from his eye level, at me with a smile. Oh my god.

I text S-Boy in a panic, "I need to leave"
S-Boy: why?
Me: Because it's creepy!

[Or would you prefer I sit here and admire the craftsmanship?!]
S-Boy: you sure he has a boner?
Me: I am definitely not mistaken.

Unlike Ron Burgundy's reasoning, this was definitely no 'optical illusion created by the pleats of the pants'. This was a definite erection.

Cheers.

2010-08-01T13:02:00.002+01:00

There are some universal concepts in life that just are. Things that, no matter your race, religion, place of birth, you are all aware of. Things like waving, I'm sure in every country people understand what a wave means [Mickey Mouse certainly does, have you seen how enthusiastically, and actually quite aggressively, he waves at kids in Disneyland?! Watch yourself Mickey, you almost took out the little Dutch boy]

So I'm in Switzerland, in the hotel bar with my Chinese family and friends. Admittedly, despite the year long foundation course I took in Mandarin, it seems I still cannot interact with them; mainly because they speak Cantonese, and I didn't think to learn that one. Of course. So I just smile along, and hear some key words that I vaguely recognize, 'dog' and 'ham' etc. I'm in a dream world for most of the trip anyway, just drinking my Swiss beer.

They're getting a bit excited about something or other, and I feel a sentimental moment coming on. Oh they want us to all raise our glasses and give a little 'cheers'. I can do this, it doesn't involve attempting to speak Chinese in a painfully English accent, or some sort of Chinese custom I'm unaware of. Cheers is the best, I know where it's going, I know what's happening. I'm down, I've got the four-one-one.

So everyone raises their glasses, but whilst they do so, I'm still taking a massive sip of mine, which means I was a little slow to reach the cheers party. But once I stumble upon this realisation, I quickly pull away, and I make it.

Problem? I make it, just as everyone puts their glasses down. So there I sat, my drink in my hand, my arm raised in triumph and victory, hovering above the middle of the table, loud and proud etc - with everyone sat there, drinks on table, retired to usual position. Oh god. What do I do? Do I quickly retrieve beverage from centre stage or do I have a big laugh at it? Whilst deciding, my arm is still held in the air with a silence surrounding it. Can I point out that the Chinese are never silent. Never. [Nor do they eat dogs, by the way, but that's a stereotyping story for another time]. They weren't all staring at me, but I knew that they were embarrassed for me. I was embarrassed for me.

My dad [King of humiliation and lack of social awareness] looked at me with a frown, whispered 'what are you doing?!' and tried to bat my arm down. My own father, who once stepped out of a taxi with his glasses steamed up and walked into a bollard, was embarrassed by my too-late cheers.

God even the Chinese couple who were wearing matching polo t-shirts [because they 'bought too many' – why would you buy more than one of a certain colour polo shirt?!] got it right. Even they managed to follow the cheers protocol.

In typical Chinese jollity, our little group insisted on another cheers later in the night. I refused. No way was I raising my glass again, not after that absolute fail. They may not have stared at me for being the only one with my arm in the air last time, but they were certainly staring at me now, sat there stationary, a 'party pooper'. I quickly lifted up my glass with a smile, to disperse the glares. As soon as I did, they all put their glasses back on the table. You can guess what happened. I'll never learn.

Dog In Danger

2010-07-24T16:59:00.002+01:00

I recently went vacationing to Greece with a friend. Aside from the sweltering heat, over-friendly waiters and potential turtle-viewings, a big lure of the place for me was the stray animals. Now I know that it's actually very sad that all of these domestic pets are homeless, but there's not a lot you can do, apart from feed them some M&M's and give them a cautious stroke [nobody wants rabies].

At first, it was pussy galore; tabbies here, black and white mangy felines there. We befriended them and my friend was as happy as Larry, getting her cat fix - I, however was holding out for something else. It happened on the second day; we came across our first stray doggy citizen.

A few days later, the incident happened. We were leaving a gift shop, when I spotted a little white doggy sat outside. He had a collar on, so we were aware that he had owners, who I believe were in the shop. I was quite impressed that he was so sat so well-behaved outside and not running riot around the town. Bearing this is mind , I went over to him, temptation all too strong and gave him a little love. Hugs, pats, strokes and baby talk, I was content. He hobbled over, eager to introduce himself formally, and that's when it became apparent that he was missing a little something. That something being a leg. A little 3-legged pooch. This increased his cute-factor by, I'd say, a million.

After a lot of fussing over him, I knew it was time to leave, two-for-one cocktails couldn't be kept waiting this long. So we headed off, and as I turned around to say my final silent goodbyes to him [we named him Percival, he seemed like that kind of character] I noted that he was actually trotting off in the opposite direction. Which meant away from the gift shop. Away from his owners. Which potentially meant, into the road. Oh god.

So I loitered about for a few seconds, my body jerking back and forth, not knowing what to do. To go and grab him and risk looking like a thief/upsetting his owners etc or to let him wander free and hope that he was good with directions. Shamefully, I did the latter. Good old Percival is great with a map, I assured myself.

I found it quite a challenge to tear myself away from the scene of the disappearance, knowing that I had been a witness to this incident and that it rested on my shoulders. Had I just left the mutt alone, he wouldn't have stood up and sauntered [lopsidedly] down the pavement and towards the bloody road.

Needless to say, I never saw the hobbling white bundle of joy again during my holiday. But that is definitely because he got home safe and sound. And for no other reason.

Beep.

2010-07-19T11:27:00.004+01:00

I'm in an apartment in Greece. It's 1am and my friend Charlotte is asleep, as I should be. I was close; I had jumped into my jim-jams, tucked myself painfully tightly under the thin white sheet [mosquito's had already had a field day with my succulent skin by this time, no room for errors] and closed my tired little eyes.
Ahh, bed. I wriggled on down and allowed a creepy grin to spread over my face.
That is, until I acknowledge a random beeping noise filling the room. I assume it's from outside and will cease soon. Neither of these assumptions is correct. It is coming from somewhere in the apartment, and it is consistent. I work out it beeps roughly every 6 seconds. This just won't do. Due to my OCD tendencies, this cruel beep leaves me with no choice.

Off comes the sheet, my legs swing out of bed and I am officially up, and ready to catch this anonymous beep. The first thing to consider is that this beep could be a cry for help, a warning. What if something we have plugged in is getting overheated? What if, in Greece, electrical items let you know when they're fully charged and want to become unattached? There was a little sign that said they value the efficient use of water and electricity in these apartments. Maybe this beep won't go away until I have unplugged every item. This does not hassle me in any way, due to my slight fear of fire.

So I check all the plugs, I unplug Charlotte's i-pod, and make sure my phone is nowhere near the charger, just in case the plug socket can somehow detect the phone is in the vicinity and could be potentially sucking electricity straight from the socket. Or something of that nature.
Even after I unplug the kettle, the beep is still playing in the room. I fear it's coming from the bathroom. In horror films, the creepy noise in the night always comes from the bathroom. Please don't be a bomb. They beep, bombs. I just can't be doing with that at a time like this. I've finally got my tan even and my favourite dress is hanging up in the wardrobe just next door. A mass explosion would be a bit inconvenient. I take a deep breath and open the bathroom door. My eyes frantically search for a bomb-like item. None. Excellent. But is it really excellent? I wonder as the beep continues. I would rather it be a bomb, and me know that this infuriating noise is coming from a bomb, rather than just from nowhere.

I'm starting to go a little mad. I can feel it happening. This is evident when I frantically search the fridge. Not for hungers sake, but instead to locate this beep. I don't know what could be beeping in the fridge, it's certainly not the Peach Schnapps or Charlotte's uneaten half banana, but I am determined to find this beep and discontinue it's life. Shockingly, I do not find it amongst the Greek butter either.

An hour later and I am exhausted. Having circled the apartment at least 3 times, checking every possible item, I admit defeat. Fine beep. You happy now? I give up. Reveal yourself! Of course the beep does not reveal itself. It just continues in it's merry beeping way. I get back into bed and close my eyes. I suppose lying in bed wide awake, waiting for a beep every 6 seconds isn't the worst thing ever.
Waking up the next morning, I tell Charlotte my crazy story. She asks "so, what was it in the end?" Her eyes are full of anticipation and excitement, wondering what the culprit could have been. I tell her that I never found out. The disappointment in the air is unavoidable.

I almost wish the beep was still there, to fill the awkward silence.

Finger Linger

2010-07-08T12:59:00.002+01:00

Most people are already aware that I make hideous social blunders. It's not that I'm shy or socially inept, that's not why these things seem to happen to me. It's not because I don't know how to string a sentence together or I panic when there might be a silence. I'm outgoing, friendly, and love a good social situation, yet I always seem to be making textbook errors.

A while ago I was invited to a model casting call, as a part of a work thing. Despite my initial sniggers and cynicism, I decided to go along, to be co-operative, and because not everyone had been invited, which made me feel sadly quite special for a while [the little things].

So I arrived, surrounded by beautiful people, all shiny hair and big gleaming smiles, and I realised with my dry hair from the poor blow-dry the night before and slightly tired face from a sudden 5am wake up, I wasn't quite sure what I was letting myself in for apart from sheer humiliation and a beating in self-esteem. Nevertheless, it was all fun and games, very chatty and comfortable, and then we had to go in individually and have some pictures taken. We were told it would only be about 15 pictures, really quick, no fuss.

I stepped in, and didn't feel too awful, I relaxed a bit and got into the swing of it. I'm pretty sure that when the photographer called an end to it, it had been way less than 15 photographs, which obviously does not bode well for my chances in this escapade, but I was glad that it had been so pain free...

Until IT happened. Social blunder number, I'd say 140, in my most recent back catalogue. The photographer was American, and a really happy, outgoing guy. So at the end of my shoot, he came over and said thanks, and then went to high-five me. I love a good high-five so went for it. But then something appalling happened. Something I will never forget, no matter how hard I try to erase it from my brain...
After a high-five, your natural instinct is to move away, after all, a high five is a quick slap of the hands and that's it. So why god WHY did I then try to link his fingers?! It wasn't in a creepy romantic way obviously, I was going for the cool man-greeting, the kinda 'hey buddy, we're tight' kinda thing. We weren't tight, we weren't tight at all! So again, I ask myself, WHY GOD WHY did I try to link the photographers fingers with my own?!

My fingers were forcing their way halfway down his when it suddenly hit me 'what the hell am I doing?!'
I swiftly removed my hand, and he moved away. I shook myself out from the absolutely surreal situation [wish it had been surreal] and we said 'see ya later' and I wanted to die for roughly the rest of the day.

I'm a naturally outgoing person, and so when I meet someone new and I'm comfortable with them - and let's be honest, it doesn't take much – I feel that I can be my idiotic self and do the ridiculous things that I'd do with my friends and they won't find that weird or inappropriate. Note to self: stop thinking this!

Mum’s On The Market

2010-06-16T21:11:00.002+01:00

Dating as an adult is quite tricky, especially for someone who hasn't dated in quite a while.

When my mum was 'back on the market' again, we didn't worry about her being a hermit, she has lots of friends; people she sees around town every morning, has a little chitchat with, good ole acquaintances. My sister and I were not aware that 'Ernie' was one of these people. She only started to mention him casually [his name isn't actually Ernie; he just works at Ernest Jones. Well his name might be Ernie, I don't know], she'd just drop his name into conversation.
We started to form the notion that my mother had a crush on Ernie. She said he would often stand outside the shop in the morning and chat. She tried to play it down by saying that he spoke to lots of women but we knew that she had the hots for Mr Ernie.

To up the ante, we decided that my sister would do some investigating; pop into Ernest Jones to see if she could figure out who exactly Ernie was. After much analysis, she decided [with the help of her boyfriend who was roped into this investigation to pretend they were looking for engagement rings, brave guy] that Ernie was the good looking guy, of average height, with a slightly mincing gait. We decided he was just well kept and a gentleman, rather than gay. She checked for a ring; none. Excellent.

So the quest continued, we probed her more, and tried to get somewhere in this crush scenario. I had gone home for the week, mum and I were strolling around town, she was saying hi to people, as she does, and then she suddenly whispered in my ear "that's Ernie" [yes this 'Ernie' nickname had caught on, despite her denying any kind of relation with him]. By the time I had registered this information and turned around he had gone, there was no Ernie in sight.

I went back to Southampton, and asked to be kept updated on the Ernie situation. All was as usual, until I got the email. It broke my heart. No, he was not gay [though I had my doubts too after the 'mincy walk' in the store] but actually married. No ring, but married. A jeweller but no ring, yet married. I know, I couldn't quite fathom it either but we had to face the facts.

I got a text from my mum a few days later "did you hear about Ernie?"

I wanted to cry a little bit. What made it worse was that, a few days later he openly flirted with her and implied that she was 'the sunshine of his day'. What a womaniser. Anyway, we learnt that there is life beyond Ernie, especially considering they had no romantic relations [well that he knows of anyway].

So my mum is still on the market, still eligible. Anyone with single dads, get on the blower, let me know! Do it ASAP, before she kills me for suggesting such a thing. Not that she's mental like that. If your dad's wondering, she's kind, funny and a great catch. Write that down.

You Hang Up

2010-06-13T20:49:00.006+01:00

Trains are catalysts for anger. I see why people in London are miserable now [massive generalisation], with all the trains they have to catch.

Today I was travelling from Southampton to London. A woman came along, carrying about a million bags [and a giant coat. It was like 26 degrees today] and asked if she could sit next to me. Well she didn't say "can I sit next to you?", she just asked if the seat was free. Technically, it wasn't, my large tote bag was occupying said seat, but I knew that I couldn't get away with that so was forced to move the seat occupant to the floor.
She did not store her luggage. Now I'm not an overhead storer of items either, but usually that's because I don't have a lot of stuff with me, so it all fits neatly by my feet. Bag Lady's items did not fit by her feet, or on her lap, or in our area at all. Yet she insisted on placing them all up in my grill.

Her phone rang. She picked up, and despite B*Witched filling my eardrums [I rekindled my love for them recently and now can't get enough; despite their lack of discography] I could still hear her having an argument with a boyfriend.
"But why should I do that for you?"

Then she hung up on him. I thought, fair enough, maybe he's a wanker, maybe she shouldn't purchase a Chlamydia test because he needs to grab some sack and do it himself. Then about two minutes later, he phoned her back...

"You wasn't that sorry when I asked you were you? Were you?"
Even 'Blame It On The Weatherman' could not distract my ears from picking up on this awful lack of grammatical accuracy. So she hung up again, and I thought, okay they won't speak until she gets home when she can chuck all of her baggage at his face. Having had first-hand experience of this, I can say it is effectively horrible. A-hah bigger fool me for thinking that it was all over. Within minutes she was back on the phone, with customary droned "hello" before the argument continued.

You will find it hard to believe that this sequence of events [dull greeting, argument, hang up] happened over TEN times. I found it hard to believe also.

The final two times were the most infuriating.

Bag Lady: Let's just talk when we get home, this isn't even a conversation.

True story. I thought, it's taken you ten non-conversations to take the initiative. Alas, no initiative.

Bag Lady: We'll talk when I get home. I'm hanging up now.

She genuinely did hang up. She then dropped at least two bags on my person whilst getting up. FFS.

All of this reminded me of the appalling Shane Ward track "You Hang Up": "We've got that you hang up, no you hang up, kind of love." Except it didn't seem to be a case of love, more pure idiocy, and it certainly wasn't a dilemma of who was going to hang up, as Bag Lady consistently took the reins. And the piss. Even Shane Ward isn't that annoying. Well.

Pavement Criminal

2010-06-10T20:31:00.002+01:00

Walking slow in London is a crime. Fact [ish]. My legs are pretty long, so for me, walking slow is about as ineffective as crawling on a treadmill on level 2.0; going nowhere, really slow. I just can't do it.

Yesterday I was walking behind a woman carrying a fair few Tesco shopping bags. In front of her were three pubescent teenage boys, walking slower than a snail with an iron shell.
"Mate did you see Johnny inhale that peanut? He choked man!"

I was trapped; to my left, a wall/bush and to my right, a never-ending cascade of cyclists on a mission. The situation was similar to the overtake debate. You know, when you're driving along, there's a slow lorry in front and you just know that the cars queuing behind you are urging you to overtake [the "overtake you wanker!" hollering is the main giveaway].
The thing with human traffic [not to be confused with human trafficking. Very different policy] is that unlike on the road, there is no guarantee that the head of the queue will overtake. You know that the cars behind you are going to provide the peer pressure and you are going to risk your life, and your shitty Fiat Punto because you have no choice. When walking however, people are somewhat oblivious of the hold-up they are causing.

The lady in front starts to struggle, her biceps are quivering slightly. I'm assuming that she, like me, is waiting for an overtake opportunity. I can't make a move until she does. She is certainly waiting it out. I think to myself, maybe she has a dodgy knee; lots of women I know have that. But then lots of women I know have initiative, and that clearly doesn't apply to her.

Then, as if controlled by a power above, Pubescent Idiot # 3 drops his packet of Smints. They are flung to the left, and he chases after them; meaning there is a beloved opening. Tesco turns to look at me, a confusion in her eyes. I nod assuringly; it is the nod of the go-ahead. She needed some approval, and I have just given it to her. It's happening. I trust her, she's wearing good shoes, I know she'll do the right thing. Go on girl, let's do this.

Moments pass. I cannot believe it. In this moment I house the expression of a woman in sheer disbelief. She has failed. She has failed to seize the moment of P.I#3 fumbling around in the bushes for his mint stash. She has just broken my heart. I don't feel sorry for her having to lug those weighty bags home anymore, but instead I am angry. I hope that the appallingly thin bag breaks and her Dolmio less than 10% salt rolls out into the road. Wisely, I end this grim fantasy there; don't want to get too sinister [jinx and all that].

5 more minutes and I've had enough. We are heading towards a crossing, and so I start to pick up the pace. As if to play some 'hilarious' joke, Tesco then pushes past P.I#3 [it was a dangerous squish between on-coming cyclists and his Adidas backpack] and she overtook. You have got to be kidding. She's been capable all along. There is no gammy knee.

The teens turn off left and look at me, sympathy slash smugness on their little faces. What's strange is that I forgive them, they're only young and clearly quite stupid; but it's her. It's Tesco lady. On the surface, just a woman who has shopped at a National supermarket franchise. To those who know her better [and frankly, I had no choice in the matter, I was stuck behind her for 20 minutes] she is a pavement criminal.

Dating History

2010-06-07T19:34:00.003+01:00

Being in a new relationship is always surprising. This rings especially true for me, considering my behaviour on previous dates. Despite having previously experienced a long-term relationship, I have also tried my hand at actual dating; going on dates with different guys. Looking back though, it’s a wonder that I’ve been successful this time.

My first date took place age 15 with a guy who I knew through a friend. We went to the pub with two other friends to watch a band play. I remember the pub being absolutely boiling; I was literally melting away. Wearing orange was a bad idea too; not only for the hideous sweat patches I acquired, but because unbeknownst to me at that age, orange made me look a dirty yellow colour. Skin tones, wish I knew then what I know now. Anyway, so there we were, sat in the unnecessary heat, him with his arm slipped slyly around my shoulders...and the next thing I remember is being elbowed by my friend. Shit. I had fallen asleep. The heat and poorly tuned band had made me so drowsy that I had just fallen asleep on my date. Shockingly, weeks after going back to his ex-girlfriend, he then realised that actually he’d like to see me again. To diffuse any other potential date blunders, I politely declined. Plus I kind of judged his taste in women. I was asleep for god’s sake. Who does that?!

A date at the beginning of the year saw me getting pissed, unaware that I was getting pissed. It started innocently, as it always does, a few drinks in a bar. We then moved to a pub, and had a few more. A quick walk to the toilet made me realise how drunk I was. I stumbled into the toilet stall and fell toward the sanitary disposal bin. A new low. I tried to straighten myself out, and walk slow so that there would be no real evidence that I was drunk. Being the absolute lightweight/idiot I am, I am pretty sure that my inappropriately giggly laugh [“hehe”. Really?!] and unsteady gait was a giveaway.

I went on another date soon after, and it seemed more promising. I had met the guy in a coffee shop, and he had eventually decided that he was taking me out to a tapas restaurant. With this in mind I didn’t eat that evening. Textbook error. We got to the bar, he ordered drinks and we sat and talked for a few hours. Thank god there was some atmospheric Spanish music filtering in the background, otherwise I am certain he would’ve heard my appallingly loud stomach crying out for any kind of food morsel it could get. I didn’t want to be the date who ate when that wasn’t what he had planned, so instead I suffered through. By the time I got home I hadn’t eaten for eleven hours. That was quite extreme actually, looking back. And to make matters worse, I didn’t know how old he was. He made a reference to it, but this reference involved a mathematic equation, and so due to my just C in GCSE maths, I found it challenging to work out whether he was 24 or in fact 28. Awkward.

So, whilst reminiscing on my dating history, I came to the conclusion that the older I get the more dating howlers I make. I met the current one, S-Boy, by stalking him via internet and physical means, which could’ve been added to the list of disastrous actions I insist on making; alas for some reason he didn’t go running from Creepy McGee over here. I find myself feeling slightly surprised that something is actually working out for me right now. The best bit? I have made a tit out of myself consistently, and he is still on the scene, wise to my idiocy. Please don’t jinx it, please don’t jinx it.

Beach Fun

2010-06-04T09:18:00.003+01:00

On a beautiful hot day, there is nothing better than heading down to the beach and catching the rays by the sea. Yesterday, whilst at the beach with some friends, I got to thinking about people's perceptions of being at said venue. Lots of guys I know find it boring to just lay and tan; but I had discovered, nearing the end of our visit, the amount of fun things you can actually do whilst kicking back on the ole sand.

One game we played was 'which girl has the best arse?'. It was quite a poor choice of tomfoolery due to the lack of females, and definite high volume of males [no complaints], but that only made it more of a nail-biter when a seldom female walked along. There were some average behinds, but one girl in a black two-piece strolling near the sea got the vote. Good amount of arse, great accompanying body. Excellent show. Top form. 5 out of 5.

Another little note we made whilst lying there, was that it's ridiculously awkward for children to be naked on beaches these days. It's sad but true that there is probably an adequate amount of concern from parents, when letting their little ones strip off and run riot around the sand castles with their bits and pieces flying free. Of course, we all did this as kids [didn't we...?!] and it's quite an endearing part of being a kid; letting the world see you in the nuddy, without a care in the world. But it wasn't so jolly when a man in a shirt and trousers [preposterous in such sweltering heat] appeared on the beach, sticking out like a dog in an Avery, equipped with some sort of camera, fastened around his neck. We decided eventually that he was father to some kids nearby, but there was still a waft of concern when he loitered near to the naked kids.

The sea is also a fundamental part of any beach trip. It is customary to enter the water, flinch at how cold it is, keep going [and flinching] and finally dunk your little shoulders quickly to get it 'over and done with'. The sea boasts one guaranteed problem though. My old friend, seaweed. It's not that I don't like seaweed, I just don't really want it to lasso my foot and then refuse to let go, whilst I'm trying to move/be at one with nature. This is not even a random act, it happens pretty much every time I step into the chilly British water. Flattering or not, I just don't want it to trap my ankles, and hold them hostage.

You can't help but be a bit of a bitch whilst on the beach too. Everyone's in their tiny swimwear, at their most vulnerable, and therefore subject to a bit of critique from everyone else on the beach [one guy strolled across the sand in leathers and a huge travelling backpack, looking as if he had mistaken Bournemouth beach for the Sahara]. It used to be all about the cellulite and muffin top, but these days it's more about ridiculous skin impediments. One guy, nicknamed Red Billabong [for the shorts he was sporting, original I know] revealed a marijuana logo tattooed on the left side of his chest whilst playing keepy-ups. It looked like a poorly drawn starfish. We weren't sure whether it was a real tattoo or just a henna delight. Being one with tattoos, I never usually criticize the ink, as I get that they mean something to the person - but I reckon, in this particular circumstance, that he only got this tattoo because he smokes a lot of weed. Just a guess, a shot in the dark there, but that's what I'm thinking. Hey I could be wrong, maybe that's his gran's favourite flower or something.

All in all, the beach hosts a plethora of hilarious sights to see, from inappropriately dressed middle-aged men, to children shovelling sand ten foot into the air knowing full well that it is going to blind the nearby couple on its descent. We do love to be beside the sea. [But not in it. Damn seaweed]

Car-tastrophe.

2010-05-27T10:13:00.003+01:00

Driving. Once you've passed your test it's all gravy right? That's what I thought anyway whilst hooning about in my sister's shiny Ford Zetec. Wrong comrade, so wrong.

So I got a new car of my own a while ago. When I say new I mean new to me, not actually new. It's a cute little metallic green Peugeot 306, 5 doors, sunroof, electric windows, bob's your uncle. Eventually, I returned home to pick up my beloved first car – taxed, insured, gas-tank filled – it was ready to go. I drove it around town for a few days, to get used to it. It was no easy feat. The clutch wasn't my biggest fan, but I convinced myself that through time we would become best friends, bum chums, inseparable etc. It was during my journey back to Southampton when I realised how tricky this venture was actually going to be.

I had never been 70 mph in my car so far, so the a-roads were interesting. It wasn't the roads that were the problem, it was the car. It appeared to like no gears. There was no gear it liked being in. I'm pretty sure that utilising third gear at 60mph is driving with a death wish. It was temperamental. Sometimes it liked 5^th gear, other times, pahh it wasn't fussed, and made a highly unnerving noise to express this discomfort. I was sure that it was just going to keel over and have a little nap in the fast lane.

Oh, the other thing about my car? It's a 1.6 engine. I know, I definitely do not need an engine that high, but I wasn't about to give up my cute little car just because it was too anti-eco. I realised how high that engine was when, randomly through my never ending journey, I would hit accelerate and instead of going faster my car would just rev incessantly. One time I could even smell the exhaust. From the driver's seat. Other drivers passing by gave me looks, 'who is this boy-racer ambling along the M2 clueless?'. No no, it's just me. No boy-racer; though the rest of that statement is true.

I got so flustered whilst trying to conquer the mechanics of the car that I ended up ignoring Satnav [she definitely needs to work on her people skills too 'turn right. Now'. Impolite] and drove down these random roads in Winchester, before entering a dumping ground, via the EXIT way, can I add. I parked up and whilst those around me loaded broken kettles and pieces of garden fence into the huge bins, I pondered what to do.

I finally got my shit together, and headed off again, to the rude tones of Satnav. After much sweating out I made it home. I was gutted too, I was panicking so much that I didn't really appreciate my specially made Driving playlist; it was all just a myriad of noise, among the engine's alarming sounds. I was so light-headed and disorientated when I arrived that I needed to walk, just to remember what it was like to travel somewhere and not think you're at a 90 percent chance of dying.

I'm still finding my car a mission to drive. The other day I was in an awfully slow traffic queue. This lady pulled out in front of me, believing that I was giving way to her. Actually I had stalled, so couldn't really shoot on ahead. Awkward. Driver's think I'm being kind and slowing down so they can manoeuvre past; most of the time my car is playing 'guess which gear is going to work today' and I just can't work it so I have to slow down to evade accidents.

Before you think it, no I am not a bad driver. Everyone says you can't blame your tools. I am definitely blaming my tools; it shudders and revs for no reason, on everyday roads, at everyday speeds. I get head-nods and thumbs up from fellow boy-racers, respecting my high-engine, rev-tastic vehicle. That's when you know you've hit a low.
My little death machine. This one isn't my actual car, but it looks the same. Has the same evil look in it's eye.

Hairdressers. And then idiots.

2010-05-18T15:41:00.003+01:00

I usually do not mind going to the hairdressers. All of my experiences have been on the positive side, and I have never left with a haircut that I truly detest [yes the bob was my own choice, self-inflicted – despite what others may have thought..."you poor thing, you should complain"].

Today I went into the hairdressers, unaware of who exactly was going to be cutting my hair. This was fine, I only wanted a trim, so it really didn't matter who ended up snipping the ends. It turned out it was a male hairdresser. I have nothing against male hairdressers, in fact some of my friends are hairdressers, and I've always had good experiences with them in the past. This guy, however, was not so good. He didn't say much which already hindered our client-hairdresser relationship. He washed my hair [for about a million years] and then asked me what I wanted done.

I explained, thoroughly, that I just wanted a trim from the length and the layers. I emphasized the fact that it had caused me a considerably painful time period waiting for it to grow, and now it finally had, I wanted to savour it. I also made it clear that I wanted it to look thick, wavy and natural. He asked if I wanted volume, and I said yes. Everyone wants volume, I wasn't about to turn that down. That was until, he added in 'so if we cut the layers short, it'll have big volume on the top'. Err no, I don't think that sounds very au natural. Plus, I could picture exactly the horrid bouffant look he was aiming to achieve on my poor hair. He didn't seem to understand what I was after which made me worry for the first twenty minutes, before inevitable boredom kicked in. He had not offered me a magazine. When you're sat in front of a huge mirror, and your hairdresser is making no conversation, not even 'did you grow up here?' – It's hard to stop yourself from seeing how many horrible faces you can pull at yourself in the mirror without anyone noticing.

Then he started to cut the layers. Panic. He asked me "would you be willing to have them cut any shorter?". I shook my head defiantly. He tried to compromise. I couldn't believe that he was trying to talk me out of my own decision.

I get when hairdressers do what they want because the customer says 'go crazy'. I had specified, to the last detail, what I had wanted. He was snip-happy. When I was 16 in Hong Kong I had my haircut at a fancy salon. It was terrible; they cut it so short that I looked vaguely like this boy in my year 9 biology class. [The pro of this scarring incident was the head massage they gave me before the cut]

Anyway, after poor communication, and insistency on creating his own look on me, I was surprised to find that it wasn't that bad - I could definitely work it out without wanting to die. On the way out, the secretary offered me my hairdresser's card. With widened eyes and a familiar fear running through my body, I politely declined. And then ran far far away. With my bouffant hair sadly in tact.

It’s All About Sex, Baby

2010-05-11T13:08:00.006+01:00

Today at Pilates something a little unnerving occurred. There we were, inhaling, exhaling, toning our abs on the little gym mats when suddenly the man next to me started to groan. As initially odd as it was, I understood; after all, the core muscles were starting to burn; we've all been there, where odd little noises escape our mouths uninvited. A few minutes later we were asked to up the ante, push it a bit harder. Groany man then, completely breathless and sounding as though he was at the peak of orgasmic delight, moaned 'oh Jesus, oh yes'.

Alarming. My ears recognized such noises from the bedroom and nowhere else; and for that one second of shock I didn't know what to think. Why bring his sex noises [and face, I noted. Well I imagine that's his sex face. It was a bit screwed up, sweaty, similar to Spiderpig in The Simpsons movie, but angrier] to the Pilates studio? I felt slightly uneasy about raising my pelvis into a shoulder bridge after that. Thrust motions might encourage more extreme sex vocals.

Heading home, I realised that these days, almost everything is linked to sex. I was talking to some friends a while ago, and we were thinking of words that were never intended to be sexual, but have acquired sexual connotations. Here's our list:

1. Juice[s]
Referring to a beverage, or the common phrase 'get your juices flowing'. Sadly our generation hear 'juice' and think genital fluids. Why is that? Can I no longer say 'I want some juice' without a crowd of 'weheys' thrown into the air?

2. Moist
Damp, wet, not dry. These still ring true, but again moist = sexual organs/activities. 'The cake was moist' can no longer be voiced without a flurry of sniggers. Don't even get me started on 'wet'. We all know better than to talk about the rain and the inevitable trap of 'I'm so wet'.

3. Doggy
'I want doggy'. Poor kids, they don't know any better. They are oblivious to the fact that most adults are thinking of Karma Sutra, page 14, bottom left: four legged sex position.

4. Insert
Who can honestly say they suppress the immature thoughts when they're told, in a formal university computer suite, to "insert your stick"?

5. Ride
Not referring to harmless bike rides, innocuous horse rides, but rather...body rides. Example "I well want to ride her". Goodo.

6. Blow
Enough said.

7. Thrust
Okay maybe this one was always designed to be sexual. You can't help but say it with a slight sharp 'st' on the end, just to make it racier. You devil.

There were more cringe-worthy words voiced during this intellectual conversation. I won't divulge all the sick details, but I will leave you with a word that my male housemate contributed: flap.

Wow.

Do It For The Kids

2010-05-03T13:39:00.002+01:00

I am not very maternal. I do not intend on pro-creating for at least another, billion years, I’d say. I think I want kids at some point, but my 4-year-old nephew tests my patience, so I don’t think I’m ready for a newborn baby kicking off every 10 minutes. No sir.

Despite this solid knowledge that I’m not up for making the embryos, this doesn’t mean that I dislike kids. I quite like little kids, the non-brattish ones, that is. Nobody likes little Tommy shouting his mouth off in WH Smiths because his mum won’t purchase the Pokemon sticker book. Not cool Tommy, not cool.

At work, little kids [by little I mean 4/5/6 year olds] are always being led into the shop by their eager parents. You can tell from the minute that the littlens walk in, they do not want to be there. The look of absolute tedium on their chubby little faces breaks my heart.

I often try to engage with them, playing games and asking them questions. To be honest, as much as my impression of a worm draws giggles from the little ones, allowing my inner child to play about, amuses me equally as much. A while ago, a little boy put his toy snake ‘David’ on my head and imitated decapitation, claiming, with a face full of pure glee, that he loved snakes, whilst watching Dave snake writhe around all over my face.

Two days ago a sweet 6 year old girl came sidling up to me, full of chat and smiles, and said, simple as can be, “you’re amazing”. Who else can you receive such bluntly pleasurable compliments from, apart from unaware, optimistic, well-meaning children? Maybe I will get one of my own. Hello ego boost.

It’s all fun and games, until the parents get involved. Most of the time, the parents give a cheeky smile at my involvement with their little ones, and have that smug ‘isn’t my child so clever and cute?’ look about them. They encourage my child-friendly conversation because they cannot try on their armful of garments with 5 year old Ella tugging at their legs.
Sometimes though, parents do not appreciate my warmth. I create some magical ‘coo’ noises, and play portable peek-a-boo, and they are just not having it. They give me the look of death, ‘how dare you try to amuse my child?’. I never say anything, I usually swiftly move away. Parents like that aren’t to be messed with.

Despite my silence, I sometimes want to just let rip, “don’t tell me not to interact with your child, as frankly if someone doesn’t engage with him soon, he is going to just pass out from actual boredom. He looks like he wants to die a bit. No toys, no fun, just being dragged around with absolutely no care for sleeveless tees and clearance items, it’s got to be a bit shit for little Eddie there, hasn’t it? My frivolous game of ‘find the face’ might just save his soul, before he descends into a downward spiral of depression.”

Obviously I never say that. Or anything at all. I let them angrily pull their children away, glaring at me as if I’ve tried to kidnap the youngest with childhood games and baby talk. Of course there are the token kids that hate me. I once tried to amuse a 4 year old sat in his pushchair, and he yawned in my face. A full-blown, genuinely dulled-out yawn. Who knew that little ones could be so brutal?

Things That Women Just Don’t Know

2010-04-28T08:15:00.006+01:00

Browsing through some relationship websites for a project I'm working on, I came across an article titled "things men wish women knew about first dates" written by a woman named Jane.

Whilst indulging my eyes on this article [women get so excited by things like this – thinking that some sort of power from above is finally telling us things we don't already know] I was really hoping for some surprising home truths – alas I was bitterly disappointed.

Here are the worst offenders of the list:

3. Once he's set eyes on you, he's bursting with anticipation about whether you're good in bed.

How are we supposed to meet this anticipation? Now that I am aware that men think this way, how am I supposed to win him over and let him believe that I am good in bed, just from first sight? Unless I enter the room in a walking handstand, with my legs in a box split and an oversized banana in my mouth, I don't think he'll know if I'm good in bed or not.

4. If you don't intend to have sex with him tonight, at least leave him time to meet up with his mates before closing time.

The pub must be full every night if this is the case. Women rarely give it some on the first date. Grow up, men. This isn't Sex and the City.

6. If you find him interesting, he'll find you interesting.

Biggest generalisation ever. Just because I love his Kilimanjaro tales, it does not mean that he will be interested in my tales of shoe shopping, and other completely ordinary ventures.

7. If he wants to go halves on dinner, it doesn't necessarily mean he isn't keen. Though it might.

You do not have to be an expert, writer, or really even an adult to write this sentence. It is the most vague, unanswered statement possibly ever printed. It's pretty much like saying "if you go to the cinema, it doesn't mean you'll enjoy it. But you might." Spare the Internet from uneducated statements that could have been penned by a philosophical 10 year old.

17. If he doesn't want a second date, begging won't work. Ringing him up and saying "but please, I don't normally talk about my ex all the time, I promise" is not going to change his mind.

Who talks about their ex during the whole of a date?! More importantly, who begs for a second date?! How desperate does this woman think that other women are?

18. If his chair makes a scraping noise, he's terrified that you'll think he farted.

…even though, it is probably crystal clear that the noise was simply his chair making a scraping noise and you will both be acutely aware of this. Good one, love.

Us women seem to buy into it all though, thinking 'if someone's written about it, in a lengthy list format, they must be telling the truth'. It's only after we've read it, with frowned foreheads and ridicule, do we realise that it was written by a woman who, let's face it, does not know any more about men and their thoughts than the greying checkout lady in Tesco.

Lists compiled by men make more sense [they still don't apply to all men] but those lists have more of an accurate insight than 'Jane' who has no new information. A friend said she'd once Googled one of these lists so she had a heads-up before a date. Genuinely.

Scary that women will do whatever these lists suggests to ensure a good date. Imagine if it said something like, "Men love fur and dancing so try to incorporate this into your date." What would you do? Wear a bear suit and moonwalk over to him? I bet it has happened. The rigorous following of lists I mean, not the moonwalking-bear suit. Though that might've happened too [or it might not.]

If you look like this in a bearsuit don't bother even attempting to crack the moonwalk out. It's over.

Notorious Cheek-Kissers

2010-04-19T22:51:00.006+01:00

Greetings should be the easiest social interactions in the world. Hello. Smile. Wave if necessary/not positioned too close to conversation participant as that can be unnerving. You don't have to make it fancy; it's just the bit before the goodbye.

More recently I've been receiving a lot of kisses. Sadly this is no bragging sesh as I am not referring to romantic affection or queues of uncontrollable admirers [shocks all round? Negative], but instead friends who greet you by kissing you on the cheek. I understand why women do it; it seems sophisticated, feminine and genteel. But what if you're none of those things, yet still a female? Then what?!

I don't mind a girlie peck here and there, if the mood is right [and we're all sipping our Jacobs Creek on the decking of the country house, at the fabulous soiree] but other than that, I don't see how it benefits anyone. Kisser must touch someone's face with their lips whilst perhaps smudging their own make-up items. 'Kissee' face must undergo a moist connection with somebody else's mouth, whether they want to or not.

I saw an old friend the other day [she is actually no older than me, I just hadn't seen her in ages] and she went for the kiss cheek manoeuvre. Looking back, I remember she had always been a kisser. There are some women who are cheek-kissers and it's a natural part of their charm. The effortlessly beautiful females, who photograph with splendour and travel by gliding on clouds of lightly fairy-dusted air, and all of that bollocks. But for the rest of us, the cheek-kiss can often look like a very poor, and unconvincing attempt at emulating the grace of the aforementioned woman.

I may not be a suave cheek-kisser but I am however, a big advocate of the hug. What happened to the good old fashioned hug? You cannot be embarrassed by a hug. There are no jerking heads unable to decide on which side to go, there are no uncertainties about how many hugs should be given.

It's not all about what a hug can do either; it's about what a kiss can't do. A kiss does not make you feel better when you secretly, unbeknownst to the public, feel like algae. A kiss also cannot provide you with the warmth needed in unsavoury weather conditions. A kiss has never made me feel like the guy in the Cuppa-Soup advert with the big furry hug-arms. Who wouldn't want to be that guy?!

However not everybody concurs with such logic. Due to this clash of stubbornness [my hug policy and my friends' cheek-kiss insistence] there is often a humiliating collision of the two upon greeting. This is especially apparent when the other participant is a male. I go in for the hug, but they kiss the cheek and then don't know whether to grab me back in reciprocation and finish the hug just to be polite or to move away and make me look needy with my arms outstretched. The latter is always a laugh. Until it happens with the same guy, for the third time and you wonder who is going to compromise their stance and make life easier.
I am sometimes lured under the cheek-kiss wizardry. I'll allow the kiss, and sometimes, if I'm feeling spry, even return the friendly favour. But that's when it all gets a bit complicated. I've heard that guys find it attractive when girls kiss cheeks as a greeting. What if a guy saw me kiss a cheek, assumed I was one of the suave girls, and then we went out a few times only to his shock/horror, I rewarded him with a big fat unromantic bear grapple?

Maybe that's why I have way more friends than romantic prospects. I'm sticking by my guns though; a warm feeling inside, physical warmth, a dry face and endorphin-city? Hugs sound ideal and some, to me.

Give Us A Hand

2010-04-10T19:49:00.003+01:00

Strangers are ace aren't they? The ideal candidates for a lovely venting session, or if you just feel like talking/making noises sometimes, which I often do, they're perfect. That guy sat on the bench next to you definitely appreciates the fact that you said hello and nothing else. Got my hourly talking fix, exchanged a polite greeting with random man, that is an exemplary tale of two birds, one stone. The elderly woman behind you in the queue in Smiths, she loves to get involved with a good old rant about the lack of cashiers. Tru' dat Margaret, cashiers just aren't what they used to be.

I found today though, that strangers aren't so great when physical contact is a factor. I never tend to pet, physically hurt, or grapple with strangers of any kind; it's not my style [I wonder who's style it is?!] but today an accidental point of contact was made, with an old man [it's always the old men I swear, they must look for my fearful oblivious face and set body traps. A leg out here, a fully exposed face there].

When I was 11 I went swimming with a friend. She pushed me under water in camaraderie [or disguised manslaughter, she never did really like me] and as I was wrestling my way back up, in need of a breath, I grabbed out and realised that I was actually grasping an elderly man's bum. When I emerged from the water seconds later, he grinned at me and I wanted to die.

This recent encounter was nowhere near as mortifying, but still very much makes it to the top 20 of social faux-pas'.

So there I was, the train was pulling into the station, I was queuing, ready to leave once the train stopped. Typically, as the train pulled to a halt, it jolted, everyone stumbled and I grabbed onto the grip thing that sticks out of the top of the seats. Only it was warm, soft and smelt of dusty handkerchiefs. This can't be right. On closer inspection, it appeared that I had placed my hand lovingly over a hand belonging to the elderly man behind me. It wasn't even like it was a mish-mash grab of his hand, or that I had reached out to grab the closest thing to prevent falling and then sorted myself out. It was literally placed, almost daintily [except my hands are the opposite of dainty. Theasaurus.com tells me that the word I'm after is: clumsy] over the top of his as if we were one of those sweet old couples or a father and daughter sharing a bonding session at his hospital bedside.

It took me at least one whole minute to then remove my hand from his. I do not know why my reaction was so delayed. Perhaps I secretly liked the warmth of his elderly, wise hand. Could it have been that I was subconsciously craving a grandfather's affection, having missed out on such things as a child? Perchance it was the slight odour of shortcake biscuits that was coming from his tweed jacket?

Whatever it was, it had me in a hand-caressing trance for that whole 60 seconds. I then retrieved my hand, realising the creepy display I was putting on, and looked at him. I don't know why we look at people we've just humiliatingly violated – it's not like I want to see his reaction as it's either going to be angry, confused or grinning, about to burst into fits. It was the latter. I apologised, realising that that was also something I needed to do, alongside removing said hand, otherwise it really would've looked like I was just reaching for his hand in a time of panic and need [the train jolt can sometimes be quite erratic].

He chuckled, "that's okay" and I exited from the train a-sap. Note to self: keep hands to self.

Photo Fail

2010-04-03T09:17:00.002+01:00

It seems that photography studio companies are everywhere these days. Yesterday I encountered three 'sellers' in a space roughly 20 metres wide. We're in a credit crunch, do you really think that we want to spend our measly wages on looking worse than we already do, but in brighter lighting and somebody's flat cum studio? Well some people actually did want to, as they stopped and became seduced by these sellers with their pesky flyers and innate ability to hassle you until you say yes. I know it's their jobs, but if I say no, I mean no.

Anyway, to make the whole thing more ridiculous, whilst in the midst of the photo studio frenzy outside the shopping centre, I walked past a sign advertising one of the said photo shoots; one of those 'you and a friend' go to the studio, get made up, get put in awful clothes that made their debut say, circa 1990, and are then put into unnatural positions, ironically to make it look like you're behaving naturally. Nothing was unusual about this advert, except the name of the company. Ogle Studios does not seem teen-friendly to me. Well it does, but perhaps bordering on a little too friendly. What parent would allow their excitable tween to go to Ogle Studios to have photographs taken? Is the name a light-humoured joke that isn't funny? Or is it actually strategically perverted?

I've always felt uneasy about those photo shoot things. You go there knowing full well that after all of the photo magic has occurred, they push you to the edge of the earth to purchase one of the photographs – why would you want to put yourself through that? I'd understand if the photographer was someone famous and iconic like David Bailey, or the makeup and clothes were designer, important and expensive. But some old bloke named Bill and his 'team' in an unnamed, empty apartment in London with clothes from Topshop that you could have purchased yourself doesn't really cut it, does it?

I have also found from looking at friends' photographs, that if anything, these photo shoots make you look worse. Pasty, sheer matte face, poorly curl-tonged hair etc. They all reminded me of school pictures but instead of the modest green and white check dress, it was a baby blue halter top ala Emma Bunton in her hey day.

Alright, don't get all up in my grill, I understand the motivation behind participating in one of these 'studio days'. The whole thing can seem exciting, and likely to boost your self-esteem, but isn't it just a huge disappointment when you see the photograph in your hands, in the light of day as opposed to the sneaky lighting they use in the 'studio' [flat ahem] and you realise that you have to force yourself to like it because you've just paid an entire weeks wages for it? What do you do with it? Present it as an unwanted gift to somebody? Keep it and put it on your mantel piece?

I understand people who have naked photographs taken in their twenties to keep so that they can look back in 10 years time and say 'damn girl, I looked flyyyy'. That makes sense, we're not going to have attractive bodies forever so make the most of it now. But it's slightly different with these studio photo shoots; why would you keep a photograph to look back on it in 10 years and still be bitterly disappointed by it? Surely you would spend your time convincing your children "I really did look better than this," despite their unimpressed little faces. The damning evidence is right there in your frail old hands; and it's all thanks to that Ogle Studios. Knew you shouldn't have trusted them.

Viral Infection

2010-03-30T21:28:00.004+01:00

I'm ill.

Not the kind of ill where you're sick and absolutely have to have tomato soup otherwise you just know you won't get better, despite the other more beneficial food options available to you [and the logic that you definitely will get better at some point]. So yeah, not like that. But instead I appear to have some sort of viral infection. Despite having spoken to various medical professionals about this, no one seems to be even remotely concerned. Viral= virus = bacterial = eating away your insides = potentially, death [I went there].

I have documented the progression of this new [and uninvited] inhabitant:

Saturday: Day # 1 [in the lurgy house – said in appropriate accent. Don't pretend you don't know which one].
Chesty cough cannot be mistaken for 'pathetic' or 'weedy' cough any longer. It is by all means 'chesty'. Very feverish, hot head. Face not dissimilar to popular Chinese children's cartoon character Garu [Pucca's man-friend]: http://www.imotion.com.br/imagens/data/media/37/Pucca_009-139294_www.imotion.com.jpg
My t-zone = tomatoes + desert = red and dry. Cough cough cough. Oop that's my lung.

Sunday: Day # 2
Ulcer appears at back of tongue. Bit crusty. Hate ulcers yet can't help but irritate them against my teeth. Ulcer deserved? No. Actions very stupid? Yes. Now I am in possession of: chesty cough, red/hot face [keep that forward slash in there, there's no way that the sentence could ever be feasible without it, especially when describing my face]. Burning heat rash on underside of my calves also appears. Small bumps but don't be fooled by their lack of size, they are very itchy.

Monday: Day # 3
A day of both new and old. New symptoms. Exciting! About a million tiny white spots appear at back of tongue, in replacement of ulcer which has miraculously vanished. Am highly alarmed when I see the little spots congregating on my tongue in such a manner – what do they want with me?! Along with tiny spots, my skin is rapidly drying out. I'm not talking about the heat rash, that's no longer itchy [yet the remnants of the bumps are still there – I'll be nursing these scars forever] – but instead the skin on my face in particular is just wilting away. I have washed it, moisturised it alas nothing. Very sore.
Old symptom that we have gratefully lost today is the feverish forehead. No more red/hot face. Instead look a bit pale actually.

Tuesday: Day # 4
Woke up completely unaware if I still had the ability to move my face. Finally understand how Botox-lovers must feel. Looked in the mirror and was rightfully horrified. Skin under my eyes was dry and white. I wiped away the sleep that gathers there, yet the whiteness/dryness was still present. Corners of eyes super sore. Dry eye skin is not looking promising. Look like I haven't washed since 1994. I was 4 years old so I doubt I washed then either actually.
Random small patches on face skin have also dried up noticeably. Even hurts to touch my face on the whole. Accidentally got a bit of moisturiser on the skin under my eyes. Usually not a problem. Today, definite problem. Had to frantically splash water onto eyes to cool the horrid burning sensation.
Guys in work made jokes that I should stay away if I'm contagious. It was funny, but I was actually thinking that that wasn't a bad idea considering I've got a variety of nasty issues that could easily be transferred. Did not voice this real concern but instead laughed along with them, after the hugs of course. Got home from work, too afraid to wash face in case my skin does something crazy, like falls right off.

Will report back with any developments almost as soon as they happen. Will probably be too busy at the actual time examining how much of my skin/lungs/life I have left.

Pasty Horror

2010-03-22T21:24:00.004Z

Today began as any other day. Everything was as normal, my mood rated 4 out of 5 [I had woken with a sore throat; had to deduct one point for that and I hadn't even rolled out of bed] and I had the day's plans set and ready for me. It was when I was doing work in uni that a 4 soon hurtled down to a meagre 2.

I was sat at a table doing some work, when this guy sat next to me and kept nudging me to ask stupid questions. I didn't even know him yet he was relentless. Anyway, so that firstly brought my mood down to a 3. I love talking to strangers but not when I'm on a work roll, whacking out infinity words per minute and they keep pestering me irrelevantly.

As if they had seen my frustration and wanted to intensify that by I'd say, 10 million, three lads came over and sat at my table. They appeared harmless, just sport science lads texting, heaving ten heavy books over - for the god-like appearance and macho-ism of course - and watching footie on their laptops. I was quite glad to have some moral support against Question-Nazi, until the boy closest to me [it's always people in close proximity of me that seem to do the most annoying things] pulled out a huge...Ginsters nightmare.

I hate pasties. I always have. They make me want to vomit. Even seeing a glimpse of that unsubtle Ginsters wrapper makes the bile rise in my throat. As I once told a friend, pasties remind me of three things: scotch eggs, pork pies and dinosaurs. A lethal combination. A solo dinosaur, I'll take it. Throw in two thick, unappealing savoury pastry items and you've just ruined it.

I'm not sure whether it's the thought that people eat them cold, or the fact that the pastry is so thick it's like biting into a greasy boulder, that makes me detest them so much. I have more admiration for the puff pastry ones, perhaps because you be must so concerned with the wild, flyaway flakes of pastry attaching themselves unattractively to your face that you have no brain space left to think about how the chilled meat inside is attacking your taste buds.

While I was at uni last year, something happened in my home town. Two pasty shops opened on the high street. I'm almost certain the news made the front page of the local newspaper. Probably because nothing else happens in the town; I swear I once saw the headline 'schoolboy finds fossil in unexpected place' splashed across the front page. I didn't read on, and that's probably for the best. These days local papers probably scour small towns for any controversy they can find. Well they definitely struck gold [and my vom reflex] with this active pasty tirade.

I don't know why my anti-pasty feelings started to form; perhaps it was because my brother liked them, therefore I did not, in classic sister rebellion. Maybe it was because I have always preferred sweet items to savoury. Or really, probably, it's just because onion should not be eaten cold at the best of times, so when you shove it in some poorly made, quickly-staling pastry item, inevitably it's going to be horrendous.

Meat and oversized chunks of chunder-esq onion. Please someone tell me how that's okay.

Deafening Silence

2010-03-16T11:27:00.001Z

There are various awkward situations that greet me on a daily basis, but after experiencing all types of humiliation/awkward circumstances, nothing can compare to a lack of hearing.

The other day in work, I was serving a teen girl, and I asked her [not by choice] if she wanted to try a perfume. Her face showed no signs of understanding; she looked like she was really trying to recapture what I had just said. Before I could tell her to forget about it, she went to the other end of the till area, grabbed the tester bottle of perfume and gave it to me. I didn't really know what to do. In an awkward acceptance of gift, I just knew that something wasn't right. I was stood there, holding this tester bottle, OUR tester bottle that she had just presented me with, unaware of what was supposed to come next. I politely put it down, glanced at my fellow cashiers for some reassurance and carried on serving her. It wasn't mentioned in the next two long minutes of cashier-customer interaction.
I wondered what she thought I had said. "Can you go and get that tester bottle and bring it to me?". The lack of logic/normalcy astounds me.

Possibly even better than that awkward interaction, are the times when your hearing really does fail you, and leaves you with two possible options: yes or no. One of them is wrong. But which?!

When I was younger, my sister brought a new boyfriend home. Our first encounter did not go well. He asked me something, and I did not have a clue what he had just said. Not even an inkling. There were no key words. I knew that he had asked a question though; as he stood there expectantly [I hope he was waiting for an answer and not anything else anyway...].
Under the pressure of the moment, I thought, I'm just going to have to go for it, bite the bullet and hope for the best. I employed the most accurate method of choosing the right answer that I knew. Eenie meenie miney mo.

Here goes...

"Yes,"

His eyes widened and he housed an expression of pure shock. Shit. Wrong answer. Recover, recover fast!

"...or not?" The tension in his face eased a tad, but he seemed unconvinced. Me too. Funny that. My voice implied that I too, was also surprised at my own answer.

We seem to have an issue with asking people to repeat what they've said. If we're feeling resilient, we'll ask once for them to repeat "sorry, what did you say?". Then they repeat it, whether you're prepared or not. And that's it. That's all you get. You can't ask again. If you don't hear it the second time you might as well just walk away and not bother. It's over.

Painfully Obvious

2010-03-06T18:43:00.002Z

My latest pet peeve comes in the form of a Facebook attachment. In the good old days, Facebook contained a wall and a search bar, and that was about it. I commend the new exciting applications it houses today; from Bejeweled [dangerously addictive but the best form of procrastination] to RSVP-ing a friend of a friend’s birthday night ‘out on the lash’ – you cannot fault this vast array of new FB attachments, right? Wrong comrades.

I am a fan of Facebook Groups. It’s nice to know you relate to others, whether that be in a hobby or in a school you used to go to. It brings together those with the same interests. This has been taken a little bit too far lately though. The amount of groups created that are blindingly obvious has completely baffled me.

“I love my bed”, “biting the ears off of Percy Pigs before eating the rest” and “I love cuddles and kisses” to name but a few, are hitlist offenders. Of course we bite the ears off first; they’re made of a jelly substance dissimilar to the rest of the little piggy face. Most people agree with the three above statements. If we are really going to just state things we like or that occur and then make a group about them, we would be here forever, just listing pointlessly. What does it enable you to feel? Connected to people in a special niche way, despite the whole of the world agreeing with these standard statements?

Becoming a ‘fan’ of these groups doesn’t make you part of a special clan. It doesn’t mean that you and the administrator Dave are destined to be together. It means that you are like 8 million other people/human. Sorry.

I understand that when you see one of these statement groups pop up on your news feed, and you completely know what it’s on about, you give a little chuckle and think ‘that’s so true!’. But it should end there, and you should move on.

The more we become fans of these irrelevant groups, the more they will continue, henceforth the more they will infuriate. Soon there will be things like “I am alive” and “I love looking”. These are two statements applicable to the world [exceptions: the dead/blind]. Stop with the inevitably obvious groups guys; it's for the best/our sanity.

In the words of Fight Club, “You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else"

Okay that's a little bit harsh. There's no decaying matter involved. But you get the jist.

Overused Phrases

2010-03-02T16:45:00.002Z

I am the worst for making up words. Twists of lingo, abbreviated terminology; I can't help it, it's just something that my mind, and in turn my mouth, does on it's own accord.
'FaceyB' here, 'JackeyP' there – the waves of word alterations are endless and apparently infuriating for those around me. It's not a laziness of the mind, as someone once suggested, it's more a creative endeavour on our language. With gadgets like iPod everywhere, how do they expect us to avoid such things? iCrazy.

Whilst I can see how the abbreviation and tampering of words could be irritating for some ["speak properly" "okie dokes"], I really do not understand how traditional overused phrases don't spark the same fury.

Offender # 1: "If there's one thing I hate..."
First faux pas: "IF there's one thing I hate" – well let's be honest, we all hate at least one thing, so why they're trying to pretend they hate nothing and its all 'hypothetical' is a mystery. Second cock up: People who utter this phrase often say it regularly; which means that the said hated items accumulate until they hate pretty much everything. I'd say that that is more than one thing then.

Offender # 2: "Good to know"
This is just a filler phrase for those who don't know what else to say. Someone makes a comment such as "I ate a really big crisp" and in panic, you don't know how to reply to that. You could easily say "that sounds nice" or "cool" but instead, you blurt out "good to know". We both know that it is not good to know. It means nothing to you. Just like this ridiculous phrase in our vocabulary. Nothingness.

Offender # 3: "elbow grease"
Unless you Vaseline your limbs, this is a completely irrelevant phrase. Even in its context; putting your elbow and body into a task, there really isn't any grease involved. If there was, physics would have it that said body part would slip. Sorry. It's very antiquated as well; circa a million years ago, I'd say. Or something like that. This is clear from the observation that nobody really gives any 'elbow grease' these days anyway. Give it 2 years and robots will be doing everything for us.

Offender # 4: "It's not rocket science,"
...what if it is?

There are so many more nonsensical overused phrases in society these days, some that don't even fit in with the times. I have to admit that there are still some that I treasure dearly and verbalise often such as:
"At the end of the day". It doesn't mean much but it makes you feel authoritative and important, like you're making a great point. Perfect for an ego boost or big climax endings. Don't misuse it though. It can't be abused just when you feel like it. Terms and conditions: have a big finish. "At the end of the day, ants are small" does NOT cut it.

I think that's enough on over used phrases now; time to wrap it up...

Somebody I’m Not

2010-02-22T11:32:00.004Z

Usually, being told that you're someone you're not is an insult. Couples have these huge domestics about 'you want me to be someone I'm not'. Female protagonists in chickflicks will say 'I don't want to be someone I'm not' at least once. Nobody wants to be seen as somebody they're not.

Except me. Yesterday, I discovered that it's not always bad for people to think you're somebody else.

I was lucky enough to get sought after London Fashion Week show tickets. Like gold dust, only the crème de la crème get sent these tickets. Hugely elitist, but who am I to say no?! I was aware that the shows would be full of industry professionals: people who matter, fashionistas who will be recognized instantly. As we are all aware, I am none of these things so felt slightly unsure about entering London's biggest fashion event alone without the celebrity swagger. It seems that I did not have to worry about this. At all.

Anticipation high, I walked onto the beautiful grounds of Somerset House. As expected there were photographers everywhere, flags everywhere, important people draped in mink everywhere. I didn't want to be given away as someone who had absolutely no idea where she was going, so I confidently strode in through the central arch, right down the middle of the ground. I was unaware at the time but apparently this was unspoken VIP territory, as before I knew it, a female photographer had approached me and asked to take my picture. I thought that maybe she was just from a budget magazine and was photographing different types of people entering the event: the hugely important, and then the me's of the world [who flukily bag some tickets and walk in unknown]. Suddenly, out of nowhere, three male photographers swooped in with their cameras at the ready. One slid down onto his knees right in front of me, the other two stood either side, snapping away. No asking permission [like I'm in a position to say no...], no warning, just snap, flash. Fancy camera tilts and angles, zooming in and out; it was all going on.

I figured that photographers are quite like seagulls. Once they see one gull fly in to sniff leftovers on the floor, others come immediately, just incase it's something important that they're missing out on. I didn't have the honesty to tell these photographers that I was a nobody. So instead, I pretended to be a somebody.

Then a photographer from Grazia magazine nabbed me and asked for my name as if I'm someone she should already know. I hope she doesn't Google me. I won't be there. I didn't have much time to worry as then the Sugababes arrived and everyone ran over to them.

After this excitement, I headed into one of the tents to find a champagne reception. Don't mind if I do, when in Rome and all that jazz. I mingled with fashion socialites, made friends with a Russian girl who was there on behalf of Russia fashion. Someone took our picture, believing that we were friends in the industry. For those 2 camera flashes, I did the same.

Queuing for the show, I walked nonchantly down the 'seated tickets' line just behind the Sugababes. Oop, in I go, me and the S.babes, as you do. By this time, I was feeling a little giddy; champers was a bad choice. I almost walked on the catwalk getting to my seat. It could've been quite the scene. I seemed to forget that pretending to be someone else doesn't mean you're no longer an appalling lightweight.

During the show I was really getting into my role of 'somebody'. When I exited back through the arches, I got papped again by a different female photographer. And then, no word of a lie, 3 male photographers queued and waited their turn to take a picture of me. I was delirious by this point, so posed to my heart's content and tried to be sultry. I just knew that it was more 'tragic' than sultry, so decided that if people were going to have to see me in a magazine, I might as well be smiling. Just for the fans you know.

This was not the only time yesterday that people thought I was somebody else. Slightly less glamorously, I was mistaken for Topshop management in the flagship Oxford circus store TWICE. It was purely because I was carrying a million items and trying to juggle them all. It was my ugly shopping addiction that scored me that title.

Being someone I'm not was hilarious. Even in Topshop with 7 hangers cutting into my wrist, and clothes flailing everywhere. It was scary how easily it was to pretend to others, and myself, that I was a somebody. As soon as I stepped back on the train though, I jumped right back into being a nobody. Maybe I'll relive the dream if I spot my 'somebody' face in a magazine next week.

Sugababes who were rightfully photographed...

Socially Inept

2010-02-18T21:13:00.001Z

I have always been an embarrassment. I am the kind of person who, when they cock up [and I do 9 times out of 10] does not even attempt to conceal it. I am not one of these well to do girls who can recover from any social mishap and still carry some class. This is partly because I never carried any class in the first place. But also because my brain realises how terrible/hilarious the situation is and can't help itself. Cue hysterical laughter, unsubtle sniggering or the inability to look the person in the eye steadily. The positive of this normalcy disorder is that I rarely actually get embarrassed and enjoy awkward silences more than the average being.

These are the only existing positives.

Today my work mate was saying that she made a social blunder with a really professional, high up career woman. She went in to kiss her cheek although it was inappropriate. Now my friend, she's a classy bird, so really no harm was done and she recovered with ease. She was mortified at her behaviour. With this in mind, I decided against telling her my vast selection of social horrors. Instead, I provided her with one of my tamer tales: the time that I greeted customers at work with the politically dodgy "hey gays" instead of "hey guys". Classic.

As if by magic/my ridiculous lack of luck, I made a social shocker only a few hours after telling this story. I was walking down the hallway when a guy that works within the office came towards me. I never know if he's going to say hi, so I always wait and see. He did say hi, but I was completely unprepared. About a minute later I realised how long it was taking me to respond so blurted out 'hi' and then accidentally snorted. Like a pig. At the volume level of roughly a million decibels.

You'd think you can only create such horrifying disasters once a day, if that. No no, that is not the case. A few hours after this, sat eating lunch, one of the cashiers comes over. He makes a gesture with his mouth and his hands, as if to say 'are you finished?' so he can take my tray. Of course I do not understand his simplistic gesture at this moment in time, and think for some completely unexplainable reason that he's trying to greet me in some way. So I wave. He's really close to me, I'd say roughly one metre away, and I wave right at his face. Worse than that [how?!] - it is not even a small subtle wave. It is a Mickey Mouse wave. You know, widened hand span, webbed finger effect, rapid side to side motion, creepy smile. Oh my god. He smiles nervously and walks away. I'd run away if I were him.

These kind of things happen to me a lot. But I'm at peace knowing I'm not the only one who cocks up. This evening, walking towards the platform to get the tube home, I accidentally bump into the woman in front. You're right, it wasn't accidental, she was walking roughly at the speed of a tortoise with no legs. Anyway, she turned around and smiled at me as if she knew me, and then blew me a kiss. I am not joking. She blew me a kiss. I think she thought I was someone else as she then looked very confused and rushed over in the other direction. Haha. I shall have the last laugh. Until tomorrow anyway.

V-Day/D-Day

2010-02-13T16:40:00.001Z

Couples are everywhere. There are certain times of the year that this becomes more apparent. Christmas; when they're snuggled up in Starbucks wearing matching scarves and drinking hot chocolate. Summer; when they're at the beach, rubbing lotion on each other's backs and strolling on the sand. And of course, a singleton's favourite: Valentine 's Day.

Never one to feel bitter about the commercialised day, I am usually enthusiastic towards couples nuzzling at every chance in public. The past two Valentines days I was part of one of these smug couples, giving it some in the backseat of the car and dining out. Now however, I'm going it alone. Before boyfriend times, I would go to dinner with my girlfriends. That's a bit tricky now considering they all have boyfriends. Ouch.
Some people go out and paint the town; why not hit the bottle and dance away your bitterness and jealousy? Sounds great to me. That's until singletons in the club become couples in the club and you're left alone in the middle of the dance floor, swaying awkwardly to one of Pitbull's classics as everyone leaves with some club candy on their arms, anticipating the sexual encounters that are going to occur.

When I dined with my girlfriends, in the good old days when it wasn't such a kick in the face to be alone as you had people to be alone with, we would look at the couples around us and wonder what their 'story' was. He was studying engineering and her, she was doing psychology. They met at a fancy dress party, he wore his mechanic jumpsuit. They made banter about her knowledge of psychology, and he joked that she was probably analysing him right that second. He was right, she was. They laughed. And the rest is history.

At the time we didn't realise how actually tragic this little 'game' was. I now realise how tragic it is. So there'll be no imaginative observing this year.

Staying in is not out of the question. It's not what you wanna be telling your friends about when they've just described in detail how they were handcuffed to a dining room chair, but it's not a complete failure either. There is nothing wrong with watching some terrible television with a bottle of wine and a six-pack of monster munch. It's not like you'll have to kiss anyone anyway so who cares if pickled onion fumes are evaporating from your pores. It really doesn't matter if you leave your best friend a few voicemails just to say you hope she's having fun with her boyfriend, and actually you're really glad you didn't make plans in the end as you're at home doing a really interesting puzzle of a medieval battle scene. It's no biggie if you get so drunk that in a completely mindless state you play some Celine and cry a little bit. Or a lot. All By Myself. My Heart Will Go On. There are plenty of classics that will successfully do the job. Tear by tear until your porous face is holding all the moisture it physically can.

This year I'm not sure which of the above activities I will end up doing. Hopefully none. I'm certain I'll have plans. Plans with Noel Edmunds watching Deal or No Deal re-runs that is. See, this just proves that you don't have to look impressive/be impressive/not smell of monster munch to get a date. Me and Noel. Great times.

Chick-Lit Dream

2010-02-10T20:50:00.003Z

Is something really a new low if during it, you find yourself on a high?

Today at work, I sent a standard email to this fashion press officer about some items that I would be returning to him and his company. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another work email. To my surprise, he replied saying I was efficient and claiming that he "loved it", followed by a smiley face. In this business you don't get smiley faces at the end of emails. You get kisses sometimes, if you're sickly sweet on the phone, but smiley faces are like a whole other territory. They're from people who are happy.

This made me feel content; like I should remember in future shit times that there are people who are jolly and not afraid to show it. For this very reason I replied chirpily, saying that come next week when it's busy he won't be saying that. Then I found myself replying every time he replied [with his signature smiley face. How could I not reply to that?!] This only went on for roughly 5 emails.

Yet despite this, I found myself grinning like a fool every time I replied, wondering what the hell I was doing.

I have no idea who this guy is. Well I know his name but that's only because it says it at the bottom of each email alongside his phone number and his company position. I don't know how old he is, what he looks like, if he likes Crocs, if he's a transvestite; I haven't got a clue.

I indulged my imagination using his writing style and the layout of his credentials at the bottom of each email as inspiration. His name was in block capitals, a deep charcoal colour. It looked very authoritative and reminded me of the male protagonists in the chick lit I read, made up entirely of emails [New York, girl in office, guy in separate office, love at first accidental bumping into]. It was only after about 45 seconds of staring at the screen that I realised I was enjoying Arial Bold Size 14 a bit too much.

This didn't stop me from letting my thoughts run wild. Imagine if he's the man I marry, "we first met via email when I informed him that I would be returning his yellow cashmere jumper. His company's jumper I mean. Not his. Thank god." Imagine if we bump into each other on the street and just know who each other is. Imagine if we have some sort of other deep tie or connection, like we go to the same...Starbucks. Or something significant like that. It would be fate.

I eventually snapped out of my literary City girl trance, and got back to life. It struck me that during those meagre minutes of worthless chitchat, I felt like I was somebody else. Somebody cool and spontaneous. Let's be honest, I'm never going to be cool, but spontaneous I can work on. During the week with my Filofax and 6 month planner. Naturally.

The interactions we have every day with different people all affect our lives in some capacity. In this instance, an amusingly childish smiley face emoticon brought two complete strangers together. And then apart again, when they realised they should really get on with their lives and stop being creepy. But they were together for at least 3 minutes, and that's the important part.

Here We Snow Again... [weheyy!]

2010-02-08T21:25:00.003Z

There is something very odd about the weather at the moment. For the past week it's been quite enjoyable, sunny and a bit warmer. Cracked out the leather jacket instead of the full on winter coat. It wasn't as gloomy and dark walking home at 4pm. A few other simple pleasantries like that.

This morning at 8:32am I opened the front door to find thin snow falling in front of my very eyes. I could have sworn that this was the exact situation of our lives like last month? The blizzards and the snow hell of last month were followed by this unexpected pleasant weather. Things were on the up. And now, as if the last few days did not exist, it's pitch black again at ridiculous-o-clock in the afternoon.

When I left work this evening the snow was incessant. Falling with real intent, it was not going to stop anytime soon. Lots of people had umbrellas and their hoods up. I would've put my umbrella up if my hair/face was worth sheltering. Alas neither of these were worth saving, so I let it fall all over me. Knock yourself out snow, is what I said in my head. As I walked, there was a romantic vibe in the air. That might very well have been because almost every person I walked past had a smitten looking person attached to their arm and the shop windows were full of February 14^th goodies. But I think it was more likely to have been the film fairytale of soft snow falling on the busy bustling city streets of London. Or something like that.

It was all very heart warming until the snow started to get vicious. First it was a flake straight up my nostril. I admit, I may have been sniffing extremely hard at this point, due to an impending cold but there's still no need for the snow to fly on up there uninvited.
Then it started to get a bit dramatic. A big clump of sleet/snow ['sneet' perhaps?] landed splat on my left eye and attached itself to my eyelashes. This baffles me for an array of reasons. My eyelashes are not long. They do not do me any favours as a female. They don't even curl upwards like most girls; no no, instead they bend downwards. No curl, no flutter, no femininity [no hope]. How is it possible that this snowball locked itself on my barely-there eyelashes?

I blinked rapidly in a panic to remove this sleet ball from my lashes, but it was holding tight, resilient and all. I was getting a bit flustered, my vision was slightly blurred and people were looking at me jerking my face around unnaturally trying to get this thing off of my eye, as I didn't want to take my ice hands out of my pockets.

With the use of extreme face pulling I managed to get the massive flake off of my fork eyelashes. I needn't have bothered as really the rest of the walk home involved snow items falling in and on impractical places [how would a flake find itself in the nook of my ear when my hair is down?! Get out!] As soon as I got home, I looked in the mirror [dangerous] to see the snow damage. Of course as soon as I enter the house and am out of public viewing the snow attachments all miraculously disappear. They only blind me for roughly a million years and make me look like I have severe dandruff issues when other people are around. How I missed you snow.

Dating School

2010-02-03T20:38:00.003Z

It's assumed that the dating game changes as you get older; asking people out gets more sophisticated, everything gets less awkward and it ends in happy marriage.
This is not the case.

Today I was sat in Pret, one of the window seats, reading my book and munching away, when a middle aged man walked towards the door to exit. I looked up, just because we all look up when someone walks past us, to see if they're hot/ugly/Britain's smallest man etc, don't we? He looked at me and we politely smiled at each other. Then he moved away from the door and leaned over to me. He then pointed at the shop opposite Pret.
"I'm sure you know this already but the guy in that shop thinks you're beautiful,"

At first I thought, "how does he know?! Has he been watching the guy watching me?!" but I then realised that actually he works with him. I looked at the guy he was talking about. He had a beard. I didn't really see if he was good looking or not as the facial attire was enough to put a stop to all intrigue. I am an avid anti-supporter of beards.

I didn't really have a response for his bold statement, which is a shame as he then asked a question that forced some sort of answer: "do you think he's beautiful too?"
Mitigated sly speak for 'do you want to go out with him?' I hadn't realised that we were 14 years old in the bike shed again.

I mentally reeled through a few potential answers but eventually settled on, "I don't live in London so..." It did not answer the question at all. It was just like I'd started a completely different conversation. He didn't seem to mind though as we then chatted about the countryside. Nice little chat it was too.

So that was that, he toddled off, happy as Larry. I saw him telling the guy in the shop window what had just occurred. Very stealthy move, must've copied it from a year 9 schoolgirl. I got back to my sweet potato crisps and book, when about 10 minutes later I saw the guy in question, Beardy if you will, leave the shop. He was heading towards Pret. Shit. Suddenly the alarm bells were ringing. Alert alert incoming beard. I pushed my nose further into my book praying 'don't come over don't come over'.

Apparently God isn't my biggest fan. Over he came, right to my table [Beardy I mean, not God. Though that would be quite a lunchbreak] He even perched on the stool opposite. My only self-advice was 'don't be too nice' as I know what I'm like, I say something nice, he proposes a rendezvous, I panic and say yes.
He firstly apologised for his workmate's behaviour, which I thought was a clever and quite classy way to ween himself in there for more chitchat with me. I could tell he was panicking as he pointed to my book and said "you've nearly finished." I didn't know what to say to that. I just uttered some sort of linking word to hurry it along.
He was quite a good looking guy, very well dressed, but the beard was the be all and end all for me. He asked how long I would be in this area of London and I lied, and said just one more week. It just came out of my mouth, but I figured it was for the best. It won't be for the best when he sees me in Pret having lunch in 3 weeks time.

Then it got awkward, as I suspected it would. He shook my hand and said his name was Tom [Beardy was a close shout] Then he said I should pop into the shop some time. I stupidly exclaimed "yea I definitely will!" full of glee and false promises. I would like to go into the shop, they seem like nice guys, but I'm afraid that if I do they'll see this as a signal. He eventually left, doing a quick walk back to his shop.

People might be getting older, but they are definitely not getting wiser. Some things never change.

Tube Fears

2010-01-31T20:33:00.004Z

There are many fears associated with the London tube. First and foremost, death. Whether it's by dehydration or being blown onto the tracks; people fear for their lives. Next, is the worry of being so painfully squished that breathing difficulties occur. There's no point worrying about that as it's a given. There's also this worry about making it onto the train once the doors are open.
As most people have experienced on the platform at rush hour, trying to push yourself forward eagerly onto the train is always hard work. You have no room, you know you should've just waited for the next one which is due in 2 minutes, but stupidly you decide to make everyone else's journey uncomfortable as well as your own. But you have successfully alighted and that's the main thing.

Last Friday I had no such luck. Oh don't get me wrong, I got on the train, I alighted it right up, pushing and praying. That was all just seconds before both my bag and I got violently attacked.

I hate it when people rush to get onto the train as the beeper is going off. They swing their handbag in between the doors as they're shutting, as if that's going to stop the doors from closing and open them back up. It's not. The doors don't have bag sensors. That's like swaying a sandwich between the doors and believing it will make a difference. The only difference is that there'll be light mayo on the tracks. The doors don't care if you're thrusting your Marc Jacobs into the line of fire. They are closing. It's only a bit of [over-priced] bag handle wedged in the door; the train has no time for stunts like that. Off it goes, taking precious Marc and all its belongings with it. Bye bye BlackBerry. Bon voyage tampons. See ya later antibacterial hand spray. In luck encounters, some courageous gentleman will try to prize the doors open from inside to release the bag. This is purely so that he looks like a god. Like the train, he does not care for your Marc Jacobs.

On the tube last Friday I was not one of those people. People might think I was, but I really wasn't. So there was a queue to get on the tube on my way to work, as usual. Rush for the clearest door and then push push push. It looks full but there's room for a little one. I don't know why I think that this means I'll be alright. But in some rushed delusion, I try to hop on anyway. Okay I'm on, but my bag gets trapped in the doors behind me. It's alright people; the doors are re-opening to release the bag. Let's not panic. It's not a fancy Marc Jacobs but I still value it highly so thank god it has been saved. Excellent. It's not so excellent when the doors then close on my head.

You know when you see people run and jump magnificently on the tube, make it in the nick of time, impressing tube-goers and then the doors close either side of their heads and you wince, imagining the pain? Well take out the heroic magnificent part of that story, and that was me.

I didn't even feel the pain because 1) I have a high pain threshold and 2) I was too in shock and panic to really feel anything. People glared at me. Nobody had sympathy. They were all thinking 'hurry the f***up, we're late for work as it is and now you're holding us up by placing firstly your bag, and then your head between the doors".

That's what I get for alighting when there was only room for a little one. 5'10 doesn't really come under that category.

Snacking

2010-01-25T20:46:00.001Z

I've always had a penchant for snacking. A cheeky Wotsit here, an innocent Digestive there. Oop, no harm done in having one or two, just to fill that pre-food void. I've heard that there might be actual harm done if you snack excessively though. This does not bode well for me.

Yesterday, I bought a bag of Chilli Heatwave Dorito's. There's no point beating around the bush, we all know how big those bags are. They're made for sharing. The opening is large so you can fit more than one hungry hand in there. God, even the Dorito's themselves are large so that you can share them and yet still feel fulfilled. I opened them when I got back to the house. An hour or so later, they were gone. There were crumbs in the bottom; I didn't want to completely finish the packet as that would then confirm the terrible thing that had just occurred.

I thought to myself, it's not the end of the world; it's fine, it's not like I do this all the time, I just felt like snacking. It turns out I just felt like snacking again today too. Tesco bourbons. Each biscuit contains 3g of fat. That's fine, it's minimal. But multiply that by however many are in the packet and you get a ridiculous death date/handful of crumbs after 47 minutes of power eating.

It seems I just have to finish things once I've started. In life, that tends to be a better quality rather than not [e.g. sex, work, making lists, shopping, laughing etc]. With regards to snacking though, it's becoming quite tragic. I hid my bourbons under a cushion, as if to give myself the illusion they had disappeared. No packet for my hand to delve into. Of course my hand knew full well what was going on. There's no point playing games when you know the truth deep down. We all know roughly 29 seconds later I retrieved the hidden biscuits from cushion safety and put them in their rightful place; my mouth.

I am not one of those people who can open a sizable bar of chocolate, eat one or two chunks, then neatly wrap it up and leave it on the table for another day. Why would you do that? First of all, it is within sight so it must be consumed. That is an official law. Secondly, you've started it, why would you not carry on? What reason [other than perhaps extreme sickness] is good enough to warrant you ceasing to consume pure edible goodness?

I do not understand rationing. I would have been shit in the war times. Though I'm pretty sure they didn't have Mini Eggs or Quavers in the 1940's.

Concert Cons

2010-01-19T15:09:00.002Z

Everyone loves a good concert. The rush of seeing your musical beloved on stage, singing to, what you believe, is just you, only you, and absolutely nobody else. The music is pulsating through the floor, you're sweating and belting out the tunes; there is guaranteed fun to be had at a gig.

Nobody ever really thinks about the cons of concerts though. I went to see John Mayer in Hammersmith last night, and came to realise there are certain things that are fundamental to your gig experience:

1) Someone will jump the queue and push in front of you to stand with their 'mate' [aka someone they met briefly 3 years ago "Dave, isn't it?" "Sebastian actually" "Oh yea I remember"]. People in the queue will tut and look at each other disapprovingly; not even attempting to conceal their gossiping. This is in the hope that the pusher-inners will see that they've annoyed the crowd. You secretly hope that you've made your point but they won't really notice you. You're all for dishing the dirty looks, but to get called up on it would be horrifying.

2) You decide who you dislike most in the queue [annoying teen girls behind you or big burly man who won't move to either the left or right, but instead takes up every 'lane' of the queue] and you then make it your mission to stop them from getting in before you. Last night, both my sister and I blocked lane ways for the squeaky girl behind us who had not only pushed in, but kept saying to her friends "focus guys FOCUS". Focus on what love? The queue not moving at all? Pipe down.

3) Once you're in, there's this huge surge to get as near to the front as possible, until people slowly realise that the floor is sloped and actually they might get a better view if they move back. Unless you're literally front row, you may as well move back to get a better view.

4) You'll be happy with your standing arrangement and the heights of those around you, and all through the support act you'll be feeling positive about your view. Of course it is precisely when the main act comes on stage, that there is a person-shuffle and you end up getting frustrated that someone is blocking your view. I wasn't aware that Britain's Tallest Man was a fan of John Mayer. Sadly so.

5) During the gig people will push past you to leave. This could be due to a toilet stop, or feeling feint, but everyone looks in disgust, tuts, shakes their heads and pretends to move but doesn't actually move. It's that tiny sway backwards, which we all over-exaggerate as if we're doing them a massive favour, but really we haven't moved an inch.

6) You will make banter with someone near to you – for us it was a man with his girlfriend, who made pointless observations with a Dandy Dan grin and thought he was the dogs balls. I laughed out of politeness. You will also be freaked out by someone nearby – last night that someone was a middle aged man in business attire who was looking at maps on his i-phone during the support act and swayed left to right gleefully like a very scary elated child throughout the main act.

But after all of the frustrations that people are in your way, blocking your view and sweating all over you; you get over it. The main act comes on stage and you forget that your knees won't bend and the arches in your feet have definitely eroded away. Everyone's so truly happy that it's impossible to feel any kind of anger towards anyone in those two hours of pure musical bliss. You feel like a unit, you clap together, you cheer together, you spur each other on to 'woop!' bravely. All of the irritations from before don't mean anything.

That's until it's all over and you're queuing to leave. And when that happens, the initial queuing frustrations return. Don't mind me mate, I'm only getting stabbed in the side by the ridiculous bling buckles on that River Island bag you've got there. Carry on.

Bath Time

2010-01-15T21:54:00.001Z

In my mid-teens I used to love baths. I had a bit of a weird bath penchant. I think it was because in those horrendously awkward years of my life I liked doing 3 main things: thinking, brooding and contemplating. I liked to think that life was so dramatic and that I needed to take an hour out of my day to decide if it was a wise choice to send a romantic note in the form of a paper aeroplane across Room S12 [note, it was not. Classmate humiliation: check]. I would think about petty feuds that had occurred between rival gangs in the playground and wonder why the new rough boy smelt so good [Joop for Men, horribly irresistible, especially at age 14]. In my head, all of these serious and 'mature' ponderings made me feel like an adult, like I had important things to think about and give my time to.

Fast forward to now, and baths have become the enemy. I don't want to think. I infuriate myself enough thinking every second of the day; I desperately need to get away from having to do it. Classically female, I analyse and then over-analyse everything. Every detail, everything. What's more hilarious [it's really not that funny] is that I am completely aware that all of the nitpicks and little bits don't mean anything, and that on the whole there is a very simple, solid conclusion. Try telling my brain that though. I reckon if you put my brain through one of those airport security scanners you would see the 'cogs turning' [as said by the generic Grandma] and all of the junk that occupies my mind on a daily basis would be revealed, to my horror.
Is it really necessary to examine what the Burger King cashier meant when he said "you want chips with that yeah?". He was just doing his job, not insinuating smugly that I was already weighty.

My friend really loves baths. She goes all out, candles, magazine, bubbles; the lot. When she describes how nice it is, I am always drawn in. Fickle and impressionable, I run myself a bath, hoping to receive the same kind of pleasantries. Is it wonderfully relaxing? No. Am I bored out of my head roughly 4 minutes after stepping in? Yes. After admiring the bathroom [in want of something useful to do] I immediately regret falling into the trap again. I never seem to learn.

People say it's because I'm not running a 'good bath' [as opposed to just water and bubbles which, as far as I'm aware, are the vital and actually only components to any bath?!]. They criticize the water temperature, the bubble amount. They do have a point. Not with the bubbles, you can never have too many bubbles. I often run the water extremely hot. I get an odd pleasure from it being a bit too hot. Sadly this is short lived and usually results in me sweating like a pig and feeling slightly uncomfortable. I always push it too far.

So add the unnerving sweat with the incessant uninvited thinking and you arrive at complete discomfort on all levels. This all results in a very simple, solid conclusion. I should stop having baths. But maybe I'll give it some more thought.

Stupidity In The Snow

2010-01-12T14:53:00.002Z

In this unpredictable weather, people are taking every precaution to be safe. Ugly footwear with grip not dissimilar to that of a Michelin tyre, tiptoeing around as if that will ensure they won't slip etc. These measures are not unreasonable; nobody wants to be the classic idiot who falls magnificently in front of passers-by. Well, this is what you'd think anyway.

Two days ago I was tiptoeing cautiously in the sleet, aware that my boots had about as much grip as Vaseline, when I noted a girl across the road, walking terribly in stiletto boots. They weren't just your usual stiletto boots; the heel was huge, actually massive. Thin, unsturdy and causing her to move like a robot, unintentionally, they were definitely not practical. She had a few slips and clearly looked very uncomfortable. This all pushes the question – why wear possibly THE most impractical footwear that could, if you really went for it, paralyse you for life? I get that people want to look good in these winters months – everyone's faces look as pale as Edward Cullen's, people's hair is dry and straw-like, clothes are thick and unflattering so you go to every other measure you can to look remotely good. I wonder how good she'd look lying on the icy ground with a twisted ankle though. Probably not her best.

That was ridiculous snow case number one. Number two is just as idiotic.

Today I was walking towards a guy reading a book as he walked. This might be easy and enjoyable during the summer when you have nothing else to worry about [though isn't it arrogant to think that you can just walk nonchalantly and expect others to move for you?] but with this deathly sleet and ice, I spend most of the time watching my every step to ensure I've evaded the dreaded 'BLACK ICE' [said in powerful voice-over tone]

So there he was, dawdling along with this book, completely oblivious to his surroundings when oop he took a stumble. Then he slipped again. He managed to regain his balance in the nick of time, but the expression on his face was ridiculous. He seemed to be completely surprised that he had slipped. He almost looked angry. How dare nature do what it does best whilst he is reading Waterstone's bestseller?

Though saying that, in all the right attire, not reading a novel, I fell heroically on my derriere the other day.

Snow Work For Me Today

2010-01-07T13:35:00.003Z

The snow is all the rage these days. The whole world seems to have been thrown into chaos by the innocent icy flakes. People are sacking off work, stranded in train stations, unable to drive faster than 25mph on the motorway and the dreaded Ugg boots are in full usage [guilty as charged, but purely because they are the only appropriate snow footwear I own].

Many who take these 'I'm snowed in, it's terrible' days off are later recognized in pictures on Facebook, frolicking outdoors in the paper thin ice, bundled up in layers and having a great time on their snow-free roads. Not really trapped then.

The snow day routine goes something like this: wake up, pull back curtains, be momentarily blinded by snow-sun reflection, ponder leaving the house, decide that it is far too dangerous[/go outside, jump around for a minute, return indoors], phone work and successfully lie, bum around all day assuring yourself that you simply cannot leave the house in these conditions, eat biscuits, restlessly flick through old magazines, go on Twitter and wait for people to Tweet, go to bed knackered from your day of nothing.

MSN homepage has a little slideshow with the description: "pictures as snow misery continues". Snow misery. As if. People are lapping it up. Who are they trying to convince? It's as if everyone is in on the joke, putting on this long-running facade to bosses and employers that the snow is such a hindrance in their life. It's bloody not though; it's a great time, goodbye restrictive shirt/tie combination, hello jogging bottoms and ski jacket [that hasn't been worn since 2001 when you went on that skiing break in France. That was a big mistake too, even the fail-safe snow plough manoeuvre couldn't save you]

I understand that in places like Scotland the snow is actually a problem: knee-deep and stubborn, but people in other areas such as the South are just taking the Michael now, taking these casual 'snow days' off of work because they might slip on the way. At least we can actually slip, the Scots most probably sink as soon as one foot goes into the snow, it's a no-hoper.

I get how exciting it is, having snow on our pavements instead of last night's kebab [that's still there, it's just been powdered lightly with snow] but the novelty will wear off. People will get bored of the tiny snowball fights and the lazy days at home. Bosses will get bored of accepting the snow lies.

It's understandable for those who travel by trains too, as it's not their fault that the trains have decided to just stop. But drivers and walkers, get a grip [literally] and get on with your lives.

This is why you didn't go to work today? To create this pointless [yet slightly amusing] photograph? Fair enough.

Is Times New Roman Really The People’s Choice?!

2010-01-05T15:22:00.001Z

We are not all worriers, but the majority of us have the worrying gene within us. Most people worry about normal things like finances, the leak in the roof, or bumping into an ex. I worry about fonts. Unfortunately, this is not some bizarre[and actually very unfunny] joke.
Whilst you are rolling around in bed restless, sighing and huffing about which winter coat to purchase, I am lying still, worrying that things I have published are not in the correct font.

I found this nifty application on Microsoft Word, whereby instead of having to log onto the blog site and type it all in that unsavoury textbox, I kick back, type it into Word and have my pick of luxury; from fonts to colours, I've got no limitations. You'd think that that has made my life easier. This is not the case. Instead of being able to keep my usual blog font, it doesn't actually exist on Word; which is slightly irritating considering there are at least one million fancy ones.

I'm fussy about my fonts, but my main concern is that they are approachable, friendly and readable. Nobody wants to click on an online article to find that the font is tiny and there's loads to read; hello BACK button.

So here I go, on the quest for the perfect font. I looked at professional blogs of international publications. They all went for the classic, qualm-free Arial. Basic is a nicer word for boring. I need some curves, some movement to my font. Bold or not? I don't want to thrust it in the face of the readers. I'm a small font kind of girl, but what if readers want large print? One of my actual fears is a big font. Unless you have vision impediments, you definitely do not need size 16 font in bold. It's just unnecessary.

Will males prefer basic block fonts to fancy ones? Am I alienating the male readers by choosing Monotype Corsiva?

I am still yet to find the perfect choice. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. In the meantime, I will be worrying myself sick every night that I've got it all wrong. So suggestions sooner the better then.

Forever Young

2010-01-02T16:10:00.001Z

A week ago I had lunch with two friends from school. Once we had covered the niceties and happy aspects of our lives [e.g. men/boyfriends, Christmas food, cute babies/cats in the family etc] there was a sudden lull of discontentment.
What started as a spritely conversation about the things we have to entail on our uni courses, turned into something slightly more disheartening. There were laughs and jokes about the work load to begin with, "I don't even have time for a boyfriend!" ha-ha isn't that funny etc. This soon turned into "I don't have time for anything. I am always doing work,". This panic then lead to general panics about living arrangements, workloads, placements, life. A murmur of depression circled in the air.

We discussed how hard it is to actually focus and do work. We ridiculed the 4 month summer holiday, as it always ensured that we would head back to uni, uneducated, lazy and not having written an essay for far too long. As soon as we go back to uni after a holiday, facing work to be done, we flounder like fish on dry land. We write 57 words in the space of 1 hour and 13 minutes but just can't seem to do any more. It is at this moment we decide that it seems like a completely appropriate time to Google the world's oldest dog. Just because we've always wondered. And why not now? Our essay is only due in 7 hours [including sleep time]. It's fine. This will only take a minute. Before long, we have Googled ourselves silly, avoiding the Word document that is sitting there adamantly in the tool bar.

From the melancholy topics we were covering, anyone would've thought that we were old/diseased/plagued with problems. We knew it was bad when the line "When did it get so hard?" was said. The ultimate middle aged mum's favourite line when in conversation with any other middle aged person. This only made our states worse; 20 year old girls, in our 'prime', talking like we're 40 something single mums with appalling jobs and just no time to hoover the lounge.

I hate when your mum and her middle aged chums say to you, "enjoy right now as these are the best years of your life. After that, it's all downhill", followed by a flowery chuckle and a few friendly arm pats 'Oh Una you're not wrong!'. They are not painting the future as a pretty picture. They are not inspiring us to carry on with our lives into adulthood. They are deterring us from wanting to live past 25.

So I've got 5 years left of potentially of the only fun I'll ever have. Can't wait for the 60 years that follow then. They're going to be a hoot. At least I won't have uni work. The downside though is that despite having nothing to escape from, at 85 years old I imagine I'll still be Googling things like 'the longest living ant'.

Rip rip rip.

2009-12-31T10:19:00.001Z

You know when you try something on in the changing room’s that feels a bit tight and it’s only gone over your head, so you pull it off immediately and cast it aside, knowing full well that it’s a ridiculous idea to try and force it?

Well despite knowing it is a ridiculous idea, apparently that doesn’t stop me. How I wish it had, three rips and a security de-tag later.

There I was, Topshop sale [again] rooting through the goods when I came across a lovely Christopher Kane dress. It was a size 8; disappointing but perhaps do-able? It was at this moment that I reminded myself; sizes vary a lot in different shops and especially with different designers, this could very well fit me. With room to spare. Then I erased the last bit of the statement as that’s just wishful thinking. I scoured the next rail, just in case a size 10 happened to be lurking around in there. I saw the dress, waiting patiently at the end of the rail. In excitement, I grabbed the tag to find the size. Please be size 10/12 please please please. Ooookay that’d be a size 4. Excellent. Walking away swiftly.

I took my size 8 to the changing rooms anyway, just to give it a go – there was a stretchy bit under the boobs so maybe that would be enough to get me in there snugly? I had tried on a pair of shorts previous to trying anything else on, and decided to just keep them on as I couldn’t be bothered to remove them just to try a dress on. I pulled the dress off of the hanger, and as soon as it had gone over my head and slightly over my broad shoulders I knew that it was a bad idea. I knew that I had to remove it at once because there was just no way it was going to fit. Something irrational was stirring within me though, and before I knew it, I had pulled the poor dress down over me, making it contour to my body harshly. Needless to say, it didn’t look the best.
Now, it’s all very well harassing a dress onto your body, but weening it off is a different issue. My first approach was over the head. It arrived that way [reluctantly] so that was how it was going to depart. It really didn’t like that. So much so that it flat out refused to leave. There I was, jammed in this ridiculous dress [the dress wasn’t ridiculous, I was just infuriated] my elbows and shoulders stuck. The straight-jacket-pain I was in was the decider in pulling the dress back down and finding another approach.

Okay, maybe over the hips. Going well until it actually reached my hips. There was no other option, I gently [but firmly] eased the dress over the hip bones. I could hear the stitches slowly coming undone. Rip rip rip. You wouldn’t think that wearing a thin pair of shorts could ever affect the removal of a dress, but apparently you’re like a whole other size. I was nearing the end and so, admittedly quite carelessly, pulled the dress off to escape. I did not realise that the security tag of the shorts had tangled itself up in the dress. The result of this was, the pin of the tag shredded a lovely rip line down the bum of the shorts, and then the tag completely fell off onto the floor, making me look like a common thief in Topshop changing rooms. That’s just great. Robbing a size I couldn’t even fit into.

The good part of this story? I couldn’t decide whether or not to buy the shorts; but with a magnificent rip in them, my decision had definitely been made for me.

You're Mental. As Am I.

2009-12-29T17:40:00.001Z

A few days ago, best friend Anon and I were on the phone, discussing New Year’s resolutions. We figured that a good resolution is made up of things you want to change about yourself. Instead of just stopping at the typical ‘lose weight’ and ‘be nice’ options, we delved in further. Big mistake.

Before we knew it, we were analysing our mental issues, confessing our strangest mind games and wondering who has it worst. It was a tie [or so I liked to tell myself]. We got to thinking that everyone must have mental disorders, even in the mildest forms.
It started off lightly, wondering who was more vain [definitely him]. Naturally, there was an argument. I made the excellent point that I’m not the one who walks past the mirror in our hallway and checks himself out/ruffles his hair before heading upstairs to go to bed. Completely pointless really, but he maintains this routine impressively.

Then we got down to the real deal. My neurosis? OCD. Not the repetitive hand washing kind though, the weird pattern following kind. Is it odd that I only allow myself to think of certain things when I’m in the shower, and at no other time? If the thought enters my mind at an uninvited time, I will panic and quickly eschew it, pretending it had never happened. What if I missed a certain part of the thought? Back to the start again.

So there I was, phone in front of me [hands free does exactly what it says on the tin, why cramp your hand muscles when you can be doing something else? Like, resting them...] trying to explain the bizarre cravings and urges that go down in my head. It was during this time, the attempted explanation, that I realised how really weird it was. Even writing it now makes me feel uneasy with myself.

I wasn’t left to feel mental alone though, Anon also provided some mental issues so that we were even. His underlying problem was worrying about what people think of him, after they’ve had a conversation; like a paranoia that he’s done something wrong, even though friends have made a joke from it.

Whilst I was glad he had a mental stitch up too, I wanted his to be worse than mine. It wasn’t, and we both knew that. His issue was more understandable than mine. His had meaning, you knew where it stemmed from, why it occurred. Mine was just plain insane.

Boxing Day.

2009-12-26T22:26:00.007Z

Boxing Day. The day that follows Christmas. The decrease in contentment and forthcoming feelings of deflation begin. Whilst aiming to ignore the signs of a looming January depression, the day usually goes one of two ways...
One: staying in all day [possibly in PJ's dependant on their practicality, nobody wants to eat another roast dinner in restrictive waistbands] lounging around attempting to make use of your new presents but failing. Finding your attention span decreasing hurriedly, especially when trying to watch one of the many predictable and unheart-warming films available on Sky Movies.
Two: racing out idiotically for sale shopping.

I am one of the idiots who races out for sale shopping. This year was no exception.

This morning, bright and early, my sister and I dragged ourselves out of the warm duvet depths to prepare ourselves for the excessive spending that would be occuring in just a matter of hours. Eep. Others may shun gift vouchers disappointedly at Christmas ["it's a slacker's way out" etc] but they are my true loves. The small, modest envelope holds the key to those all important extra items. The ones you're allowed to have. You see, the rule is, with a gift voucher you're not really spending any money, therefore meaning you can spend actual money on more things. Hurrah for women's ridiculous rules that only benefit their appalling shopping habits.

I was expecting a crowd, at least a challenge to find a parking space, but nope. Scarce as can be. A few little vehicles shying in the corners of the carpark, but apart from that, free for us to roam. As predicted, we reached the shopping vicinity a little early; and so passed the time in a coffee shop, creating our shopping plan.
'The plan' consists of vital elements that must be taken into account when getting the most from your outing:
1) The order of the shops you intend to look in [based on predicted business/location]
2) How much you intend to spend [not that this ever influences any life-changing decisions about that velvet playsuit number calling out to you on the Topshop sale rail]
3) What types of garment you are looking for [it's all well and good going crazy on tops, but it's really pointless if you have no bottom half items to accompany them with. And no, just wearing tights doesn't count. No one wants to look like a horse/male ballerina]

Surprisingly the shops weren't too manic, which meant we got the best goods [well that's always what you tell yourself isn't it? Really, we all know full well they have more in stock out the back, but you need to get some satisfaction from waking up at 7am].

So we got home, happy with our purchases and the lack of effort that it caused us. Then, as predicted, we began to put Boxing Day option number one into motion. On with the PJ's, poor Christmas films and the unread books we got as gifts.

Christmas Truths

2009-12-25T15:38:00.007Z

It happened. I honestly never thought it would, but as the years creep by, apparently so does the fun, and so it happened. Christmas is now just Christmas. It’s not going to bed at 9pm because you're genuinely quite anxious about Santa giving out all the gifts in such a short period of time. It's not about waking up at 6am and having a cheeky feel of all the presents. It’s not that giddy feeling inside anymore.

I’m not saying that Christmas has lost its place. But past a certain age, the fun slowly disintegrates, until soon, I imagine, there’s just no joy left.
Wow.

Two years ago, that's when it started. That’s when it really started to hit me. It’s still a nice day. But it never used to be nice. It used to be exciting and fast paced and the best day EVER. You come to realise all the lying and false smiles your parents had to present in the past. The absolute ridiculousness of pretending not to know that their child is about to open a Barbie kitchen "what's that? Wow!". Cue surprised face. My mum doesn't lie anymore, I am the youngest of 3, and once I was past the age of gullibility [well...] she kicked back; relaxing , maxxin, not too taxxin. She's stuck it out for over 19 years, she is free to give up the facade.

We have gone from a family of 6, squishing ourselves around the dinner table [me sat on the fold up chair, naturally] to a neatly placed family of 4 [due to Nan's death, bless her, and Dad's slight infidelity, not so cute].
So I didn't wake up this morning with the highest of hopes; I didn't expect gifts galore or smooth running interactions. Whilst in bed, contemplating the day ahead, I compiled a mental list of guaranteed events that occur on Christmas Day:

1) There will be loitering around the presents in the morning, telling yourself that you can wait, you're not a kid anymore, for gods sake. But really, after a few minutes of 'admiring the tree' and making dull observations ["ooh it's so icy outside"], you just go for it, scrabbling through the gifts, with a littttle bit of saliva making a getaway. Oop.

2) Once all presents are open and have been inspected, you sit contently but awkwardly on the living room floor, not really knowing what to do next. Do do do. Tumbleweed.

3) There will be some sort of family disagreement e.g. "that's my yoyo, you already had your cracker gifts" or "she's got more stuffing"

4) There will also be some family corkers around the dinner table; some definite laughs provoked by the appallingly irresistible jokes in the cracker ["what games do ghosts like to play?" "Hide and shriek" etc...]

5) You will participate in a pleasant afternoon nap on the sofa [usually after attempting to read one of the new books you received]

6) White Christmas/Miracle On 34th Street will be viewed via television. At least once.

So I'm definitely not saying that Christmas is bad now that we're older. But a wee alcoholic beverage doesn't go amiss. Is 9am too early?

More Tales From London

2009-12-16T16:37:00.003Z

A lot of my tales come from London these days, as alongside working there sometimes, I've started to take little day trips there, for fun. On Monday I went with friend Anon, as I needed to try on a watch in Urban Outfitters. We ended up having a whale of a day, doing typically tourist things and making the rounds on the tube.

I had read about this Christmas market in Hyde Park, so we went along to see what the fuss was about. As soon as I saw the sky-high arch that read "Winter Wonderland" I thoroughly understood what the fuss was about. Although there were easier alternative ways to enter the 'wonderland', I just had to go through the arch. I think it's because a little part of me wanted to believe that as soon as I'd stepped through it, I would be in another land aka Narnia etc.

We felt as though we were actually in Germany, rather than just a German-esq Christmas market. There were rides, wooden stalls, speciality foods, just everything. The one thing that I will never forget [apart from this giant plastic cupcake with a face...] was a talking moose head, attached to the top of one of the wooden stalls. Quotes such as "they know me as a womaniser" and "ladies you're looking gooooood" were particularly stand out. Some people hate novelty items like that, and usually I understand why, but this was actually entrancing. We were stood there amongst the crowd, just watching this moose head giving it some, in fascination.

Once we had moved past the hilarity of the moose [not completely, it still tickles me now], we were far from disappointed by the rest of the market. There were lights, sounds, smells; everything that a market should consist of, and more. Everything was fast and action packed. Even the merry-go-round. There were 5 year olds clutching the reigns in fear as the merry-go-round whooshed round and round at ridiculous speeds. Seriously, it was going at least a million miles per hour. Or something like that [about 17 mph.]

We went on other mini excursions in London that day, such as visiting museums, walking through the whole of Harrods, watching carol singers in Trafalger Square [accompanied by very festive global warming protestors. Very jolly] yet we could not get over the market. The smell of german sausage lingers in my memory now.

You've gotta love the bratwurst.

Man On Tube.

2009-12-02T17:35:00.004Z

In most towns it's fairly simple to navigate the dating system. You know or recognize most people, you've heard of them or your friend knows them and they are never really complete strangers that seem unattainable or unknowable.

Being in London over the past week has definitely reiterated that. This morning I was on the tube on the way to work, la la la, all packed in tightly as usual. There was a man stood near me with a cardboard box [and stuff in it, not just an empty cardboard box...] and he was looking at me but I figured he was suffering from Tube-Phobe [when you don't know where to look but there aren't any options as everywhere you do look you greet somebody's eyes staring back at you, panicking equally as much] Anyway, I got off at my stop, and apparently so did he. Whilst I was stomping away amidst the mad flow of people traffic, everyone in a rush and in a crazy fury, he stopped me. I took my earphones out and came to a slower pace [you can never fully stop in people traffic like that]. I expected him to ask me directions or something, as you do not stop work people in a rush to just chitchat and have some jokes on the platform. Instead, he said "could I possibly take you out for a drink sometime?"

I was so taken aback, I just said "I'm so sorry, I'm on my way to work so I've gotta go," - which was true, but did not answer his question. Really, I could've said "I don't live in London" [true] or even "no" [what I was thinking] but I was too alarmed and worried about getting crushed that there was no time to discuss.
What's a bit weirder was that he was definitely over the age of 35. And I am clearly definitely under the age of 25. So did he think that it would really be a suitable match?

I commend his bravery. Not many men are able to just go up to a girl about town and ask her out. I ackowledge a good valiant effort like that. He looked like a nice man. A bit dad-ish though. So a definite no-g0, but he seemed quite sweet.

It then dawned on me as I was strutting away, in big cities like London you must see so many people that you would want to ask out or that you instantly fancy - but it's more than likely you'll never see them again. Your only option is literally to hanker on over and go for it. Most people would probably revel in attention like that. I shy from it completely. It's always panicked and rushed and you say things you don't mean to say, and overall it's a completely awkward interaction between two strangers that does not have any kind of relevant ending.

Though I probably wouldn't be saying that if it was a hot guy in my age range. In fact I probably wouldn't be saying anything at all. Just out of pure shock/awe/nervousness.