Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open

More reasons why I love London* (*not you, Mayfair)

2012-01-25T23:09:00.002Z

After 27 years of living in London, there are still some things I can't quite get my head around.

One of those things is the sheer volume of slow moving tourists constantly migrating through Leicester Square.

And another is Mayfair on a Friday night.

For those who aren't familiar, Mayfair is an area of London where bare legs are a winter standard, all hair swings with Middleton gloss, a pout is the entirely un-ironic pose of choice, and £14 is a perfectly reasonable amount to pay for a G&T.

But it was here that I found myself on Friday, after The Actress secured a table at one of the area's better known clubs for her birthday. The table came with complimentary entry, a thorough once-over, rigorous clipboard consultation, and a free bottle of vodka. Not my usual crowd, not my usual choice of club - but as the saying goes: if it's good enough for Prince Harry, it's good enough for me.

It was from the comfort of our square foot of table space, where we got reprimanded by the club's very own Bride of Chucky every time we breached our allotted seating quota, that I watched - slightly baffled - as a sea of shimmering dresses, bare legs and straightened locks started writhing about on the dance floor.

It was a little bit like the arrivals area at Terminal 3, what with all the expectant eyes scanning the room, desperately searching for something. Their next millionaire, perhaps, or more likely, their own reflections in the mirrored walls and ceiling of the club.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I found myself escaping into a black cab, having "lost" everyone else after a trip to the toilet.

"Back to normality, please, driver" I didn't say, directing him to Tottenham Court Road. It would cost too much to go the whole way home, so I planned to get a bus from there.

Having ranted about my night the whole way and racked up a modest £4.50 fare, we drew up at the bus stop, and I proffered a tenner.

"Sorry love, have you got anything smaller? I've got absolutely no change."

"Ah, no, this is all I've got. But, in that case" I continued, all nice and warm in the cab, "you could take me as far as you can for a tenner?"

He thought for a few seconds. "Where are you headed?"

I told him my nearest tube station, which would easily bring the fare up to over £20.

"Oh, I'll just take you all the way there."

"Are you sure? It's quite a way?"

"Yeah, it's my fault not having the change. Plus it's late, and it doesn't exactly sound like you've had a good night. The least I can do is get you home safe."

And with that, the cabby took me all the way home for half of what he should have charged, refusing to drop me anywhere else apart from right outside my front door.

Which brings me to the third thing about London I'm yet to understand: its propensity for being really quite nice, right at the moment when you least expect it.

Three months in the life of a certified hypochondriac

2012-01-18T20:04:00.000Z

I have always thought of myself as a fairly normal girl.

Not too outlandish in my beliefs, not too brain-mental about anything more than other people's eating habits, skin picking, and sniffing. There's the innate fear of raw tomatoes on bread, but everyone has their Achilles heel. On the whole, I reckon I'm generally calm, analytical, and above all, of rational, sane mind.

Which is clearly why I've spent the last three months absolutely convinced that I was going to die.

Not once did I let my entirely self-diagnosed terminal prognosis slip to anyone. This, I reasoned, was something I had to get my head around first and then I would go to the doctor and he, with solemn face and kind words, would reveal the true trouble I was in.

To begin with, it was just a niggling thought in the back of my mind. For the first month I swept my worries under the carpet; mind and hand occasionally lingering on the offending skin, telling myself that it was probably nothing.

Then it was Christmas (no time to hear such news), and my fear gathered momentum. Not an hour went by when I didn't consider my fate. After all, it was around this time last year that bad news came my way: so the timing would be almost poetic.

It was a few days into 2012 that I took a deep, brave breath... and checked my findings with Google.

And that, naturally, was when the real worrying began.

There it was in black and white on the screen: this is what you have, therefore this is what is wrong with you. Forum after forum, health check website after health check website. Seek. Help.

For those of you who think I'm joking, that I'm exaggerating the fear; hear this. My mind began extracting words from newspapers that I glanced at on the tube. Statistics I'd normally not pay attention to lept out at me from pages and the world's adverts, conversations and media seemed geared to impressing upon me a message: There is something wrong.

It was after yet another week of internal worrying and sleeplessness when I finally forced myself to book an appointment at the doctors.

And so it was that on Monday morning, 9:15 sharp, me and my gigantic fear walked into the clinic. Once there I sat, waiting to be seen, and gearing myself up for the news I knew, beyond doubt, was coming my way in a matter of minutes.

Eventually my name was called, and I calmly explained my findings to the doctor. "Right." he said, after writing down some notes. "Shall we have a look, then?"

I produced the offending skin and waited.

"Sorry...which bit? Where did you say it was...?"

"Just there."

"Oh, there?"

"Yep. That's it."

I waited.

"Ok...Well, that's normal."

"Normal?"

"Completely normal."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Everyone has it. There's nothing wrong."
"Oh. Right. Oh god, phew."

If it's possible to mentally skip out of a doctor's surgery, that was what I did.

Which is how I rattled along to my next conclusion: my body might be healthy, but my mind - well... not so much.

It's Sunday morning. The house is empty apart from me.

2012-01-15T11:11:00.002Z

My housemates are away for the weekend, and this means I am experiencing the small yet perfectly formed joys of being alone in a shared abode.

The kitchen has been Detolled into spotless submission, there are no pubic hairs in the bath (or sink, for that matter. Don't ask.) and the toilet is well and truly flushed. Later, I might even go all out and clean the shower. Maybe even mop the floor, and buy a bin to replace the Tesco carrier bag on the back of the bathroom door.

I think you'll agree; a truly exciting day awaits.

Prior to starting this new permanent job - which is going well apart from the daily abject terror that I will not be able to deliver what is required of me, that I will fail monstrously and not live up to expectations and shrivel slowly into a puddle by my desk wailing "I'm melting, I'm melting" - there were a lot of things I wouldn't have been able to consider.

One of those things was getting my own place, something that job security will one day afford me even if, for now, the salary doesn't.

It would be my own one bedroom flat where everything is as I left it - food in its rightful place (i.e. not blocking the drain), toilet roll in the bathroom (i.e. not in bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms and anywhere else frequented by a runny nose) and water confined to places capable of both holding and disposing of it (i.e. not on floors, walls or any surface within a two metre radius of the tap).

It's not even that I dislike living with people. Not at all. I have bloody good housemates, I'm a sociable beast and research tells me these are problems I'd have no matter who I shared with. And anyway, it's nice to hear the low-level buzz of other people downstairs, to have a mini-social life in your own house when illness, money or general laziness keeps you indoors.

But one day I'd like to live alone in lovely London, create my own mess, and not hurl £600 a month into my landlord's Spanish villa retirement fund in doing so.

And when that happy day comes, I will gaze wistfully into the kitchen sink and sigh:

"Yes, there is egg from three days ago nestled in and around the plug hole. But it's my egg, god damn it, and that makes it ok."

Pro tips for starting a new job

2012-01-04T17:57:00.001Z

If there was a guide on how to prepare for your first day at a new job, there would probably be one point written in all caps, surrounded by an array of asterisks, an abominable amount of exclamation marks; maybe bold, underlined and put in red for good measure. It would say this:

******DO NOT GET DRUNK THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!!!!!!!!!******

But alas it happened, as these things tend to, entirely by accident.

One minute myself, PIB and new friend Brummie Girl were taking a leisurely stroll up Portobello Road after a Monday afternoon dim-sum binge. The next we were in a pub several glasses of wine down, huddled around my HT-Shit phone trying to work out how to delete my Facebook status, which I'd just updated with PIB's ex boyfriend's name. That's what happens when you're trying to delete someone when you've had a few: you mistake the "share" button for "search" on Facebook mobile, and helpfully, there's no option to remove.

Following an inadvisable finale which began "Oh dear, quite drunk now. Better make the last one a G&T", I went home, rectified the Facebook Status Boo-Boo (yes, he had noticed), went to bed, and the next day woke up feeling like my uncle's vegetarian girlfriend probably did one Christmas, when she realised my Grandma had wrapped her Linda McCartney sausages in bacon: a little bit sick.

Helping matters along immensely was the Northern Line, which didn't get the message that I'd pressed snooze five times and really needed a Charing Cross branch train - like now, right now - and put on three Morden via Bank's in a row instead. That sentence will make absolutely no sense to anyone who doesn't use the tube - but while you're here - can I borrow a tenner? My monthly travel card appears to have done its annual January magic trick of increasing by an extra £6, so I'm saving for a team of huskies instead.

Anyway, aware that I was arriving five minutes late for my first day at a company which has around 24,985 fewer employees than my last one, ergo-these-things-might-be-noticed-a-tad-more, it was beyond me why I then answered my new bosses "How are you?" with "Struggling a bit this morning, if I'm honest".

In hindsight (or straight away after he'd raised his eyebrows in surprise) I realised that "Wonderful, fresh as a daisy, thank you" might have been more appropriate.

The day progressed with no further misdemeanours, except the bit where I didn't ask where the kitchen was and kept wandering purposefully into, and then out of, adjacent offices without luck in a frantic search for water.

But apart from the delays, hangovers on a school night, honest replies and partial dehydration, I've made it to day two and the new job is good. Nay, probably the best one yet. Relief all round.

And anyway, as all pro-tips in this field suggest: you must start as you mean to go on.

What I've learnt in 2011

2011-12-29T16:04:00.000Z

“As for you, my galvanised friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.

– The Wizard of Oz

If there's one thing I've learnt this year, it's that everyone is responsible for their own happiness.

It's easy to stay with what you know, whether it's a relationship that's bad for you or a job you don't enjoy. It's easy to compare yourself to prettier, more confident friends and wallow in self pity that you're not more like them. It's easy to stay put and complain, instead of getting up and changing the thing you're unhappy about.

It's also the easiest thing in the world to blame every low point, down-day or tear that comes to your eye throughout the course of a year on the breakdown of a relationship; or the silly boy who wanted someone else over you.

And I think that, conversely, is why this year has been so hard.

2011 wasn't hard because someone treated me badly back in January. It was hard because I chose to leave him, cut all ties, go home, recoup, get my social life back on track, and give my heart a little rest. I said no to dates with boys, yes to drinks with new friends and made - without a doubt - some of the best mates I've ever had as a result. I saved up, took a leap, left home - again - and moved in with new housemates.

Job hunting was hard, too - but my old, unpredictable contract job finishes today and my new, permanent job starts next week. New Years Eve has, for the first year since records (or blogs) began, been planned without dispute, stress or worry.

There's a lot to celebrate, and 2011 has been a good year. I am happy with the way things turned out.

And no one's responsible for that except me.

Happy New Year x

I'M ILL, I SWEAR: The problem with calling in sick

2011-12-21T14:42:00.000Z

When it comes to being ill, I subscribe to the "keep calm and carry on" school of thought.

At least, I do once I've finished Googling my symptoms and following various flow diagrams to the inevitable conclusion of "YOU COULD HAVE BRAIN CANCER: SEEK URGENT MEDICAL ATTENTION", then crying for a bit before gently probing my mother for family history of headaches leading to sudden death.

But once that's all done and I'm reassured that it is, in all probability, just a cold, I don't really make a fuss.

The last time I took any time off work because of illness was - well, I actually can't remember. The worst affliction I've suffered in recent times has been a broken heart - more crippling than any bout of flu in my opinion - and the best medicine for that (allegedly, see chapter five in the book of Things That Mums Tell You) is to drag yourself out of bed, into work and "keep busy".

My last sick day was that long ago that when Monday morning rolled around this week and I found myself unable to concentrate on anything other than the pulsing cramps gripping my stomach, I wasn't quite sure of the etiquette.

Was I really ill enough to warrant a day off? Would it be better to go in and leave early, or better yet get sent home for looking awful, having shown willing?

Then there's the actual process of phoning in to let people know, which always carries the risk that - if your affliction isn't throat or nose related - you might not sound sick enough.

What's more, it's nearly Christmas. They might think I'm just angling for a day off after a heavy weekend.

As it was, my day in bed with the dreaded Winter Vom-Voms soon ran to two. No matter how many times my boss expressed her sincere hopes that I rest and get better (and sympathies, she'd had the same bug a few weeks earlier), I still felt an unassailable guilt about taking the time off. Ill, yes. But also in bed. Curled up comfortably in a duvet. Watching TV.

And that despite only managing to stomach half a slice of toast, a tin of Heinz tomato soup, a spoonful of rice and a Ryvita crispbread since Sunday evening, and forgoing all advice on the NHS website, here I am - feeling better, sure, but not 100% - and back in work today.

Thing is, I know I'm not alone. I'm probably not the first person to demand that if a colleague is sick, that they stay off work until the sniffing subsides. I mean, bloody hell. I don't want it.

So when it's us that's ill, why do we find it so hard to stay at home?

Keeping London warm

2011-12-18T23:07:00.002Z

For all its inclement weather, expense and overcrowded shops, December is my favourite month of the year.

It's not just a Christmas thing, although as I encountered a half-eaten banana in the fridge yesterday morning, the thought of spending a week at my perpetually toasty, spotlessly clean family house (with fully stocked cupboards) is a massively appealing one.

I think it's all the excess; the chilly cold followed by central heating, the big pub lunches behind steamed-up windows; party plans and obligatory hangovers.

When it comes down to it, December is all about comfort.

But London is full of pertinent reminders that for some, December is probably the most uncomfortable part of the year.

The reminders sit on the pavement on the main road or outside shops, rubbing their hands together and asking for change, or curled up in a doorway in sleeping bags. They're in your disrupted journeys home; the increasingly frequent announcements of "...has severe delays due to a person under a train at...", and in the dirty paper cups full of pennies at tube stations.

As I walked along Euston Road last night on my way to an aforementioned warm pub and a huge table packed with this year's new friends, I passed an old man sitting on the pavement. Away from the shops of Tottenham Court Road, he would have cut a lonely figure had it not been for the woman leaning over him, talking to him, checking he was ok and - the gesture that warmed me the most as the breath blew white from my mouth - pulling his woolly hat right down around his ears.

When I left the pub later that night with a half eaten box of Celebrations under my arm, I looked for the man, but he was gone. I shared my chocolates with the night bus driver instead, emptying a load under the glass barrier like change. "Thank you!" he said.

It was today on my way again from one warm place to another, that I saw a second reminder, sitting on the ground outside Sainsburys.

The bus stopped, I glanced down from the top deck and saw a man leaving the supermarket with two bags of shopping. The homeless man asked the usual I expect, "spare any change?" and in response the man handed him one of his shopping bags, full of food, and walked away; the homeless man gazing after him in amazement.

The bus pulled away and I headed home: gloves, scarf, and feeling like London and December have something big in common; both can be cold in every sense of the word, but tiny little gestures like these make this big anonymous city that little bit warmer.

What do you do in a power cut?

2011-12-06T12:12:00.001Z

The TV went black. The dishwasher ceased washing. The kettle stopped making my cup of tea. The internet dropped out and the house plunged into darkness and silence. Well, except for me.

"Oh, what? HOUSEMAAAAAAAAAAAATE."

Not ever having experienced a power cut before, I wasn't exactly sure what to do. Do you call someone? Does someone come to fix it? I checked out of the window and saw the neighbouring houses were still lit up. Just us affected, then. Puzzled, I flicked our light switch again for good measure. Nothing.

"Shouldn't we... look at the... fuse box in the... where is it?" I asked, not really understanding what exactly it was we had to check for in these situations, but knowing that this was something I should say.

After establishing that this wasn't a) my fault or b) a result of my housemate's new game: Extreme Bill Paying: Dodge The Final Notice, I wondered what to do.

And what with us living in times where even if you can't do something, you tell someone about it, I hopped onto Twitter for advice.

"Candles, ghost stories and shadow puppets!"

"Dance around and sing at the top of your lungs in the dark. Fun, AND your neighbours will appreciate the radio replacement."

"You scrabble around in the dark for bits of old candle."

Candles, then. Which after some scrabbling about, we had - but no holders.

"We need a bottle to put it in" I said to Boy Housemate, eyeing up the red wine in the kitchen and adding carefully "But, oh. That bottle is full."

"We should probably finish the wine and use that." he replied.

Bingo.

Two glasses of wine and a lit candle later, we're sat in the living room waiting for some sort of man from the electricity thing to appear with the answer (or so the technical terminology goes), and engaging in what used to be known back in the 1990s as h'actual real live face-to-face conversation - you might have seen it on telly - and discovering that electricity is a great leveller.

Because once it goes you're back to basics; relying on knowledge instead of Google, sleeping bags instead of central heating and flames complete with dripping hot wax instead of switches.

Having never in my life been without it, I actually had no idea how much we depended on the stuff. From the dying battery on my phone (no alarm clock), to no power for the freezer and potentially more frozen peas than Iceland to consume, being without it for any length of time would leave us in a mighty big pickle.

But what it also meant was an evening of two housemates chatting, when they'd normally be in separate rooms absorbed with TVs or laptops, or both.

After three hours of darkness we decided to call it a night. And just at that moment, the house sprang back into life, swiftly followed by Girl Housemate who'd also been out for the evening.

Admittedly, the set up must have looked odd; discarded takeaway on the kitchen counter, candles, two empty wine glasses and a now far-fetched sounding story about a single-house power cut.

"You drank the CHIANTI" she said, clearly not quite understanding the emergency pitch-black situation we'd been in minutes earlier.

"Baby, we had no candle holder" Boy Housemate replied, "We needed the bottle."

With the explanation now seeming slightly implausible in the whirring house, everyone retreated into separate rooms to fire up their electronic devices.

And back to the real world we went.

In conclusion: street harrasment is not ok.

2011-11-30T12:31:00.001Z

Since blogging yesterday about my experience of what I was slightly embarrassed to label as street harassment, it's fair to say the reaction from women and men alike has been one of "oh, yes! This bothers / happens to me too".

It takes someone else to speak out about it and say "it's not ok" for the many other stories - some an awful lot worse than my own - to come to light.

Clearly, this kind of street intimidation is happening to girls every day in a whole host of different ways - and no one thinks they have the right to complain about it. As I said yesterday, that's "just how it is".

Take this morning's journey to work. Within seconds of walking past two men digging up the road, there was a cat-call in my direction.

With it being daylight, I decided to confront the men. I stopped, turned around and went up to the orange barriers where they were working.

"Tell me - how would you feel if it was your daughter being whistled at like that on the street?"

"What?"

"What would you think if it was your daughter getting treated like that as she walked along the road?"

One of the men thought for a minute before replying: "I'd feel privileged if it was my daughter"

"Yeah right. Of course you would." and with that, I walked off. I'll leave you to decide on the honesty of his response.

Minutes later, fuming from the last encounter, I waited at a pedestrian crossing. A van with two men in it leered out of the window and beeped their horn.

I'd never normally even think of mentioning these little things, because it would be seen as bragging - right? I can see your thinking. I should be flattered. They mean no harm - what's a whistle? A beep?

Except this is precisely the sort of thing that makes a lot of women feel uncomfortable. This is why tomorrow I might wear jeans, and my hair up instead of down. It's why I'll leave the house feeling slightly anxious, hoping the workmen are finished, or alter my journey so I don't have to walk past them.

These are the precautions put in place when it's daylight and we're going to work. Imagine this anxiety, but multiplied by the anonymity of dark.

So that's at one end of the scale. And the other?

From Ellen on Spurious Anecdotes and Other Tall Stories and her brilliant yet scary post, "I'm being followed home"

“Please leave me alone,” I say.
“Tell me where you’re getting off,” he replies, “or I won’t let you go.” His breath is hot on the back of my neck.
We pull into the station and as soon as the doors open, I fling myself through them, sprint up the stairs and through the barriers, knocking into people as I go.

From Rockalily

"He walked back towards me at the bus stop, and came close. I really thought he was about to snatch my phone, and my heart was racing. He whispered loudly 'I like your pussy'. But walked away. I was actually more relieved that i had my phone, but I was shaking"

From @Gl0ria

"a man once grabbed my arm as I walked past. When I told him to let go he got very angry with me. No it's not ok."

There's also this site http://ldn.ihollaback.org/ where people have been busy sharing their stories of gropings, flashings and a helluva lot more. A jamboree of harassment, if you will.

It's my personal opinion that we should share this stuff more often, because only when every level of unacceptable behaviour is laid out, will someone realise that it's not ok.

And no doubt I'm preaching to the converted here, but in case there is any doubt: it's really, really not ok.

edit: Yesterday I found this blog by Vicky Simister too:
"At this point he got angry and followed me down the street, pushing me and shouting at me that I was a slut – “Look at you and your short skirt, you look like a prostitute. I could get someone like you for £20 a night you whore” – I kept shouting at him to fuck off and yelling “This man is sexually harassing me”, to which no one did anything – despite the fact that there were hundreds of people on the street. Finally, a girl stepped in and he left me alone."

The stories keep coming...

The problem with getting home...is getting home.

2011-11-29T10:22:00.001Z

Last Thursday I stood under the bright lights of a bus shelter and realised that of all the things that irritated me about the world, being stood here was pretty high on the list.

It wasn't raining. The bus wasn't late. In fact, I wasn't even waiting for a bus: I'd just got off. It was half past 12, I was on my way back from the cinema and my only agenda at that point was to get home to bed.

But minutes earlier, I'd identified the bus stop as being the most well-lit and therefore safest place to be. I waited, eyes alert and watching, heart rate clicking up a notch, while my brain did automatic things drilled into me since school - switching my music off, taking out both earphones. Removing house keys from my bag and tucking them between my middle and forefinger. Feeling for my phone in the other pocket, making a mental note of who I'd call.

The man - older, drunk, rough looking - raised a heavy, almost apologetic arm, before crossing the road and disappearing into the distance.

However innocent, his behaviour had buzzed as odd in my head. He'd got on the bus just one stop earlier, fixed me with a stare and spoken words I couldn't hear over my music. Then he moved to the front of the bus. My stop arrived, I got off, the doors shut.

Seconds later, the driver re-opened the front doors at the man's request and he got off, too. He continued to speak to me. I stopped in my tracks, still ignoring him, let him pass ahead - and walked back under the light of the bus stop.

And there I stayed for a few minutes before continuing on at double speed, checking behind me the whole way; newly conscious of my heels on the pavement as they echoed down the quiet road.

Perhaps I was never at risk, maybe everything I did was just common sense and therefore the whole episode unremarkable. But what's not unremarkable is just how often this kind of stuff happens.

A conversation with three girl mates at the weekend revealed the following: one had moved to a different area of London after being followed home too many times. Another had been curb crawled twice on her road. My housemate has been "approached" - although that word seems too passive - two or three times in the years since she moved to where we live. All have found themselves running home out of fear at least once.

What really annoyed me as I continued my walk (keys ready before I got to the door, of course) is that it won't ever get taken seriously, all these minor little instances on dark roads: passing comments, words, jeers, watching, following, unwelcome attention. Nothing worth reporting and no laws being broken.

It's ingrained from a young age that as a girl you've got to be careful. Take precautions, keep an eye out, get a taxi instead of walk.

After all, we're girls, and that's just the way it is.

The Matter Of The Night-Flush

2011-11-23T14:39:00.001Z

I was going to use my blog to share my thoughts on a matter of distinct worldwide importance, but at 4am this morning I realised there was a more pressing issue at hand.

Toilets.

As you may recall, my bedroom in my shared house is adjacent to the bathroom. Although this stands me in excellent stead when it comes to the lesser known Hangover Vomit Sprint, it also means I have become familiar with the toilet habits of those I live with.

I should clarify - it's not that I'm sitting there listening cup-to-wall or anything, but when Niagara Falls thunders down into the pot at 4am, it's a little bit hard to ignore. Which brings me to my next point.

Flushing.

Now, I don't believe that I can be the only one who has had this debate. But in certain households, there seems to be an unspoken rule about flushing the toilet in the middle of the night. Or not, as the case seems to be.

The motivation behind not flushing is largely consideration for others: not wanting to wake sleeping people. But for me, this act of selflessness has bigger implications; simply put, when I stumble bleary eyed into the bathroom at 8am, I'd rather not come eye-to-urine with a bowl full of someone else's piss.

It's admirable that they don't wish to wake me from my slumber, but quite frankly, if my room is close enough to be woken by a flush, it's close enough for me to hear everything that comes before. This includes the light being tugged into life, toilet seat going up, the inevitable tinkle (or, tsunami, I'm looking at you, boys), and the "tip-toe" back down the stairs.

And this isn't a one-off encounter I've had with Morning Piss. When I lived at home, no one did night flushes either. It drove me round the bend, not least because my room was across the hall and not in audible loo distance. So after sleeping through the night undisturbed, I'd get rewarded with a yellowy toilet treat, right at that point in the morning where things - good day? bad day? - can go either way.

"Can we PLEASE flush the toilet" I'd plead, rubbing the wasteful vision out of my eyes, "I don't want to see your WEE"
"But we don't want to wake you!" would come the thoughtful reply from family members alike.

Then one day my sister moved out. And ha! Low and behold, a few months after her new house-share commenced, the complaints started. For her new house mate (male, platonic) did not partake in the Night Flush, and she soon tired of being faced with day-glo wee surprise at such a pivotal point of her waking day.

"But I used to complain about that all the time at home, and no one saw the problem!" came my response to her protests.
"Yeaah, but it's different when it's not your family's wee, isn't it?"

Well that's just the thing. I'm not sure it is.

So convinced am I that this is not just a matter surrounding my immediate family and my (admittedly easily irritated) brain, I'm opening it up to the wider blogging community.

Readers: To night-flush or not to night-flush? That is the question*.

*(Oh come on, Shakespeare went to the loo too)

The time my hope went into outer space

2011-11-18T11:37:00.001Z

Speculative CVs, tailor written covering letters, hours spent shoehorning experience into boxes on application forms.

Applications, disappointments, recruitment consultants. Hopes get raised, dropped, you put the feelers out among contacts, scour the websites and start again. First interviews that go badly, second interviews that go well, and e-mails that leave you feeling a bit crushed; contract jobs start, temporary jobs end, both are followed by weeks of unemployment before the next wave arrives and you go back to work.

Welcome to the tedium of my working life for the last few years.

A couple of weeks ago, the process started again. Fearing my contract ending in time for Christmas expense, I wrote a bangin' covering letter for a job I'd seen, attached some writing examples and sent it all off.

My hopes were raised when I got an email a few days later, inviting me for an interview. The hope did somersaults round the block when they called me back for a second one later that week. The hope proceeded to go on an all expenses paid trip to the Moon when the interview went well, and I tentatively told the first few friends that I'd been looking at a pretty cool job.

Then yesterday, the day they were due to let me know, came and went. The familiar feeling of disappointment and doubt crept back in, just like it always does. Luckily, a back-up plan surfaced; my current job contract got extended a few more weeks, so everything pinged into place. This one wasn't meant to be, but at least I wouldn't be a jobless hobo over Christmas.

"Don't assume the worst case! We all think you're good at what you do. It will be their loss anyway" read the text message from my mum, as I chugged my way through a large glass of horrendous white wine.

Then this morning, through the hangover fog - my phone rang.

The gist of the ensuing conversation being that as of January, at the ripe old age of 27, I'm going to be starting my first permanent role.

New office, new colleagues.

New job.

So after years of disappointments, in this time of economic doom and gloom, there is just one thing left to say:

I'd rather be nostalgic about the 80s than my Ex

2011-11-13T00:53:00.001Z

When we got back from travelling, the Ex and I got a year's membership to London's Prince Charles Cinema.

Having finally found a boy and a cinema which shared my love of independent and classic films, it ended up being our go-to place for a date the whole time we were together.

Even on that January night when something wasn't right, it was where we went to try and fix what was going wrong. I'd tried throughout the film to loop an arm through his, or rest my head on his shoulder, feeling a pang in my chest each time it wasn't reciprocated.

That was the last time we - and by proxy, I - went to the cinema. My membership ran out some months after the relationship ended, and because in my head it was "our place", I didn't go back.

Then a few weeks ago I saw they were screening one of my favourite ever childhood films, Labyrinth. Thinking that it was high time I reclaimed one of my favourite hobbies again for myself, I grabbed two tickets and enlisted my friend PIB for a night of masquerade masks and Bowie-esque shenanigans.

And so on Saturday night, with masks and glasses of Bowie Punch in hand, me and my friend walked into a room full of dressed up 80s Labyrinth enthusiasts, all blowing bubbles, batting balloons (and, err, fake babies) into the air while singing along to the Bowie soundtrack.

In short, I have never ever had so much fun watching a film. I laughed through the entire thing, reciting the words along with the packed audience, singing, cheering each character and generally mouthing off in a way I've never seen fit to do in a cinema. And all the while, the chest-infected PIB had a little nap-nap under the cover of her mask, before waking up and tipping beer into her Prada bag. A successful night all round.

Later, we walked out with our masks still pulled over our faces, and tottered up Long Acre. Still chatting about the film (or, in PIB's case, the last 15 minutes), we found ourselves being yelled at by a group of boys in command of a microphone and loudspeaker.

After ignoring their amplified advances, eventually one of the lads caught up with us. We estimated his age at about fourteen years old, what with the braces and onset of acne, but he seemed harmless enough.

"Awright ladies! Sorry, I saw you up the road and had to come and say hi."
"Hi." we replied, stopping as he blocked our way.
"Where've ya been? What's with the masks?"
"Labyrinth" we said in unison. "We've been to see Labyrinth"

The boy looked impressed. Shocked even. How cool were we?

And then, he uttered four words which would make any nostalgic 80's child tut, roll their eyes, and generally feel rather old:

"Wow, cool! The rapper?"

Having answered with every ounce of disdain we could muster "Err, NO, the FILM", we left him looking rather confused, and no doubt searching IMDB for this mysterious new film about rappers wearing masks.

A text from PIB the next day summarised perfectly:

i think we've now established the deciding factor for what constitutes as "too young" in a potential beau... Bowie. *sigh*

*****

Spurred on by the evening's success, with a Sunday to kill and a spring in my step, yesterday I took myself back down the Northern Line to Leicester Square and did something I've been wanting to do for a long time.

After renewing my cinema membership for another year, I bought a ticket for one, found a seat in the dark, and watched a film surrounded by strangers. And like most things where the idea is more terrifying than reality, it was the best Sunday afternoon I've had in a long time.

Not only can I go back to the cinema again; a place championed by couples and once upon a time, "us", but I can do it on my own.

The final words of this post are best left to the same bloke who ended my last, then no more De Botton quotes, I swear.

I had to revisit almost every physical location, rewrite over every topic of conversation, replay every song and every activity that she and I had shared in order to reconquer them for the present, in order to diffuse their associations.

But gradually, I forgot.

Destination: Eternal life as a dog-lady

2011-11-10T16:25:00.000Z

Last night, I went home.

Home-home, family-home; proper home; the home where you walk in and get accosted by two yowling, squeaking labradors. Home with a bed which is infinitely more comfortable than the other one, with the pillow equivalent of "Come here, pet. Give us a hug". Home to the aptly named "snuggle chair", which comfortably fits two; in my case, me and a dog.

Sometimes I have to go home because this bit of life - the single girl does London, with new housemates, new commute, new freedom, challenging job - it all piles up. And a little trip back home for the night can help to clear the head.

One thing on my mind is this late but fairly draining stage of the break-up proceedings: the bit where you're increasingly aware of time passing (soon, it'll be a year since we signed the flat contract), and conflicts that still remain.

There's the almost constant worry of why, after nine months, the idea of anyone else half terrifies me. Half, because one side wants the excitement, the stories, the supposing, the texts and the fun, but the other side won't even allow me to hold eye contact - let alone a remotely leading conversation - with a bloke in order to get it.

It's wanting to take this chance to enjoy life on my own for a bit - which by and large I do - but in doing so, not shut out any possibilities by having this huge barrier constantly going up when there's talk or thought of something more.

All this is compounded by the knowledge that soon, it will have been a year. And as much as I've made tracks in a lot of areas of life, some, like this elephant in the room with my friends when they're talking about meeting boys and or at the very least, gleaning interest from them, and I'm not - are very much packed away and hidden by my brazen, self-assured announcements about how happy I am on my own.

Which I am.

See? There I go again.

Anyway, after my little overnight stay I got on the train to work this morning, and was struck by a sentence in a book I'm reading, which seemed to fit the bill.

"It's not that I don't want you, it's that I'm afraid of wanting only you, and finding that there's nothing left of me."

And somehow, to me, that sort of makes sense.

Today has been one of those days.

2011-11-03T23:20:00.001Z

When your alarm doesn't go off, and your relaxed morning turns into an all-out rush.

When your afternoon is taken up by rectifying silly minor details that no one else will notice - but you have to get right - just in case. An e-mail you send out opens a can of worms, but you put on the polite, affable, apologetic front, representing your company and shelving your own views. An overwhelming part of your brain instructs you to reply with "Oh, do shut up. You sanctimonious twat."

But you like your job. So you don't.

You work late, leave late, and head onto the tube with something to proof read in your hand. One stop later, a buggy gets on containing a wailing baby - and that's the end of that.

Out of the tube, you catch up on earlier missed calls. You look at your HTC piece of crap phone screen. In response, it loses all signal.

Three rounds of "come on, you piece of crap" later, your first phone call to a friend goes to voicemail.

The next call you make on your HTC piece of crap phone inexplicably redirects to an entirely different number to the one you pressed "call" on.

Your bright "Hellooo!" is answered by a slightly irritated, bemused sounding woman who, you think to yourself, doesn't really sound like your friend - but you persist anyway with a jovial, admittedly one-sided game of Guess Who.

Unfortunately, you realise after 30 seconds of sarcastic "Come on you old cow, it's me!", it isn't your friend. It's your HR manager from an old job, who has answered a call from a number they don't know, only to find some absolute tool on the other end chanting "Haha! No - who's this!".

You quickly hang up.

It's when nothing is so bad, but nothing is so good. When the fog is mostly in your mind, as opposed to in the London air. When the shine on your week dulls a bit, and you realise in an entirely unimportant in the grand scheme of things, First World Problem sort of way...

...that it's just been one of those days.

Why I will never be a spy, a best selling author, a zoo keeper, or actually ever get anything done.

2011-11-01T10:52:00.001Z

Sometimes, you can be sitting in front of the TV when a thought suddenly hits you.

Instead of sitting here watching crap-yet-strangely-watchable TV, you should be doing something else.

Not washing up, or making tomorrow's Tupperware offering of pasta and ready made sauce with some token bits of courgette. Not painting the old school desk that's been sitting in the cupboard under the stairs for a month now waiting for you to sand off the words "WANKER" and "NICK WOZ ERE 82" and make it look nice (I haven't even bought the paint yet), but something else. Something important.

You wonder: could this be that that eureka moment where people go "Cor blimey, that's it!" and immediately start penning their first bestseller, or begin charting their long lost family members, or book that life changing trip across the world?

And is it really happening to me during an episode of Don't Tell The Bride?

With this little sudden impetus inside me, I waste no time. I start thinking about what I could do to leave a little mark on the world.

Like writing a book - that's what English graduates do, innit? We aspire to be novelists, right before we realise it's all a bit long and become journalists (or bloggers) instead.

Then I realise that my attention span tends to falter around the 600 word mark, and I don't really want to write a book. Because quite frankly, the world has enough sob stories about boys written by girls with English degrees.

It's then I recall an advert that caught my eye in the morning's Metro.

MI5 NEEDS YOU

it said.

And low and behold, they have a position which, with some amount of career shifting and wishful thinking, I could probably, maybe do. So I put the wheels in motion to become a spy, and breeze through the first stage of the application:

Name:
Date of birth:
Are you definitely British:

And having passed that, I'm onto the next stage; whizzing through the online tests and giving serious thought to which close family member or partner I would confide in about my application, and whether I'd still be able to have a blog if I was in the secret service, when...

So that's out.

Failing a career as an award winning author or a spy, perhaps I just need an extra curricular hobby.

I know! I like penguins. And dogs. And WHALES. I could volunteer at the zoo!

Alright, alright. Maybe not with the animals, then. But surely I could do something equally useful, save the world's animals through administration and filing?

Oh.

And by this point, to be honest, the flash of inspiration is beginning to dwindle.

Sound familiar? Come on, rouse me with a chorus of "We all do it".

It's not that the ideas aren't there, it's not that the enthusiasm is lacking: my 'to do' list is as long as my leg (not that my legs are particularly long, but still). It's the fact that when you sit down to put all these little ideas into practice, they often, for whatever reason, just don't seem so achievable any more.

Barriers pop up, whether it's money or work or lack of skills. There's so much I want to do, but sometimes I wonder how I'll ever get round to doing any of it.

I suppose this is why people decide to run marathons.

Ooh, now there's a...

Nah. Sod that.

Being British and the Cake Conundrum

2011-10-21T14:41:00.000+01:00

There are many, many wonderful things about being British.

Like, when three people are standing around a kettle in the office kitchen waiting for it to boil, the lull in conversation can always be filled with mindless observations about the sun, rain, clouds, heat, cold (or lack of it).

And no matter how chaotic the shop, there will always be a staunchly adhered to queue at the pay desk, populated by people who possess the ability to communicate using only tuts and rolls of the eyes.

Then there's the way the transport system in our capital city is governed by a set of rules based on maintaining order and politeness: letting people off the train first, allowing those in a hurry to get by on the escalators, giving up your seat for someone who needs it, and then shutting the hell up so everyone can brood at the lack of space in silence.

We live in a country where "sorry" is probably the most spoken word in our collective vocabulary, uttered even if we're annoyed and complaining about something - which we frequently are - and yep, we do that really well, if quietly, too.

But for all these entertaining little British nuances, these little quirks based around maintaining order - sometimes there's the feeling that people can be just too damn polite. Not wanting to tread on toes or rock the proverbial boat, we'll often say the opposite of what we want when asked. I like to call it The Cake Conundrum:

They say: Would you like the last slice of cake?

You think: Yes. Say yes. You're starving. Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You say: Oh, no thank you. I'm stuffed. And I ate yesterday, so I really shouldn't.

All of which keeps the world a lovely polite place, but doesn't really do you (or your rumbling stomach) any favours.

The Cake Conundrum can be reversed and applied to many situations, but the end result is the same. One person doesn't say what they really want, and ends up feeling worse, maybe even a bit resentful for it. The other person has their cake, eats it, then feels rude when they later find out, usually by via someone else, that they deprived someone of much needed food.

To carry the metaphor to its healthy end: I suppose sometimes, I feel like I eat a lot of the cake.

You ask me a question, you'll get an honest answer. If you're dithering, I'll decide. You see a husky dog on the tube with a face like a cuddly bear and stare at it longingly; while I'll bound up to the owner, pat the dog on the head, ask it's name ("Bonza") and smile all the way to work.

Because politeness is good, politeness is great. Politeness makes this country go round.

But sometimes, it's good to shelve the weather talk, tell the cashier to hurry up, ask that person next to you to get their bag off your lap, and not automatically apologise when someone else bumps into you. Aside from anything else, you'll feel better for it.

And always, always smile at the dog.

Adjusting to life, piles of dishes, and odd toilet habits

2011-10-18T17:21:00.000+01:00

When you think about it, life is just a series of adjustments.

You've got the big, major life changing ones that are worthy of celebration, fanfare, emergency rescues or expensive legal fees. I'm thinking break-ups, divorces, illness, having babies, getting married, buying a dog, or changing your god-awful career.

Then there's the changes you don't know you've made; the slow, barely perceptible adjustments done without realising: abandoning friends for a boy, the clawing back of self-confidence, a day passed with no thoughts of an ex, or lasting a whole day in high heels.

And finally, there's the "little and often" adjustments you make everyday, usually as a result of the bigger ones.

Case in point:

The biggest thing to happen this year, bar getting royally trampled on in the heart department (you'll notice omitting this from all blog posts is an adjustment I haven't yet made) is finally getting my sheet(s) together, moving out of home and into central London.

This was the big adjustment, the one I've hankered after throughout my twenties. It heralded a life where coming home (or not) is done on my own terms, where the last tube home can leave without me on it, and meetings with either sex aren't answerable to the flagship of all parental questions: "Who's that then?".

And so, as with any big change, minor adjustments are inevitable. For example: allowing dishes to pile in the sink for longer than the time it takes to eat a meal, although granted, not to the height they did at university. Putting loo seats down without a dramatic slam and yell of "Fa' god's SAKE", and accepting that your sleep may be disrupted by someone stumbling in later than you, running the shower and promptly vomiting all over it.

All these little things are now a part of life without parents, and readily accepted - vomit and all - as being par for the twenty-something course.

But in between realising that no one else is going to mop the floor by the bin and entering into the quirks of shared living, there has been one, distinctly coupley thing which might not be so easy to accept.

Because as long as the wall between my bedroom and the bathroom remains thin, I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the sound of one housemate weeing, while the other brushes their teeth.

Call me prudish, or worse - single, but it's just not cricket.

For I will de-hair a sink and put aside all OCD thoughts when sharing my toothpaste, but couple or not - toilet time will always be a single endeavour.

Every question can be answered by alcohol, a good mate and fortune cookies

2011-10-13T15:51:00.001+01:00

Midway through a week where nothing seemed to be going quite wrong, in the same way that nothing seemed to be going quite right, I found myself in a restaurant opposite my good friend PIB (or, Partner in Breakup).

And there, under the watchful gaze of a sizable London landmark, two single girls discussed love - or rather, our bad luck with it.

Because in the last few months, two things have become apparent.

Number one, since my own, otherwise healthy, progressing relationship crashed and burned, there's been an unspoken cynicism simmering inside me towards anyone professing their undying love for another.

While I can be happy for the person with that loved up sparkle in their eyes, I find I can never quite fully subscribe to their belief that it'll all end with smiles and roses. Because heartbreak, ladies and gentlemen, makes you a bit of a cynical bastard.

This is mostly fuelled by another revelation:

That there are people out there - friends of mine, colleagues of yours, ex boyfriends who hurt us before becoming happily betrothed to another - who have never, ever experienced good ol' head shattering heartbreak.

So with this in mind and Prosecco in hand, I posed a question:

"Why is it always us though? Why is it I have friends who have never been heartbroken, who met a wonderful boy, who moved in, got married, and never had that crashing moment when it's all about to go horribly wrong? Why do we get it, and they don't?"

Her reply was short and to the point. "Because they settle."

The idea being, I guess, that while we work late on careers where trips to Cannes and Australia are par for the course (her), or whip off round the world with backpacks (me), or save money at home with the parents (her) or live in central London with housemates (me), kiss boys on the Kings Road (her) and tell their boyfriends where to go when they start to hinder this independent streak (both of us)... others, perhaps, don't.

And then they don't get heartbroken. They get engaged. They get married. And they follow the rules.

Maybe, maybe we just don't. Who knows?

Anyway, the chat drifted by over Dim Sum, my question hanging half pondered, half answered in the air. We asked for the bill. And when it arrived, so did two fortune cookies.

"Mine's rubbish." she declared. "It was last time I was here, but then the person I was with got one that was scarily accurate."

I looked down.

And that, as they say, answered that.

Five things that are worse than the dentist (or yesterday's visit, in any case)

2011-10-06T11:41:00.000+01:00

A few weeks ago while eating a pie, one of my back teeth made a cracking sound and crumbled into my mouth. "Oh dear" I thought, "Oh dear, oh dear". Then I panicked, as is my way, and ran to the toilet to inspect the damage.

In the ensuing days, a sickness overwhelmed me whenever I thought about the tooth. It was giving me a stomach ache. Was it? Yes, it was also tingling; the beginning of a terrible toothache, I supposed. Oh god, they're going to have to take the whole thing out.

I called the dentist, and booked an appointment for two weeks time. Then I called my mum. Standing in an empty meeting room at work I explained, through tears, that I would probably have to have root canals, extractions and finally a bridge put in, leaving me with false teeth like an old woman.

Yesterday I went to the dentist having taken the afternoon off work and enlisted my mum to meet me afterwards, to take me home and feed me soup through a straw.

What actually happened was they fixed it in under five minutes, with no pain or fuss, and I felt a bit silly.

So in honour of me getting wound up over nothing, here are five things that are infinitely worse than yesterday's trip to the dentist:

1) About Me pages written in the third person

Look, drop the act. We know it's you. Unless you're Kate Moss ("Ahm proper busy, wot is internet? Oh do it for me, yeah?"), Michael Jackson (dead) or Flipper (fictional dolphin), you're unlikely to have a team of PRs bigging up your shoes and socks to the lowly public. So drop the "she", give us an "I" and blow that horn with pride. You too, Perez.

2) People who Retweet their #FollowFriday mentions on Twitter

The above sentence will inspire one of two reactions. Either you will be nodding furiously, possibly enraged at the thought of People Who Do #FollowFriday Wrong, or you simply won't care - either because Twitter is dead to you, or because you partake in this Twitter faux pas and don't see what the problem is. In case you do this, please understand that retweeting compliments is the internet equivalent of standing on a chair in a room full of people and saying "BLOODY HELL, THIS PERSON JUST SAID I'M WELL GOOD! SO DID THIS PERSON! LOOK HOW MANY FRIENDS I HAVE! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!" And that's not cool, is it?

3) Companies that send out too many emails

Dear Kurt Geiger, I love you. I own many, many, many pairs of your shoes. Your emails about discount codes and little reminders that the new Spring / Summer range is about to go on 48 hour pre-sale with free postage and packaging are an asset to my inbox. What I don't need are "Star Style", "New In" and "Editor's Picks" emails bludgeoning me over the head with your brand every other day. It's annoying. Please stop. Love from a once loyal, now unsubscribed customer. xx

4) Internet Outrage at the Mail Online

Newsflash to the Daily Fail complainer brigade: Mail Online articles are SEO'd, CMS'd and OMG'd up to the eyeballs for maximum reader rage. They want you to react, because a reaction means hits for their lovely advertisers, and more money for them to pay journalists to write utter crap. So if you generally disagree with what the Daily Mail has to say, don't give them website hits. Don't tell everyone on Twitter how pissed off you are about it. Don't blog about how wrong they are. Ignore. Have tea and kittens instead. Basically, abide by the age old internet adage and don't feed the trolls.

5) Freebie Bloggers

Once upon a time, I replied to PR emails instead of deleting them.

That moment where you realise that companies will give you free stuff in exchange for some words on a website is nothing short of wondrous. You disguise the adverts (and they are adverts) under a veil of nonchalance, telling yourself that you're doing it for your readers who hang on your every word, that your disclosures are in small enough text at the bottom of each post (or omitted completely) for no one to notice...but they do. For me, there was a cost to getting free stuff; as cosy as those cashmere gloves were, they made me feel a bit like an estate agent when it came to mentioning them on my blog. So, freebie fetchers, product pushers, if you like your blog and hate estate agents, don't try to style it out. Be upfront about it, let it be known that you're in this blogging lark mostly for the free products, and do it under a massive post title that reads

"THIS IS A PLUG FOR A COMPANY / BRAND BECAUSE THEY GAVE ME A FREE PAIR OF SHOES TO POST ABOUT IT".

Now that's what you call transparency.

That is all.

Engagement parties, weddings, baby showers: If these words sound like a page from your social calendar, read on.

2011-10-03T12:14:00.000+01:00

Congratulations! You have reached the grand old age of being invited to Celebrate Other People’s Life Events.

Once reserved for people who have survived death for another year, now gifts, cards and parties are given to people who aren’t just living life, but, as far as society and Clinton’s Cards are concerned, living it well.

First it’s

Congratulations on finding a lovely bloke / lady to settle down with,

then

Well done for working overtime to save for a house, buying said house, and moving into said house,

and finally

Hurrah for doing all this, overcoming the need to fall asleep the minute you get into bed, and creating a baby instead.

And as long as people want to share that stuff with others, then I will happily grin, use it as excuse to buy a new outfit, and attend.

However, in a week where my housemates put in place their plans for a three course dinner and club night to celebrate their engagement (tickets: £27), and next year’s bridesmaid commitments tried to demand a hefty advance payment (flights to proposed hen do: £100), another friend attended a baby shower.

Now, as far as I can tell, the idea of a baby shower is something along the lines of

Dear Friends,

We are having a child and want to show you blurry scans and stuff. Please come round and celebrate with us.

We will provide wine and cupcakes, you will provide cots, toys, clothing and equipment (list attached). See you Saturday.

Love, Parents-to-be xx

Having encountered all this in one week and pressed “send” on an email to my fellow bridesmaids which will almost certainly earn me the title of The Cheapo Friend, suggesting that a hen-do for 14 people in Eastern Europe may be – how you say - pricing people out a bit, it struck me:

Other People’s Life Events are bloody expensive, aren’t they?

It’s all well and good sharing your coupled glee with the world, but when that requires others to dig deep, buy pre-selected gifts and even face denting a friendship if their bank accounts don't step up to the mark, something begins to grate.

And aside from anything else, it seems to me that there’s an awfully large gap in the market.

It was Sunday morning when I sat on the phone to my good friend PIB. Her: newly single, lounging in the garden with papers, bemoaning the six hour small-talk session that had been yesterday’s baby shower. Me, still in bed at 11am, on the cusp of a ground-breaking plan.

“Look. We’re doing well. We’ve got good jobs, busy social lives, the world at our feet, we’re happy. So where are our bloody presents? Let’s have a night where all our coupled, married and babied friends have to come to a pub, buy us shit loads of drinks, bring us Kurt Geiger vouchers, and celebrate the fact that we’re single and doing it well. Then when they all bow out early to feed the husbands, wives and kids, we’ll stay out and get smashed on their gifts of champagne.”

That’s right ladies and gents, all hail my new invention: the Single Shower.

Because if everyone else is getting congratulated on being happy with someone else, then I want a pat on the back and some free stuff for achieving the same on my own.

So, who's up for it? Let's get this craze sweeping the nation.

RSVP below.

Oh, and if you're asking - mine's a Bollinger.

Five Things That Shouldn't Be On The Tube

2011-09-28T13:16:00.001+01:00

The daily commute is both the high and low point of my day.

The highs include a really good "what have you come as?", the bizarre cross section of people, lingering glances at Tube Crushes through the liberally skin-greased, soft focus glass, train drivers who announce each stop like it's a contender in a boxing match, and of course, getting on the tube in one part of London and emerging, ten minutes later, in another. Well, unless there are delays.

Which brings me nicely to the lows. Delays, engineering works, tourists stalling by the doors, screaming children, people getting on while you're trying to get off, fainting ladies - and that's just the weekends.

So to make life easier for all, here are five things that, in my humble opinion, Should Not Be On The Tube.

1. Excess Luggage (not the Scottish)

Contrary to popular belief, men in skirts are always a welcome addition to any tube journey of mine. The gripe here is about the mass of belongings. Fair enough, you've got places to go, people to see, and more baggage to haul across London than Jesus, but rush hour is not the time to do it. Tripping over someone's drum kit is no way to style out that nonchalant commuter vibe.

2. Crotch Shots

To quote 1990's gameshow host Roy Walker, this man's bright red socks are good, but they're not the one. However, the 90 degree angle at which his legs are splayed is. Men, I understand you have "junk in your trunk", but spare a thought for those of us who are faced with the inglorious sight of your trousered cock crease for the duration of our journey. Yeah. Didn't think of that one, did ya.

3. Burberry Man Bags

There are no excuses. Just. Say. No.

4. Your left over food

"Oh, what's this? I seem to have a satsuma in my bag! I think I need to eat the satsuma before I get to my destination. Uh oh, what's this coming off in my hand? Skin? Eek! I didn't count on this happening - and what's more, it's now burning through my hands like toxic waste! URGH! Begone, foul orange satsuma skin. Lay thee on the floor and on the air vents aft for other people to step on and / or avoid sitting near, lest they do themselves a mischief."

5. Dogs

Ha! Only joking. I bloody LOVE dogs on the tube. My day is practically made if there's a dog on my train: I can do nothing except engineer a situation where I am as close to the dog as possible, in order to go "Oh! doggle! Hi doggle! Doggle, doggle, doggle!" and stroke it while boring the owner senseless until my stop. In my opinion, every carriage should have a canine in residence. Preferably a proper one, e.g. Labrador, basset hound or, my tube dog of choice, the Pyrenean Mountain Dog: because when it comes to pets in transit, the bigger the better.

Owners in green trousers, on the other hand...

Living with a couple is like doing a skydive...

2011-09-26T13:23:00.002+01:00

...in that, on paper, it’s a really, really, really bad idea.

Much like flinging yourself from a plane, entering into a houseshare with two love birds could and should end in disaster, especially if you’re a bit scared of heights (or in this case, relationships), and have read the stories about related catastrophic failures in the past.

Because even though someone else has just done it before you and survived – nay, enjoyed the experience immensely – how do you know it will be the same for you?

The fact is, you don’t. Until you put on that sexy neon jumpsuit, attach yourself to a bleach blond adrenaline junky, get into a rickety old plane and leap out of the proverbial door at 13,000 feet… well, let's be honest. It could go either way.

Fortunately, the statistics are heaped in your favour.

To dump the metaphor for a moment, these two people were your friends way before they got hitched at the hip. And in the years since, nothing’s really changed. Your friends are their friends, your collective memories of university and beyond are mostly shared: and you usually end up crashing on their sofa after a night out anyway. All that’s really changing is your sofa (now a bed upstairs), and the selection of spare clothes for the next day.

There are, admittedly, the requisite cuddles and kisses to contend with; the single girl’s nemesis.

But after four years of togetherness, your housemates' urge to jump each other in the hallway has given way to an everyday acceptance of the other’s presence. Walking in on a couple casually curled up on the sofa is nothing compared to witnessing your single housemate's independent fun streak turn to puppy-like dependence on another; her party filled weekends now spent holed up in a bedroom, romping away the giddy months of sparkling, brand new, exciting love. Get a room. And no, not this one.

That’s not to say that everyone’s experience will be the same. I, personally, wouldn’t have inflicted my past relationships on anyone. Likewise, there’s no way I’d live with two lovers plucked randomly from the Gumtree.

As with most life experiences: to have a good time you’ve got to choose your company wisely, go with the one who has a fail safe reputation for being better than just ok.

But no jump into the unknown is without that slightly scary moment when the adrenaline stops, the parachute is deployed, and you’re floating to the ground feeling a bit sick. Or, in my case, when your new housemates are away on holiday and several jointly addressed envelopes start appearing on the doormat in their absence.

“Oh no.” you think, having assessed both the postage marks, date stamps, size, weight and dimensions and concluded that these are indeed greetings cards, and the sort which fill any single girl with a growing, slightly sicky dread.

“What about me?" thinks selfish you, "If they’re engaged, where will I go? They’ll get married, move to the country and I’ll be thrown into the HouseHunt dot com bog once again. What’s more, I’ll be forced to listen to discussions about venues, table arrangements and – gulp – holy shitting matrimony. This will not do.”

Days later, they walk through the door and you eye the finger of doom. Minutes later, your suspicions are confirmed. He done the deed. She said yes.

“But, y’know in a couple of years. Oof, not yet. I mean, there’s still so much I want to do before all that”, are the words from Girl Housemate that make the sickness recede, replaced with relief, and you throw your arms around her and start being genuinely happy for what lies ahead. You know, way ahead. You've got enough time to find a respectable plus one, at least.

And so, you find yourself adding to the list of Things You Never Thought You’d Do:

Jump out of a plane at 13,000 feet
Travel round the world
Move in with a boy, then out again after three weeks
Find myself living, seven months later, with a newly engaged couple.

And most crucial of them all:

5. Survive: brain, capacity to be happy for others, body (see also: heart) - all intact.

Primark Killed The Charity Shop

2011-09-19T13:05:00.001+01:00

Image from inspiredesignblog.co.uk

Let's put something out there straight away: I ain't no fashionista. Rifling about for floaty calf length skirts that channel thy inner vintage just isn't my thing.

I also hate fancy dress. It makes me feel awkward. At a push, and in a situation where everyone else in the whole entire world was dressing up and I wanted to fit in, I'd go for a full bear outfit for maximum coverage. No "is she? Isn't she?" ambiguity. It'd be "Yes, she is. And she is clearly a bear".

So what use do I have for a charity shop, if not to see 1970s potential in dated floral blouses or finding braces for Laurel and Hardy themed nights out?

To be honest, it's rarely clothing. Accessories tend to win it: functional belts that look a bit like the one I refused to pay £50 for in Urban Outfitters. Or cut price nearly-new books, especially in my local one where I'm pretty sure someone who works for a publisher just dumps all their freebies every week (Grace Dent's How to Leave Twitter and a hardback copy of one of my favourite books, A.A.Gill is Away in one haul this weekend. Score.)

I'd love to buy clothes from a charity shop, I really would. Because as much as I'm not a vintage lovin' fashion fiend, I do love a good bargain. With rent now a fixture in my banking calendar, and in need of a big Autumn-y cardigan, this weekend I took myself home and trawled the abundance of local second hand shops for just that. But sadly, I never did get one of the big cosy grandma cardigans I imagined would be in abundance.

Instead, I got a healthy dose of disdain.

Disdain for the sheer amount of average, worn-looking, generic gumpf from Primark lining the rails.

Not the nice dresses and catwalk cast-offs you see in the magazines, or adorning the backs of fashion conscious festival goers, either. The other stuff. The guilty stuff. You know, the bits you buy in bulk, purely because of the price.

Oh, it seems like such a bargain when you get home with 30 vest tops for a fiver, doesn't it? And when you've worn it, washed it and it now resembles more a tent than a top - well, you feel a bit bad shoving it in the bin. What a waste. Nah, let's put it in a black bag and give it to those in need; the grateful receivers of refuse they can't refuse - charity.

Looking at the rails, the tell-tale Atmosphere label was everywhere. I'm not sure what your non-UK equivalent would be, but here's a 101. Think cheap, miserable, sorry looking excuses for clothes which have travelled from third world slum to first world city, only to be slapped with a £1.50 price tag for the trouble. Disposable clothing worn once, replaced, and now donated in the hope that someone else might pay for it again.

Except they're not going to, are they? Would you? No. Because it's crap. And ironically, it'll probably be more expensive in the charity shop than it was to begin with.

Like this article says: "where something’s too cheap, someone, somewhere along the line is paying"

And despite what your conscience tells you, as long as Primark's in your donation bag, it's not going to be the person rifling through the rails in a charity shop.

Girl on the train

2011-09-15T12:32:00.000+01:00

Last night I was on the tube when a young girl flounced onto the train.

Laden with large envelopes, a couple of posh looking branded material bags and about five Google Map print outs, initially I was annoyed. She'd sat down next to me and plonked her bags half across my lap. Even my shuffling about didn't alert her to the space infringement, so intent she was on studying the route mapped out on the bits of paper.

A few stops along she got out her phone, clicked down to "Mum" and pressed call. Clearly stressed, she vented that she'd been running around London all day, delivering envelopes and having asked if she could finish up tomorrow morning, they'd said no. She didn't know what time she'd be home. My irritation fell away.

I glanced down at the top envelope and saw the name of a PR firm written in the corner. We went underground and she finished the call, got out a tube map and started comparing it with the Google version, which showed three markers dotted around east London.

It was well after six o'clock, and we were still west. I took out my earphones.

"Do you know which route you're going to take yet?" I said, pointing at the maps.

It transpired the girl - who was on an unpaid internship with the PR company - lived in the Home Counties, and would still have to get back out there once she'd finished the "drops", which had to be done tonight. With what I estimated to be (at least) another hour of walking ahead of her, she wasn't even close to going home.

She was, effectively, a free courier.

I looked at the maps with her and told her the quickest way to go, which tube lines linked with where and what I hoped was an easier route than the one mapped out. Making a mental note of the PR company name, I wished her luck and got off at my stop.

Now, I don't know how long this internship was, or any other details apart from the company name*. What I do know is that there was a young, stressed out girl on my train home who wasn't getting paid for what was well over a full day's work.

And quite frankly, if the documents inside were really that important and really couldn't wait until the next day, why would you give them to an intern to deliver on foot?

The internship situation is beyond a joke. Yes, work experience is probably the most valuable thing I ever did, and let me find out which industry I wanted to work in. But I did short term, well managed placements. I never felt taken advantage of and working past 6pm was always a choice, not an enforced rule.

It's one thing to offer valuable experience. It's another to give someone all the jobs you don't want to do yourself or pay for, and call it an "internship".

You'd think they'd make it against the law.

Oh, wait...

*No names, it'd probably do more harm than good.