Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open

Fat ankles, seat choices, and unseasonal accessories.

2009-11-11T01:47:00.005Z

My journey was split into two bits. First was the 12 hour mission from London to Singapore, then a little break in plush Singapore airport before another 7 hours onto Perth. And yowza, even in the relative comfort of Singapore Air economy, where screens in front of the seats provide hours of entertainment and you are fed, watered and smiled at every hour, on the hour, it was still exhausting. Sitting on your arse watching your (f)ankles grow is tiring business.

Granted, most of the exhaustion was emotional. Having said a teary goodbye to the Boyfriend at Heathrow departures, I wondered through reluctantly as reality hit me; I’m not going to see him on anything other than a Skype screen for five months. I was too busy wiping away tears to realise I’d be flying into 30 degree heat clutching the big, woolly white winter scarf I’d worn to the airport and had forgotten to leave in the car. Brilliant.

I’d already checked in online where I could choose my seat, but was upset to discover that technology hasn't evolved enough for you to choose your neighbouring passenger. Both can make or break a long haul flight. Deciding on a seat is always a bit of a conundrum. You don't want a talker, or a fatty, or heaven forbid, a child within kicking distance. Then there's seats. Choose aisle, and face the prospect being woken up (that’s assuming you get to sleep at all, of course) for trips to the toilet and general cabin walkabouts. The middle seat – well – no one likes the middle seat, unless you’re 8 stone and 5 ft 3, in which case you’re used to getting that particular short straw by now in cars or anywhere there’s a lack of space. Or there’s the window seat. Choose window, and you get the view, somewhere to rest your head and no one disturbing you. To sit here though, you have to either have a huge bladder or a penchant for disturbing two complete strangers from their slumber. I was window, and luckily had very polite neighbours.

And so it goes, after 12...20...God, I don’t know how many non-sleeping hours, I arrived in Western Australia. I just woke up and it still feels a bit odd, to be honest. Excitement hasn't hit yet, I just feel a bit strange. A bit dozy. A bit alone. A bit dazed. A bit sans Boyfriend. A bit "god, I'm really far away".

Oh, and a bit "You massive plum. Why the hell have you brought a massive winter scarf?"

Annnnd...she's off!

2009-11-08T22:25:00.003Z

Tomorrow morning I fly to Australia. It's gone quick eh?

I'm pretty knackered - the leaving party didn't end til 4:30am this morning, and after a day of mostly eating, packing and hugging, creativity in any sense of the word is evading me.

So yeah. Next time I blog it'll be summer.

And I will be turning an attractive shade of rouge.

See you on the other side...

We've all done it, apparently

2009-11-05T15:52:00.003Z

Wednesday Evening Mission: couple of drinks, cheapy meal and home at respectable time.

Money withdrawn from cashpoint = £30
Bottle of white wine in Charlotte Street pub = £12
Food for two in Wagamamas on South Bank, plus more wine = £24
More wine in the BFI bar, South Bank = £15
~~Getting home = £3.70~~

Falling into a deep, drunken sleep the minute you get onto the (last) train, waking up 45 minutes later at the end of the tube line, wondering where the hell you are for about 5 minutes before realising there are no more southbound trains, then having to get more money out and a metered cab back home again at 12:30am = £25

And to think, I bought these for someone else earlier in the year...

Clever, Jo. And not at all ironic given the 'napping on the tube' label / mockery on this blog.

Restless

2009-11-04T14:24:00.002Z

I'm all of a jitter. Proper restless.

It's not even that I'm jittery about going away, I'm just bored because for the first time ever I'm unemployed and not looking. I'm sitting at home, bumbling about, ploughing my way through boxes of chocolate and staring at a half packed backpack.

Look kids, I shit you not:

Shut up, my carpet's well nice.

Anyway, I ordered a load of stuff off Amazon on Monday - you know, travelly type stuff such as the ever attractive navy fold up kagool... hoping it would arrive by the end of the week. Note I just hoped this would happen, and didn't think to order anything by express delivery given that I leave on Monday morning. No, no. That would be far too intelligent. Happily, I've received precisely sweet F.A so far, so things are really looking positive on that front. A great time for me to put my trust in Royal Mail.

Oh, while we're on the subject, can we all put our hands together and spank the Post Office for royally cocking up my Post Office credit card application? In 25 years, I've never had anything go missing at the hands of Royal Mail. Yet the one time I give my Post Office credit card application documents (nothing too personal, just a bank statement, account numbers and payslip. You know, standard, identity theft-proof items) to a member of Monument Post Office staff to submit on my behalf, they miraculously disappear into thin air. What's that? March into the branch and kick off in front of everyone, you say? What a marvellous idea. Consider it done. No, really.

Now common sense denotes the use of some kind of internal post system or special / recorded delivery might be in place for dealing with such documents. Apparently not. After telling me this week that my application has expired, the nice Irish Post Office Credit Card Customer Service Representative then suggested that in future, it's safer to post these things myself.

That's right, in future, don't give your Post Office credit card application documents to a Post Office member of staff to send off. They will send it first class, not recorded, not internally, and it will get "lost in the post". Then they'll blame the strikes, despite the fact that they hadn't happened yet back then.

It will then be too late for you to reapply. And no other credit card will touch you because the application wasn't concluded. So everyone, come on. Everyone give the Post Office - and Royal Mail - a biiiig round of a applause.

Useless turnips.

My favourite bit of London isn't a place, it's 7am on a Sunday morning.

2009-11-03T19:13:00.000Z

After a night of tequila with salt and no lemon, jagerbombs and some really dirty electro, we took a break from the dancefloor and headed outside. We'd gone into the club 6 hours ago, and now the fog had cleared and the flashing light on top of Canary Wharf's Citibank was visible again. We sat down on the floor, resting against the fence that surrounds the smokers' area, and talked. Or, more accurately, shouted. If there's one thing that keeps me coming back to that club, keeps me making the hike over to North Greenwich, it's the underfloor bass that tingles your nose and vibrates your chest, leaving your ears with a buzzing, low tinitus hum for the rest of the day.

When we go back inside, the crowd has dwindled and we decide to make a move. This is my favourite part of London. The sun hasn't risen yet and you can almost forget it's 6:30am. Then you leave a club and head to the tube station and there on the path are two people paid to stand outside, supplying us with free tea and coffee. Clutching steaming polystyrene cups, we head to North Greenwich tube with the intention of getting to Waterloo bridge in time for sunrise.

We wait a while then catch a bus which is full of pirates, vampires, witches and knackered, blood splattered faces. It's just a normal day.

He soon falls asleep but I'm awake, preoccupied with the London skyline. Nudge. "We're going to miss it!", the sky is tinged with pink and I can see it between buildings from the top of the bus, but that's all we're getting. He goes back to sleep and I rest my head on his shoulder. Last night seems ages ago, when we walked hand in hand into a pub where my uni friends were meeting, and I made a speedy, unexpected introduction to the Ex.

The early morning giggles get me 20 minutes later. I'm overtired and buzzing and laughing uncontrollably at nothing at all. It's 8am. Daylight is in full swing and the tube we get is occupied by people heading to or from work. For a while, I am quite taken with the sheer amount of stops on the Bakerloo line. Look! 25 stops! 25! Why so many? We lie down across the seats and I'm half sleeping, half laughing. 25 stops. Well we're not bloody doing that.

Eventually, Saturday comes to an end. We arrive home at 9am, still yelling over the ringing in our ears.

I draw the curtains and it's dark again. Bedtime.

Relationship

2009-10-29T17:21:00.000Z

I could bang on and on and on and on about the injustice of it all. The law of sod and the frustration of meeting someone just before you're due to leave the country. Then the slow realisation that this is maybe more than a fling; when it dawns on you that the unexpected, the thing we should have put distance between us to prevent happening, has happened. The commitment-phobe and the independent traveller are a couple in a relationship - and they're two months in.

But we do enough of that moping every day at the moment. We'll be staring at each other across a table, or wrapped up in a duvet, when one of us will let out a groan and the other will go "What?" and the answer will be simply "Don't go". Or alternatively, "Come with me".

In answer to that, today he booked his tickets to join me on the second half of my trip. Even as I type, it feels ridiculous to plan so far ahead. Written down, it looks silly. April 2010. April. Next year. 5 months. But in our heads, we think it could work. We know the risks, we've talked, and we're mutually anxious about the same things - but banking on things still being the same.

It's a long shot, a 11682 mile shot in fact, but you gotta give it a try, yeah?

This girl likes a party. NAY! This girl loves a party, as long as it ain't my own.

2009-10-28T10:46:00.000Z

I think my deep rooted fear of hosting a shindig comes from my youth. Cast your mind back to when I was a wee nipper at the tender age of 13. All spotty with a Rachel-From-Friends haircut, a penchant for multicoloured nails and Rimmel powder foundation. Clad in platform heels and a mini snakeskin number from Miss Selfridge, I embarked on the teenage ritual of a Joint Thirteenth Birthday Party with my best forever friend (or "Bes Fo Fri", if we're going by my half of the necklace), Michelle.

A school hall was booked, invites sent out. Strict 'no booze' instructions were issued, Panda Pops and sweets were supplied. All was going swimmingly for Michelle, who was getting fingered by a Year 9 boy outside on the grass. But the DJ wasn't playing the right music, and my people were slow to arrive. When they did, they were clutching forbidden alcohol and friends I didn't recognise. Although looking back the photos reveal a busy hall, inside I was panicking. Nerves, E numbers and a severe dislike for the Men In Black theme tune kicked in, producing one of the thumping headaches that plagued me through my teenage years. I was home by 8:30pm with a migraine, throwing up into a bucket with a flannel on my head in a darkened room. Happy Birthday Jo.

Even now, I'll endeavor to have my birthdays somewhere low key like a pub, where there's no pressure for people to turn up, no room to fill. I don't like fuss. So it is with trepidation that I have "organised" a leaving do at my house, thus depending on the invitees to make the journey not somewhere easy and anonymous, like a central London pub, but to my house in NW London (a process made near impossible thanks to Transport for London's weekend engineering works). There'll be no bar, no DJ, no frills and no avoiding the hosting duties.

Happily, my mum is busy filling the guestlist with her own strange suggestions. She thinks my low key, relaxed leaving party with close friends should include 'David and Barbara from round the corner, because they've known you since you were tiny'. Yes mum, but I haven't seen them for like a year, what difference will another 8 months make? And what about 'Edith and Terry?' Why, mum? 'Well, they always ask how you are'.

Bloody hell. Will someone please tell my mother that I'm going travelling, not getting married?

Gainfully unemployed

2009-10-26T13:51:00.001Z

I finished work on Friday and have given myself two weeks to get stuff together, say goodbyes and sort myself out before I jet off into the Australian summer. It's strange to be unemployed but not actively looking - or even thinking about looking - for another job. In fact, I'm not going to be regularly earning for the next 9 months or so, a prospect which makes me slightly uneasy.

A good thing then that I was on the receiving end of a cheque that will definitely help things along. There's been a lot of family deaths over the last few years which I've written about and referred to a few times. They caused a lot of grief, heartache and anger, not least because sudden deaths are bad enough, but when the people dying are young and in their 40s, it's a whole other painful story.

Death has never been just about losing someone though, there's the whole other business of estates, possessions, houses; a person's actual wealth that has to eventually be passed on. A couple of years have passed and it's now time for me to receive my share. This weekend me and the New Boy went to Hull and as well as seeing my horse (and giving the New Boy an inpromtu first riding lesson), there was a trip to my uncles house where I picked up a cheque.

It's probably the largest amount of money I'll ever receive in one go and I'm going to use it wisely. My auntie was a keen traveller and I know she'd approve of my plans to see the world - or certain parts of it - that she never got to visit. My only guilt comes from not being able to send a postcard from everywhere I go, as I did the last time I was away.

But deep down I know she'd say, 'Go on kid, get out there, enjoy yourself' and with a little posthumous help, that's what I fully intend to do.

Note to the sick

2009-10-22T11:41:00.000+01:00

They’re all ill.

Everyone around me; coughing, spluttering and staggering about the place like victims of a stapler borne mucus plague. And the air is thick with germs. Germy little sneezes and sniffs have travelled around my office this week in a snotty Mexican wave. Lemsip, daily tips and health assessments are shared in a particularly unsavoury form of team bonding. It’s 9am folks! Time for the fire alarm, cereal, coffee and the same daily conversations which begin with a tilt of the head and a “How are you feeling today?”. Well snotbag, at the moment I'm fine. Yesterday I sneezed because I inadvertantly inhaled some pepper, but today's another day. Oh, and I'd be a hell of a lot better if you stayed at home and stopped coughing your concern onto my keyboard.

Do they take a day off work? Do they hell. No, they come into work because taking time off, even when championing germ warfare, is not the done thing. Oh sure, they’re busy, they’ve got stuff to do, stuff that can’t wait. But this is the 21st century. Phones can be diverted to mobiles and emails can be checked remotely. Teleconferences are all the rage. Video conferencing is the new vogue. Office workers of the world, observe my message: Sick days are there to be taken. Clue's in the name: they’re days for when you’re sick. You know when you wake up and feel so groggy with a cold that you can’t face getting out of bed? Yes? Well that’s the first signal that you should stay in bed. That means don’t leave the house, don't transfer your cold onto a tube carriage and don't share the wealth at work.

Just stay in bed. Please. My throat demands it.

Impending travels

2009-10-20T09:58:00.003+01:00

My leaving date is drawing near.

With just over three weeks to go until I leave London, I am of course going through all the motions in preparing for my trip. Namely: royally shitting my pants, working 9-5, spending copious amounts of money on going out in London, making no travel or bed arrangements and postponing the leaving date by two weeks. So as you can see, it’s all been really productive. Let’s recap, shall we? In just over three weeks, I leave the country for eight months, where I will commence the absolute spanking of 6 months of hard-earned savings in various countries around the world. Booked on a whim after months of boredom, rain and unemployment; the minute the plan was cemented into place I found myself faced with numerous employment opportunities, in an entirely worry free relationship, during an autumn warm enough to rival...well, the British summer.

Clearly my romance could not have come at a worse time. For one, he is not the unreliable bastard fuckwit that most girls would hope for in a situation such as this. He is attentive, spontaneous, fun, will trek to Greenwich with me and rave until 7am (v. important quality), and regularly gets told he's the spitting image of "that bloke out of the Twilight film. Whatsisface. You know. Pattenson." What a hardship. Sure, his daily texts have dwindled from double figures into one or two...but that’s probably because he’s been going to sleep and waking up with me nearly every day since last Saturday.

I’m under no illusion; I know that for a carefree, laid back 22 year old, I am the ideal solution. Have a great two months with a girl, then she’s off, leaving him to enjoy the single life again. We've talked about what's going on and how his plans to join me next year for a South Pacific / American adventure could be thwarted if we both met someone else in the meantime. I know a lot can change in five months. I mean, god, look how much has changed in two.

I now leave on the 9th November. The countdown is on.

Vamp gone wrong

2009-10-13T23:45:00.002+01:00

I got bitten.

I remember emitting a little ‘Ow!’, as you’re likely do when a set of teeth clamp onto your neck, but for one reason or another it slipped from my mind. It was later on, as I stood in front of the mirror tying my hair up, that the collar of my polo shirt shifted slightly and revealed the results. “Nooooo...You bloody...arrrghhh!”

What with the whole vampire obsession that’s going on at the moment, you’d be forgiven for thinking that neck decorations were somehow cool. They’re not. In fact, Edward Cullen’s got nothing on this beauty. As I stood cringing in the mirror, tapping out an enraged text message to the perpetrator with one hand and dabbing Touche Eclat over the dark purple bruise with the other, I couldn’t help but feel fifteen again. Or, the kind of fifteen I would have been, had I been remotely attractive to boys and growing up in a Sweet Valley High book.

A love bite? Seriously? Surely this shouldn’t happen. And surely I’d have packed at least one scarf, high necked top or collared shirt for my week flat ‘n’ cat sitting away from home. Actually, thank god I’m not at home. Even worse than seeing that your parents have already set an extra place for Sunday breakfast to accommodate their daughter’s Saturday night err, guest...would be seeing your mothers face when you nonchalantly walk to the living room on a Monday night with a mouth-shaped bruise adorning your neck. In that respect, I’ve had a lucky escape.

But then I remembered work. Oh, god, work. Having established that low neck lines were clearly my brainwave for this week, I yanked my hair down and pulled it forward around the offending area. Ok, so as long as there isn’t a gust of wind, and I don’t tuck my hair behind my ears, I’ll be fine. Don’t be fooled; it’s not the looks of disapproval I fear. More the relentless ribbing I’d get from colleagues and indiscreet directors, who already sing the wedding march when I talk about impending cinema dates.

Still, better to be safe. Continuing the vampire theme, I walked to work with the collar up on my suitably purple mac, and made an early morning call to another work colleague, my sister.

“Err, have you left yet? No? Good. Can you grab me my shirt off the bathroom radiator, and my green scarf off the back of my door. Yep. Great. Just shove them in internal mail.”

Never mind the perils of living at home, looking trashy and / or fifteen. As I sit in the office wearing my scarf, all I can think is...this would look so much worse if it was summer.

West meets Far East

2009-10-12T14:47:00.000+01:00

Most born and bred Londoners will have a strong allegiance to their side of town and promote it to anyone who’ll listen. The Thames usually acts as a dividing line; those north of the river (like me) can be found hanging around Hampstead Heath and extolling the virtues of Islington bars, while south Londoners will more often than not be raving on and on and on and on about how they got some wicked cheese down Borough Market the other day, init.

In my case, north west London is my stomping ground. Simply put, I know how to get from A to B without getting stranded and / or mugged in the process. Put me south, and it’s back to square one. Put me east, and I might as well be in another country. So when a friend asked me to cat 'n' flat sit for a week, I agreed. Finally, a chance to sample life in zone 2. Just one thing...it's in Hackney; which is about as east as this westie girl goes.

Given my unfamiliar surroundings, yesterday I decided to do a trial walk to my nearest station, dragging the New Boy along for luck. We’d had a good nose at google maps before leaving the flat, established that we needed to turn left, then left again....or something. Basically, he assumed I knew where I was going, and I assumed he knew where he was going. We went left and ended up doing a huge, unnecessary loop through various council estates before ending up at the station about 45 minutes later (n.b. I discovered this morning that if you turn right, it only takes 10 minutes). Having royally un-mastered that journey, we decided to hop on a bus to Oxford Street for some Sunday shopping. Simple enough, yes? Check the front of the bus, see the words Oxford Street, and get on.

After 10 minutes on the bus, I tentatively said “I think we’re going the wrong way”, to which he replied “No we’re not, what other way is there?”. Well, perhaps the way the buses on the other side of the road are going. “We need to be going west, yes? Like to central west. But isn't Clapton east?” It was a few stops later that we admitted defeat, got off the bus, crossed the road and started back the other way.

Navigation failures aside, there are other issues to contend with. Like what to make of an area when you walk past a primary school at 8am and hear one child say to another “Shut up man, or I’m going to murk you til you die”.

In this instance, I can only hope there are language issues at play; that an east London "murk" has a different meaning to its western counterpart. Well, I can hope.

One Year

2009-10-08T14:51:00.000+01:00

That morning, I was the girl on the train who started crying for absolutely no reason.

Remember it? I do, it was a year today. I remember that horrible, awful feeling in the pit of my stomach which told me my relationship was coming to an end. The culmination of months spent worrying, panicking, being snapped at, then hearing reassurance that slowly got less and less convincing. I remember the last ditch attempts to make myself indispensable. I remember buying him things, researching gifts he’d like. That morning, I'd looked at a nice chess set which was about £40 and nearly bought it so we could play together. I don’t even like chess. I remember realising with a pang that there were no more events that year for us to attend together, that if something was to end, now would be the time. As if something as simple as a weekend away or joint invitation would change the fact that you don’t want to be with someone any more.

I remember being angry because I’d been right all along. I’d been insecure for months, questioning his feelings for me, yet every time he told me ‘Why are you crying? Don’t be silly. I love you’. But I knew it all along. You can always tell can’t you? Deep down, you know when things aren’t the same, when things start getting unbalanced. Someone once told me ‘one person always loves the other more in a relationship’, and my firm denials at the time had since withered into something resembling agreement. It used to be equal, but now I loved him more.

Now, a year on, I know you should never have to ask someone ‘Why can’t you act like you love me?’, and you should end it right away if their only answer is a shrug. If it happened again tomorrow, I’d have ended it the minute he shrugged. Sod the two weeks thinking time, what was I on? Why on earth would I have wanted someone to act like they loved me? It just shows what I would have put up with a year ago.

My favourite article was right, you do have to wallow & crash. For me, the crash wasn’t immediate. The bit where you cry all the time and stop eating, that’s not the crash. You think it is - but really that’s just shock. If you’re at that stage right now, here’s the bad news: the worst is yet to come. The crash is the bit where you think you’re alright, so you start contacting them more. You start doing all sorts of silly things, writing emails, texting, meeting up. I started crashing about 5 months after the break up, and didn’t stop until August. If you’re really lucky, they play along too. Before you know it they’re recommending albums on the basis that you’d once have listened to it together, and you’re responding with a smiley face and a kiss. That’s when your head really gets messed up. If you’re exceedingly fortunate, you get to top it off with a one night stand. Don’t worry, we were far too sensible for that.

You start wondering how you’ll ever get over him, whether he’ll ever leave your mind completely, whether you’ll ever get back together. Then a friend – one of his best friends -will say something blunt, like ‘come on, babe. It’s been 10 months. You must have moved on? Like, not with someone else...just in yourself?’ And even though you haven’t, it’s a wakeup call. You were expecting them to entertain your heartbroken thoughts like everyone else does. Next thing you know your whole outlook has changed. You realise it’s been all these months yet you’re still blaming every bit of bad luck that comes your way, every bad mood, every unhappy turn, on the fact that you’re not with that person any more. You realise you’ve got to take responsibility for your own happiness, and stop attributing it to someone else. The minute you do that, you’re sorted mate. Sorted.

“Then suddenly something as incidental as the sunset will catch your eye, and before you know it you'll be out there, heart racing, ready to take the plunge all over again”

True, that.

Responsible Drinking, Irresponsible Driving.

2009-10-06T15:19:00.001+01:00

The last thing I wanted to do on Saturday night was go out. I'd had a nice day wondering around Windsor with the New Boy, and I was tired from the excesses of the previous night. Safe to say, I wanted nothing more than to stay in, dribble curry down myself, burp and go to sleep. But I'm not good at bailing on plans, and I'm even worse at it when those plans are for a birthday.

So I reluctantly headed out to find a route into Piccadilly Circus that wasn't affected by the supremely irritating tube engineering works that blight every line into and out of NW London each weekend. I surfaced 40 minutes later into the pissing rain, which had done nothing to dissipate the mass of tourists and general selection of idiots that make me want to die whenever I'm in that area of London.

A couple of hours later and I'm still not really getting into the swing of things. We're in a horrendous bar. I'm flagging. I make plans to scoot for the last train, but the birthday boy talks me out of it; another friend is driving them all back home and there's a spare seat. We're leaving in an hour: stay? Please? Ohh, ok.

Error.

Had I realised that the designated driver had been partaking in the sambucca shots we were knocking back, had I clocked that his lemonade actually had vodka in it...that the brown stuff was whisky, not coke... maybe I wouldn't have found myself in Piccadilly Circus at 3am on Sunday morning, tired, trying to find a taxi. Luckily, another friend did realise, starting a long argument in which he threatened to hit the designated driver if he even considered giving us all a lift home. And make no mistake, he was more than considering it. It was a done deal.

Drinking and driving yourself is one thing. Drinking and driving your friends home is completely another.

I just don't understand the mentality.

This isn't fun

2009-10-01T09:17:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I was late into work. And for the first time since London got born, it wasn’t because TFL was having special funtime with a failing signal. It wasn’t because I woke up late. It wasn’t even because I forgot my wallet and had to go back to the house, although if anyone asks, that’s my official cover story.

The truth is, I had a wardrobe malfunction.

Ladies and gents, when you think of the words “hold ups”, you’ll either imagine bank robbers, that irritating person who talks to you while you’re trying to leave the office, or ladies in stockings. For clarity, I’m on about the last one. The type of “hold up” with the rubbery stuff round the top, which stops these nifty items of hosiery – essentially thigh high socks - slipping down your leg while you’re walking to the station.

You know the ones?

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to surreptitiously yank up a rebel stocking leg whilst walking down a busy road in front of passing traffic and morning commuters. But if you have, then you’ll know that there is no elegant way to do it. Your skirt could be Reiss, your shoes Paul Smith. Your hair might be glossy, and your nails neatly filed. But all that is guaranteed to mean absolutely nish all when one of your black hold ups is gravitating towards the pavement at a rate of “Oh, fack”.

And because turning back is the last thing you want to do when you’re already two roads away from your house and running late, (‘there must be a way to solve this’, you think, as you try taking lighter steps, slowing your pace, holding the wayward stocking up through your jacket pocket lining), you carry on walking. You carry on until you get further away from the quiet seclusion of your cul-de-sac and into the realm of people who have managed to dress themselves appropriately that morning. You’ll be literally round the corner from the tube station before, red faced and sweating, it dawns on you that if this is embarrassing in your quiet London suburb, it’s definitely going to be worse when you get to Baker Street.

I think the highlight of my uncomfortable waddle to the station came when the rogue stocking, complete with fancy trim, bagged down around my knee right in front of a mother and her two children. At that point, after another futile upwards yank, I admitted defeat. I hid behind a bush in the park like some sordid female incarnation of George Michael, hitched up the stocking and repeated the whole process back home.

Pretty Polly – you’ve got a lot to answer for. There are some things I shouldn't have to do, and a school child should never have to witness, at 8:20am in the morning.

Oooh wet leggings #sorry

2009-09-29T21:44:00.007+01:00

I love blogging, but sometimes it don't half get right on my noggin. I tell you why, listen close. If you're not blogging, I don't care. A blog apologising for not blogging is painful to read. It makes me want to click onto your blog and say 'Good, I'm glad you haven't been here, because you, my dear, are a boring sod when you are.' But I don't. I just get annoyed that they think I care. I know what you're thinking when you write it, but it's just one of those urges you have to surpass. You want to apologise for the fact you're not blogging every day, but in reality, there are a hundred more things more important going on in mine and your other readers' worlds. Namely, the next person down on my google reader who actually has something good to say.

Also, there's only three things that have ever made me delete content from this blog. One was a picture of an elephant having sex which I had in a post from about 2 years ago. It attracted an unhealthy amount of daily visitors (we're talking hundreds) all searching for elephant fornication. I took it down and embraced the four remaining readers like they were my own.

The next was snooping real life friends. They read, they didn't like, I removed. Done.

The final thing is more recent. I have a strange, returning reader. He (I'm assuming its a he) is from Germany. Hamburg, to be precise. Every few days, without fail, he types "sleepingeyes" into google. Although this week there was one variation where he typed in the whole web address. Then he goes to the search box and types in "wet", or occasionally "leggings", often "Oooh", hoping to find a photo that I took of myself in a changing room, mocking the fashion world's worryingly lengthy obsession with wet look leggings. He returns week after week, searching for the same photo which has now disappeared and been replaced with a 'sod off, you dirty German perv' type message.

I wish he would stop visiting this blog. He makes me feel all unclean in the same way that hashtags on Twitter make me want to try and get in the Guinness Book of Records for most number of magazines balanced on a girls head, just so I can compete for the Big Prize for Pointlessness, too. No one reads the hash tag pages. You'll know this because you'll find yourself adding a #hashtag to your tweet, but you'll never have checked where it's going. Or maybe you did once, before you got bored.

#Rant over.

Let's be friends again, blogging.

(Not you, German.)

Angry Half Hour

2009-09-28T14:50:00.002+01:00

The other night I got irritated. In fact, I was really, maddeningly annoyed for about half an hour. Something burned in me and I felt like crying. I sat on my bed, put music on - loud - and resisted the urge to throw something. Ten or fifteen simultaneous thoughts flashed through my head, all of them conflicting. I got up and paced my room. Then I stood by the window, completely silent but seething inside. I walked into my sister's room and started to vent my frustrations, but then stopped, realising that she was on the phone. Angry thoughts smacked against a barrier which read "you are being irrational".

I suppose when it comes to a break up, the mutual friends will always be stuck between a rock and a hard place. Invite me along, and he might not go. Invite him along, and I might not go. Invite us both, and things might get awkward. There's no evidence that this would be the case, yet our mutual friends still continue to tread unnecessary egg shells.

It's been almost a year, and I've moved on. I don't get upset thinking about him, I don't have regrets, even thinking of him with someone else doesn't hurt any more. Therefore, I can handle hearing that my ex is due to be at an event, equally I'm capable of hearing this information and deciding whether or not I want to go. Instead, what happens is a lie by omission. People go quiet about a previously mentioned event, and I hear no more about it. Then it becomes clear that he was there - and ah, the mystery is solved.

There are some people I don't expect total honesty from; namely the boys, the ones who were his friends first. Others I do; the girls, the ones who knew me first, and at the moment it's the latter who are letting me down.

After half an hour, the laid back attitude that is my current state of mind prevailed. C'est la vie. Or maybe the unthinkable has happened. Maybe it's not me they're protecting any more. Maybe it's him.

It is what it is what it is.

2009-09-23T12:01:00.003+01:00

These last few weeks have been fun. Friends' reactions to my last minute romance have been varied, but on the whole the consensus is "Just enjoy it for what it is". What exactly it is hasn't been talked about, but that's ok, I like quiet time. We both know I'm going away, but instead of this being a hindrance, everything seems accelerated.

A weekend away has been booked, brief introductions to the parents have been made. There's kissing in cars and cinema dates, coming round in the evening for DVDs. Lists made of things to do before I go, films to watch, places to go. Late night texts and day to day emails. And best of all, that insecure feeling that usually blights the first month of any "normal" relationship is absolutely not there. I'm not even waiting for something bad to happen or thinking 'it's all going to go tits up eventually' - because it can't.

Meeting someone new is all about the tingly excitement, but also ups, downs and overanalysing. Not so this time. There's no games, no 'I text him first so it's his turn now', no 'I can't ask him out', and no hard feelings if plans change. It's just easy. Going away is still happening (albeit a couple of days later than scheduled, due to a last minute temp job cropping up). Even though it's now with a bit of a heavy heart, travelling isn't something I can put off because of a bloke, no matter how hot I think he is. I spent the last few years building my life around someone else and changing my plans and ideals to fit in with his. I know that if I do it again then the whole year I've just spent trying to put myself first will have amounted to nothing. It's like a little test. It would be so easy to just say "Oh bugger it, I'll go next year" and change all my plans, but really I'm thinking "Nah, you know what…everything will work out alright in the end".

And it will. This can't go badly; if it does I'm leaving. If it doesn't, I'm still leaving. For the first time ever, I'm not reading into things because there's no point. It is what it is, and I like it.

Boldy going forwards. or backwards. Whatever.

2009-09-21T13:49:00.004+01:00

If these past three years have taught me anything, it's that Facebook should be used for mocking friends and not cultivating relationships. I think we've established that despite its obvious plus points, Facebook is, above all, a snivelling whiney attention seeking goat of an internet site developed by people who think Mafia Wars is what the world's been missing. Hurrr…no.

I stuck with it through the good times (terrorising a friend's account when they're passed out at a house party will never get old) and the bad (ex in post-breakup party photos shock). I've learnt that adding someone you met the night before in a club will open up their drunken photos for scrutiny, but not much in the way of conversation. It'll also show you three little words that will dash your hopes of getting with the hotty you met the night before who, it turns out, is "in a relationship". Whatever.

But now I've learnt my lesson. As I sat curled up on a sofa in a Hoxton bar dribbling a G&T down myself, the talk turned to Facebook. It's been almost 3 weeks, but so far me and the new boy have managed not to become 'friends'. He was telling me a story and the photos that accompanied it were online, so he suggested I look at his page. At this point, I made a suggestion so bold and against modern culture that all the cool kids announced I was no longer down with them.

"Nah, but…hmmm. I don't really like it. Can we... not add eachother on Facebook?" I said, boldly going where no girl had gone before.
"Why, what have you got to hide?" he replied with a grin.
"Haha! Nothing, I just don't like the way you automatically know everything about someone. Takes all the mystery away doesn't it. Like I want to ask you about your interests and what music you like, not just read about it..."
"Actually I don't like it much either. It's fine for keeping up with mates and stuff but not really much else."

And so it was that we agreed Not To Do Facebook. Actually, we high fived against it; cementing my position avec the cool kids again. Anyway, who needs Facebook stalking when you can find their Twitter (not that one), blog (not this one) and other random online writing you've put your name to?

"I've found your Twitter page"
"Urrghh, which means you've found my blog…"
"Should I be reading this?"
"Depends..where are you up to?"

Move over Facebook. I've got a new enemy, it's called Google.

Collective Will

2009-09-15T16:10:00.003+01:00

I've got The Fear.

It crept up on me today as I sat at my desk, reading an email about like…I don't know, pencils or something. Literally crept. Norman Bates has got nothing on The Fear when it comes to nipping up behind you, factimus exactimus. It's too late for a 'what were you thinking' moment, because it's done. Booked. Sorted. Now, all I can worry about is stuff like accommodation. Money. Christmas. New Year. Whether to get a working holiday visa in New Zealand; or whether I'll waste it like I did my Australian one (by err, only doing the 'Holiday' bit of a 'Working Holiday'. Whoops).

Then I have Time Fear. Like oh, shiz. We're half way through September already. Time's flying by in weeks, not days. It's taking massive ostrich leaps from one Saturday to the next. If it were days running ahead of me, then fine. But it's bloody not you know, it's just not. I put it down to being at work, you see. Time is flying because every miserable sod sitting in an office is right this minute urging Friday to arrive. Its called Collective Will. You may have heard of it; it's the same thing that enables planes to take off and stay in the air. And now it's whizzing me towards the end of October.

Which brings me onto the Attachment Fear. I'm not attached, I'm just fearing it. I'm involving myself in textual banter and the odd rendezvous, but didn't we all know this would happen? I think even I did. 11 months I've been single. 11 months of nothing but the odd drunken kiss, not a date in sight. I book a trip to break the monotony, then a week later I meet someone who I'd ideally want 5 months with instead of two. Oh, no wait…thank you Collective Will, make that 1.5. It's not going to affect any plans I've made, it's not the great love of the century, but flings and flutterings are for Summer! Not bloody Autumn.

Look. I don't want more time, I just want the time I have to slow down. So for gods sake everyone, Friday isn't going to be THAT great, can't we all just enjoy Tuesday…yeah? Big love for Wednesday? Thursday night's alright?

For me?

Cheque's in the post

2009-09-13T18:36:00.003+01:00

Temporary office employment may not give you financial security. It won't enable you to move out of home, buy a house or shop only in Harrods. It won't give you a career, Miu Miu bags or a fulfilled brain. It won't be anything other than menial, boring and occasionally underpaid. It won't make you independent, but dependent. It won't stop the need to spend long periods of time sitting at home on your arse sending off CVs. It won't make you happy in the long run, it won't help shake the feeling that 4 years at university should qualify you to do more than typing letters and making tea. It won't give you a salary, just an overtaxed weekly wage. It won't give you stability. It won't make you feel good about yourself.

However. Working for 6 months out of the year means you have time to discover other career options, do work experience and travel the world.

It will mean that you've got time to chase up loose ends and make phone calls.

It also means that when you call up Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs to go through your tax codes and employment history, that you might hear the following words:

"Ah, yes. You have paid too much tax. Your cheque for £710.51 was actually put in the post yesterday"

And that, my little pork pies, is why temporary work is blooooody WELL good.

Peter

2009-09-10T15:49:00.005+01:00

London's fast. If London ran its own marathon, it'd probably get disqualified for cheating.

Everything happens so quickly. This ever changing atmosphere is something that manifests itself in the way people live their lives, even the way you think. London runs in light speed and those who live here can only try and keep up. One minute you're up, next minute your down. One minute you're gagging to get out, next minute you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be.

Nothing epitomises this cities dual nature than my lunchtime expedition from Warren Street to Embankment, or North of the river to South Bank, or BT Tower to London Eye. I wondered towards the station wrapped in my own thoughts. Mainly cloudy thoughts, I've got too much in my mind that I can't make sense of; stuff I'm not comfortable blogging about. That's not to say I haven't blogged about it before, I'm just evaluating how much I share these days. It's too easy to get caught up in blogging, you end up sharing too mu-...

GET OUT OF MY WAY

...interrupted my thoughts. He didn't raise his voice, just said it angrily as he walked past and it left me baffled. I wasn't in your f@~ing way, mate. I looked over my shoulder at him and he turned round, glaring at me as he strode off. I walked into the tube shaking my head and muttering how rude, how bloody rude. Bloody London. Bloody rude London people.

A few minutes later and I'm walking up those familiar steps outside Embankment tube. I get stuck behind two slow stepping pensioners, and the man taps his wife and mentions for her to move aside so I can get by. "No, it's ok" I said, drawing level, "If I go too quickly, my calves will start to ache." The man smiled, I don't think he heard me. "Yes. Enjoy the sunshine".

I got to the other side of the bridge, smiling from my little exchange, where a Big Issue seller was doing his best to shift some magazines. He looked at me as I approached and over the bassline on my earphones I heard him say

"Big Issue, darling?"
"Not unless you take card!" I said, and continued down the steps.
"I've got chip and pin!" he replied, and I laughed. "Hey! Hey! Wait! Do you walk across this bridge every day?"
"Not usually," I replied, taking the earphones out and turning around, "Sometimes"
"How often do you walk across it?" he asked
"About once every three weeks?"
"Right" he said, and started digging in his bag with the magazines.
"No no no! You can't give me one, I don't have any money on me! No no no!"
"Take it!" and he handed me the magazine. "Take it and pay me when you can. You'll be back. I know you will, no one's let me down yet. I know you won't. Whether it's this week or three weeks, whenever you're next passing. My name's Peter."
"Ok Peter. Thank you!"

I walked off and exchanged grins with another man who'd been standing watching the exchange between me and the homeless man. I smiled all the way to my destination. On the way back, I went via the same bridge. Peter was packing up his magazines and I went over. "Mate," I said, "I've got your money" and handed him £1.50. "You were right, see, I came back".

"Thank you darling, oh thank you. You just caught me I was packing up, I..I need a ruddy pee, you see. But thank you, you nearly missed me!"
"That's ok. Thanks for the magazine. I've never bought the Big Issue before. Have a good day"
"You too. SEE YOU IN A WEEK!" he yelled after me, and people on the bridge turned to look.

And just like that, London was back in my good books.

Mature adult seeks key

2009-09-07T14:48:00.004+01:00

As you well know, I still live with the radio rentals. Not ideal, but once you start bandying the words 'credit crunch', 'recession' and 'unemployment' around, it doesn't sound too bad, does it? Twenty five, living with the parents, no permanent job...Ahh, but we're in a recession. Phew. That's alright then. Doesn't that word just get everyone out of every imaginable situation at the moment? Brilliant, isn't it?

Anyway. Clearly, living at home is not such a bad thing, there are a million and one up-sides so obvious that I don't need to list them. But last week, I actually lost count of the times I said the following sentence in the stroppy teenage voice that hasn't quite left me yet: "Mum! It's fine! For gods sake, I'm nearly 25!"

My birthday celebration on Friday was no exception. By and large I'm given the freedom to come home, or not, whenever I want. I just have to let my mum know what I'm doing before I hit the sack. That could be 9pm, 1am, 3am, whenever I make the decision about how my night will end. But for some reason, my birthday was different. She wanted to know not just hours in advance, but days. Would I be coming home, or staying at a friends? "I don't know" didn't cut it. She thought I should decide right now, on Wednesday, how my night would end on Friday. The reason? Well, if I was going to get 'drunk and disorderly' (her words, I kid you not), then she wanted to know where I was ending up. Fair enough. But...no. I am 25, all responsible n that and I can look after myself. And that is what I shall do.

Yeah...pretty much ballsed up those plans.

True to form, with the night progressing from the pub where we'd started onto a club in Camden, I secured a bed for the night and fired off a text message. "Mum, Staying at hjoffs. sEe you tomnrow". But a couple of hours later, and with another friend also without a bed for the evening, I changed my mind. "Yes! Come back to mine and stay over! We've got toast!" I enthused, as the five remaining party goers hopped into a taxi back to our various homes.

Halfway into the journey, I started scrabbling about in my bag. Hmmm. That's odd. Could have swore...oh. Bit of a pain, that. I picked up my phone.

Ever get that funny feeling when you're on your way home at 4am and you realise you don't have your house keys and have lost a shoe??x

In trying to negotiate a two person entry through a window at 4:30am, I woke up the dogs. Barking ensued. Eventually I gave up and rang the doorbell. More barking. Doorbell again. After a few minutes it opened revealing a robed, sleepy figure.

"Hi dad! Sorrryyyy, forgot my key!" I hobbled in as he looked on, baffled. He started to shut the door; only to see another figure totter through the door after me mouthing "Hellooo, sorrryy!".

My dad sighed and started back up the stairs.

"Happy birthday, Jo."

At 25, I am responsibility personified.

Today is International Jo Day

2009-09-04T09:05:00.004+01:00

This morning on the tube, I made an error in spacial judgement. As a result of my hasty rush for a seat, I spent half an hour sitting between the ample excess of a large lady and a generously weighted man who insisted on sitting with his legs at ten-to-two. It was most uncomfortable for all involved.

That is all.

Chocolate will be served at four.

I'm content with my lot

2009-09-03T10:34:00.002+01:00

This week I started a new job back in my old stomping ground of W1. It's the company I was previously Credit Crunched from, but I'm back again for onnnne month only. The differences were pretty much immediate. The offices are bright, friendly and not encrusted with the misery of disillusioned workers. Old faces greeted me and new ones introduced themselves without awkwardness. Friends from other offices call up for a morning chat, not just to ask me where the finance reports circa 2006-2007 are kept. Most importantly, gone is the patronising boss who said 'Good! Well done!' every time I "managed" to send an email. Enter a new boss who greeted me with a 'Welcome, Jo!' post-it note attached to a packet of Maltesers. Yeah, you heard. Maltesers. 6 months at the other place Vs 1 month here? When there's chocolate involved, no contest.

Oh alright then, it's not just the job. It's not even the travel plans, which I'm paying the balance on today, or my BIRRRRRTHDAY which happens to be tomorrow. There may be a boy involved. Who I met on Saturday night...and said goodbye to on Sunday afternoon. And said hello again on Tuesday evening...and goodbye again, a bottle of wine, G&Ts and several bowls of tapas later, minutes before I made a dash onto a circle line train that was going the wrong way. I've negotiated this transport system for years, yet it's amazing how often I fail to distinguish between 'east' and 'west'.

But yeah. Just quietly content at this end at the moment, really. Tomorrow the big 2-5 beckons. So for today at least, I'm only 2 years older than him.

Ahem.

Links for 2009-07-12 [Digg]

2009-07-13T00:00:00-07:00

The very fabric of society is breaking down around us.
It's all gone wrong. Our belief in everything has been shattered by a series of shock revelations that have shaken our core to its core. You can't move for toppling institutions. Television, the economy, the police, the House of Commons, and, most recently, the press ... all revealed to be jam-packed with liars and bastards and graspers and bullies

Links for 2009-07-04 [Digg]

2009-07-05T00:00:00-07:00

Charlie Brooker's screen burn: 4 July 2009 | Culture | The G
Neil Armstrong doesn't look like a man crushed by the weight of human expectation, but a normal guy, says Charlie Brooker

Links for 2009-05-18 [Digg]

2009-05-19T00:00:00-07:00

Charlie Brooker on My Sweet 16
"Fortunately for whining snotface, the party goes with a bang: she enters looking every inch the cosseted flesh-waste she is, and her and her irritating scumbag friends party on into the night, dancing, shrieking, acting like pillocks, and generally making you feel like getting down on your knees and praying for a nuclear holocaust."