Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open

How to put a dampener on a lovely summer evening

2012-05-25T14:05:00.004+01:00

Picture the scene.

You're up on the roof terrace of a pub in Kings Cross with some friends, enjoying the last couple of hours of sunshine and demolishing fruit-stuffed glasses of Pimms as the day slips seamlessly into balmy night.

After an hour or so, you glance down at the bench next to you. Then you look at the floor. You glance nervously to the opposite seats (maybe you put it over there?) and for reasons unknown, start patting your pockets- as if you normally pop your handbag in your jeans for safe keeping.

"What are you looking for?" says a friend, having seen your eyes step up their frantic search behind you and on adjoining tables.

"Oh, just my handbag..." you reply, all casual, like.

Others join in the search.

"It's definitely not here."

"No" you sigh, acknowledging what you knew when you first looked down. "It's gone."

That's annoying, you think, the Pimms and Prosecco softening the blow slightly as you borrow a phone and start cancelling things. Someone alerts the bar staff, another friend tops up your glass and two others go and rifle through the bins outside, returning with three other stolen credit cards in their hands; none of them yours.

Someone tops up your glass.

You mentally list everything that was in the bag: your everyday survival kit.

Wallet (no cash these days, thankfully), debit cards, drivers licence, National Insurance card. Boots, Tesco, Necter, spare SIM card. Diary, phone, Oyster card. Bus pass. Bits and bobs you keep close. Moleskine diary, your plans for the next few months, the ideas written in the back. Your shit HTC phone that you actively urged people to steal regularly, but feel a bit lost without now that it's gone.

On your way back from checking the toilets, the calm feeling is shattered by the realisation that you've also lost the key card for your block. The keys to your flat. Was your address written anywhere?

Your glass is filled again.

The bank arrange for emergency cash, you get a taxi home. Your housemate lets you in.

The list of things you've lost continues to rack up the next morning as you start your day. Earphones. Mac cover-up. Dior lipstick.

Throughout it all, you're calmer than expected. A friend sums it up nicely with a cautious question.

"Urm, was it...it wasn't....it wasn't...The Bag, was it?"

"No, no. Thank God."

"Phew."

"I know." you sigh, hangover creeping in as you write down all the things you have to do before you can get to work. "Every cloud."

How many times have you asked / been asked The Question this week?

2012-05-07T19:57:00.000+01:00

There's one question that, as a single girl, you get asked almost repeatedly.

No matter who you talk to, no matter their relationship to you; close or not, good friend, or someone you've just met, aged 27 or 62:

"So, any men on the scene?"

The answer, of course, is always the same. My eyebrows raise slightly, my mouth purses together, the shoulders hunch up and shrug a bit while my head shakes.

"Nooo, no...." I say, staring at my plate before quipping "...not for a while. Off men! Yeah. No. No, no. Well, it would be nice, but well - you know! Where do they hide! Har har. Ahhh. Sooo..."

And while I don't think I'd like the answer to be "Yes, I have a boyfriend and we are planning babies" just yet, I would quite like it to be "Well - got a few options but, you know - nothing serious".

Because immediately after I've answered that question, I'm overcome by the feeling that I'm not quite making the most of this single malarkey; that I'll look back and regret not being more carefree and saying "yeah, why not" more often, and only have myself to blame.

After all, everyone else seems to manage it. At a time when it seems like all my friends are going on one-off dates, re-kindling old flames, bringing boys back to their houses and kissing their co-workers, it's all I can do to sit there and wonder out loud where they find the cast of these inappropriate, exciting stories, while I have none whatsoever to tell.

It can make you feel a bit silly, a bit like there's something wrong with you. It can make you wonder if, in your darkest hours after the break-up, you drunk dialled T-Mobile customer services and demanded they block every male in your phone book from ever contacting you again, so frequent is the tumbleweed blowing through your text message inbox.

And then sometimes, you remember that the other week you walked out of the doctors surgery and a bloke followed you, asked you for the time, whether you had a boyfriend, and then whether you'd like to go for a drink. You remember that you politely declined, standing, as you were, in the rain outside the doctors clutching your futile prescription for the pill and wondering when people started picking up girls in waiting rooms. You remember that you took his number anyway purely at his insistence, "in case you change your mind".

You remember, of course, that you didn't.

And so, you stay single, dateless and the question is repeated the next weekend: so, are there any men on the scene?

No, you sigh, there are still no men on the scene after year and four months of singledom, but for now, at least, the thought is there.

Dig if you will a picture... of the last five days chez moi

2012-04-26T22:27:00.001+01:00

Think back to the last time you didn’t have a television in your house.

And for the smug Billies about to scroll down and press publish on their “actually, I haven’t had one for years and I quite like it. Anyway, got iPlayer for the snooker, innit” comment, please think back to the last time you didn’t have the internet, either.

Now, I think I’m right in saying that this situation alone will put most of my techy, culture-savvy readers back to circa 1995. But if you, by some stretch of the imagination, have neither of these things in 2012 and enjoy a spot of conversation in your silent abode instead (there’s no radio either, before you start on the joys of Radio 4’s evening schedule), kindly think back to the last time you had no TV, internet, radio or chit-chat over the kitchen table.

In fact, put the sources of any usual conversation abroad. Lets say Spain. Or Cuba. Also, remove any cats, dogs or parrots from the equation.

(Quiet in here, isn’t it?)

Oh! I forgot to mention. You’re single, without a flicker of interest from any corner, so don’t go imagining any spontaneous “hey you, watcha doin? i’m bored :)) xxxxxxxx” text messages will be arriving any time soon.

Actually, you’re right. Something’s missing from this picture.

Can we add in some rain? Make it the constant, dreary, near-torrential stuff that puts paid to any form of socialising after work, because not only are you watching the pennies anyway, but it's windy and cold, so all anyone wants to do is go home and watch the Apprentice instead.

And don’t go on Twitter via your phone! Your phone is a nightmare anyway, but you can't even resort to that now. No, no. Because everyone’s talking about the TV programmes you’re not watching – and that’s really annoying.

So there you ha… wait. I almost forgot the knee. The knee! You also have a gammy knee which has chosen this very week to take on all the characteristics of a particularly rickety elderly person and send lots of fun pain whizzing around whenever you try and bend it, for no apparent reason.

Blimey. Don’t forget the knee. That hurts.

Tell you what. Go to work. Come home. Cook your dinner (it's pasta, again). Read a book, have a bath. Take some pain killers. Go to bed. Listen to sirens. Fall asleep.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It is!

Now wake up and repeat this process again the next day. And the next. And the next.

I know what you’re thinking. “Is it the weekend yet?”

No. There are still 24 hours to go until the working week meanders to its spectacularly quiet, slightly soggy conclusion.

But soon it will be Friday, and your housemate will be back from holiday.

Then, and only then, may you permeate the silence and join in with a rousing chorus of “HIYA! You’re back! Woo! Shall we get the internet sorted and buy a telly? Yeah. I’ll get the wine in."

And not a moment too soon.

All change, please.

2012-04-20T22:32:00.000+01:00

Urgh, change. What a hassle.

There you are, trotting along nicely when all of a sudden in comes change; expensive, shocking, annoying change, ballsing up your finely tuned plans with the latest startling revelation.

Change is the friend who lets you tell your happy news, before dropping in their own and stealing your thunder. It's that idiot who walks in the room and makes everyone say "Oh, God, not you again. Haven't you done enough?"

In short, change is a bastard.

But you know, as much as change gets in the way of an otherwise happy life, I'm struggling to think of a time where something good hasn't come out of it.

Break-ups lead to a better social life and new, improbably brilliant friends.

Change makes you realise that your parents will never say "I told you so" when you crash, burn, and return home (again). The neverending search for employment - weirdly - always seems to lead to a better job than all the ones you coveted along the way.

Previously reliable friends might suddenly call time on your living arrangement, but then you find yourself living in an area of London you've liked for ages, with a new, equally single housemate and a commute that takes you on a daily bus tour through your favourite parts of the city.

Change can cost more money per month, but it can also give you an original wood floor and massive windows. It can leave you without internet or TV for a while, but give you conversation over a glass of wine instead.

When you think about it, change isn't out to piss you off, it's just showing you another way to do things.

Change isn't that bad, really.

But if things could just stay like this for a little while, then I'd really rather like it.

Expectations Vs. Reality

2012-04-10T22:58:00.000+01:00

There's a nice scene in 500 Days of Summer when the screen splits in two.

If you haven't seen the film, it's when the main character, Tom, goes to his ex-girlfriend's house for a party. On one half of the screen, you've got his expectations playing out and on the other, what actually happens in reality.

It's nicely done, and if you're anything like me, it'll send your stomach lurching for him whether it's the first or fiftieth time you've watched it.

I think it's the way the expectations and reality converge at various points and then split off, just like they do whenever your thoughts have time to wonder each day. Whether it's playing the lottery and realising you haven't won (again), or just sitting opposite a nice looking bloke on the tube, catching their eye once, and building an entire situation in your head where they follow you off the train at your stop and ask you for your number.

Of course, they don't - you get off the train without a word and never see them again. But the happy scenarios are always there keeping us entertained on a boring journey, and occasionally - very occasionally - playing out in real life in the most spectacularly perfect way possible.

It's a bit like when you've been thinking about a bloke who caught your attention the other week and what would happen if you bumped into him, then you get to the top of the stairs at Kings Cross Station and - bloody hell - there he is. Standing right there.

This is it, you think, that moment when the stars align and you catch each others eye and end up giggling on the concourse, sharing a backwards glance when one of you eventually drags themselves away, phone number in pocket. This is the start of something grand.

You look over, try to meet his eye while running your fingers through the front bit of your hair. You keep looking to check it's him; that you're not about to go "Oh hello, it's Bloke From Last Week, isn't it? Nice to see you again!" to a complete stranger.

You pause your step and your eyes meet, your mouth opens and the very first inkling of an almost-"Hi" comes out of your mouth - but his phone is held to his ear, and he's looking around as if he's trying to find someone. He hasn't recognised or registered you. The moment is gone, and you carry on walking and look back, kicking yourself for not trying harder. Definitely him.

Bugger.

And just like that, it's back to reality.

Mended?

2012-04-04T00:12:00.004+01:00

"You're mended" came the PIB's assessment, as we sat in a cocktail bar late on Saturday night.

The weekend had been full of the things I like best: zipping around London, meeting new friends and catching up with old ones. Friday night was spent in the company of Future Housemate and later, some of her (male) friends; one of whom had caught my eye and attention from the start.

"Look at me all talking to boys 'n' that!" I'd exclaimed excitedly to the PIB the following night, "He's probably got a girlfriend, and he's probably really young. But we talked a bit. And he was lovely".

Ok, so it's just talking - hardly a string of illicit dates or marriage, not even texts - but it was nice to feel normal again. In fact, the entire weekend had felt exactly how being single in London should feel: exciting and full of endless possibilities. The broken heart a vague memory in the distance, well and truly mended.

So when the e-mail popped into my inbox on Monday night as I pottered around on the internet - a name I hadn't seen bolded and unread in there since last March - I wasn't really prepared for the zap of panic that came over me.

Here it was then, the long awaited contact. No subject line to determine what it might contain. What's he e-mailing me for? My heart started racing as I stared at my inbox. How should I reply? Should I just delete it? Why now?

The reasons for the above became clear seconds after I took a deep breath and opened the e-mail. And there it was in all its glory: a spam link. Hurrah for the ironies of modern technology; after a year of no contact, my ex boyfriend was sending me links to porn.

Don't check the other e-mail addresses to see if her name's there. Don't. Don't. Don't.

Oh, fuck it.

Click "more". And sure enough, among the other lucky recipients was her name, too.

After a few minutes of staring at the e-mail, my heart beat returned to normal. Just spam. I pressed delete.

But when the second e-mail arrived today at lunch time, in the midst of a day where the to-do list was getting longer while the working week was getting shorter, it knocked me back again, and I took myself outside for a walk.

It felt faintly ridiculous to be teetering on the verge of emotion in Pret over an e-mail about, well, absolutely nothing at all - a warning to undisclosed recipients not to click on any links in my previous e-mail, his e-mail got hacked, thanks.

It felt stupid to feel slightly disappointed that it wasn't just to me, apologies with a by-the-way how are you.

It was alien to see his name come up and his words on the screen - no matter how impersonal they were.

And it's a strange thing to admit when you're an advocate of being single, taking what life throws at you and being happy with it, that you might actually want someone else now. Because deep down, you know a ridiculous spam e-mail sent to an entire address book wouldn't bother you so much if another person was on the scene.

Can you ever really get mended until you've moved on to someone else?

Good decisions made on bad hangovers

2012-03-19T13:28:00.000Z

It was 11am last Saturday morning when myself and the Future Housemate viewed our fourth flat of the morning.

Whether it was our hangovers, the time of day, or both - the previous three places we'd seen were almost instantly discounted on the grounds of smell alone.

While the communal corridors and private spaces of the first two flats contained a pungent whiff of this morning's bacon and last night's dinner, the third hit us with a thick wall of cigarette smoke; a suffocating smell that permeated every inch of space and followed us out the door within minutes.

The fourth, we liked.

It was modern. It had good transport links nearby. It was over budget, but we wanted it anyway. I put down a deposit there and then.

With the first of my housing problems taken care of, there remained one more thing to sort out: myself.

When you're unhappy with a situation, you always have two options: you can either stay unhappy and complain to anyone who'll listen, or you can do something about it. Realising that I was fast falling into the former category, I chose to take action.

Firstly, I called up my friends and got drunk.

Then, the next morning, with another hangover dictating my actions, I started packing up my things at the old house, despite having another two weeks remaining on the rent. By the afternoon, the contents of my bedroom - the only space in the shared house that felt mine, really - were packed into plastic bags, boxes and rucksacks and ready to go home.

By the evening, I was sitting on a sofa in a warm, clean house with a large, grateful dog on my lap, in the company of my new 60 year old house mates - my parents.

And after a week of getting in from work to find dinner on the table, there remains only one problem left to face: the challenge of moving back out and cooking for myself again in six week's time.

It's Women's Day, part of International Blummin' Good Friends Week

2012-03-08T14:59:00.001Z

For a long time, I associated getting older with the loss of things. From hair to sanity, grandparents to friends, it always seemed I was more likely to lose rather than gain things after a certain age.

It's no wonder, really. All through school, university and travels, the emphasis is always on making friends. Once all that's out of the way, there's a shift. Girls aren't supposed to look for friends any more, they're supposed to look for a relationship. If that fails, the solution never seems to be "go and make new friends", it's "grab your old friends, and go and find a new man".

What nobody tells you is that if you do find yourself single at 27, that you can still make friends - lots of them, in fact - and they'll probably end up being the best, most honest, generous and like-minded ones you ever had.

It's International Women's Day today, and there have been lots of reminders floating around the internet about female solidarity both online and off.

The reminder came for me on Tuesday night, as I hung around the office sending e-mails to friends as the clock ticked past 6pm. Truth was, I wasn't relishing the thought of going back to a house where I no longer feel all that comfortable.

Eventually I headed home leaving the e-mail chain in mid-flow, and hopped on the tube. A voicemail came through as I was killing more time in the Co-op.

"Hey love, I'm leaving for Brussels tomorrow, so my flat's free if you want to get out of your house. I'll be round the corner tonight and I have a spare key for you. Come and meet me. Byeee!"

While I was gearing up to call her back, my phone rang. It was one of the other girls, offering to meet me for a drink so that I didn't go home and sit there feeling crap all night. I grabbed the key and a quick hug, then hopped back on the tube into town to the pub, having gratefully taken both friends up on their offers.

The next day, the following sentences at the end of an article in Stylist magazine caught my attention:

At around the same time...I experienced the surpassingly odd sensation of making a new friend. A genuine friend, a good friend. It really was, and remains, a bizarre feeling. I never expected it to happen again at my age. I brighten every time I get a text from her and can’t wait to meet up with her every week to put the world to rights. It is like the beginning of a love affair but without the sickening doubts or sexual anxieties. It’s absolutely brilliant.

And I couldn't have put it better myself.

Just so you know, this is what we're up against here.

2012-03-02T12:59:00.000Z

Every time I get an e-mail alert about a new property, I do a few checks before calling to arrange a viewing.

1. Price
Is the flat at the top end or bottom end of my budget?

2. Description
Is the flat above a commercial building, a.k.a, a rancid kebab shop?

3. Pictures
Is there cat shit on the carpet? Is there carpet?

4. Map of area
Because sometimes, they say "Islington" when what they really mean is "Essex".

And when I'm satisfied that it might be what I'm looking for, I do one final thing.

5. Google Street view

Technology: Saving you time since 2007.

Experience the joys of flat hunting in London

2012-02-28T23:17:00.000Z

Flat hunting in London is a very special experience.

In fact, if you've never felt your hope deflate, melt, and accumulate slowly into a pool of disillusion at your feet in the space of 30 seconds, then I highly recommend you try it.

Because 30 seconds is usually all it takes, and I'm not talking about that "oh, you just know" instinct that buyers harp on about. I mean literally: you walk through the door and within 20 seconds you've seen the living room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms of wildly varying proportions, which leaves another few seconds to pause and take in the damp using only your nose.

And because the estate agent's standing there while you open various doors looking for the secret Narnia cupboard that £650 per month would probably get you up in Newcastle, you make the best of it.

You find yourself saying things like "Without that bed, you could probably fit a desk in there", and "Oh, well it's not like I'd need to get to the kitchen much anyway", before shaking hands and leaving, stepping over the puddle of despair on your way out.

It also doesn't take long to realise that basements are good for a lot of things; storing bicycles, hiding boyfriends, even raising children you fathered with your daughter, but they seldom make for light, airy, sweet smelling living spaces.

Likewise, when even the "enough room to swing a cat" cliche would be pushing it in the bedrooms of the split level maisonette you're viewing (n.b. fish-eyed cameras lie), it's all you can do to cease wondering where the second level got to and quip to your Future Housemate, "Well, on the plus side, the bedrooms are the same size".

And ah, Gumtree listings; where Marylebone means Edgware Road, Camden means Holloway, "shabby chic" means your bed's in the living room, and £240 per week means you're the wrong side of Finsbury Park Station.

Samuel Johnson said when you're tired of London, you're tired of life.

I say when you're tired of flat hunting in this city, you're probably only just getting started.

Remnants of a break-up: The things I can't remember

2012-02-22T22:20:00.003Z

The waiter approached and we each plucked another glass from his tray before he disappeared back into the networking throng.

"Something a bit weird has happened" I said, turning towards my two friends seated next to me, raising my voice slightly against the music and chatter around us.

It started in the first couple of weeks of my new job, when sleep wasn't coming as easily as it might have done and I regularly found myself awake well into the night; mind skimming through topics like pages in a book. And it was over the course of these few nights, completely unprompted, that my thoughts kept returning to the same thing.

A name. Or rather, the lack of it.

This time last year, there was one name which made me feel sick, angry and upset in equal measure. Not his name - no, that would be impossible to forget - but her name, the "someone else". I spent a good few months last year hurling every sort of horrendous thought in her direction, thinking of him and this faceless name. And now, whenever I try to remember it, it's not there. No matter how hard I try to recall it, the name has completely dropped from my memory.

Sometimes I get close and land on what could be the first letter, then a barrier - almost physical in its intensity - shuts down my thought process and leaves me with nothing. If I try to think of it, every path that might help me get there seems blocked.

It's a strange thing to notice, and a stranger thing to comment on, the non-existence of something, but I've recorded every other reaction to the break up, and this is a new one to add to the mix.

The PIB took a sip of her drink. "Maybe it's when you go through something unexpected and stressful, if something hurt you for long enough, then eventually your brain will step in and stop it."

Whatever the reasoning, as I said to my friends, it's just a bit weird. Of all the survival mechanisms you put in place to get over things, it seems strange to come across one, more than a year down the line, that you weren't even conscious of doing.

The redefinition of "good news"

2012-02-18T18:12:00.000Z

"...the good news is that we have until the 24th March" continued Tuesday's text message, thus confirming Monday's surprise announcement.

Needless to say, my response was short, polite, but to the point, and began with the suggestion that the sender reassess his definition of the term "good news".

As well as putting the wheels in motion to relocate myself, this week has also been an exercise in trying to work out whether the annoyance I feel about having to find a new house so soon after moving in to this one is justified.

While the responses of friends, family and you lot seemed to suggest that this was indeed Crap News Delivered Badly, unfortunately there remained two people who didn't (and, I expect, still don't) quite see the problem.

Suffice to say, it came as a bit of a surprise to have to explain, in detail, to the blank, uncomprehending faces of those responsible that my "not all that great, to be honest" mood on Wednesday morning wasn't down to the onset of the common cold.

So instead of wasting any more time being annoyed, I think maybe there is some good news in all of this. Because what this whole saga really confirms is that my own views, priorities and expectations - both in life, and of others - do not match up to those of an engaged couple.

And for a 27 year old who spent Tuesday evening in a friend's kitchen with eight other single girls, drinking cheap fizzy wine, doing shots of Glenfiddich and regaling the neighbouring Kings Cross residents with a loud, not altogether tuneful rendition of Beyoncé's Love On Top, I have concluded that this can be no bad thing.

Curveballs are fine, if you know they're coming.

2012-02-13T21:47:00.000Z

Thinking about it, eight months would have been nice amount of time.

I mean, I'll settle for five - it's better than nothing, but ideally eight months would have been the optimum time for nothing to change.

Unfortunately, it's not like you can really write to Captain Life and apply for eight months of static living please, pretty please with a cherry on top, can everything stay the same for a while. But what you can request is that if things are likely to change, that you're given a fair amount of warning.

"So, me and Girl Housemate have been thinking that we want to live on our own before getting married" started Boy Housemate this evening, arriving rather laboriously at the point after an extensive preamble. I continued to season a rather lovely bit of fillet steak.

"Yeah? That makes sense."

"And for the last month or so we've been keeping an eye out."

"Ok..."

"Today something came up on Gumtree, just around the corner. So I went to see it."

"Oh, right. To buy?"

"No. Rent."

"Right..."

"So I put an offer in, and if it gets accepted - which it might not, we offered lower than they want - but we'd have about four weeks to..err...sort stuff out"

Which is how it transpired, tonight, entirely out of the blue, that I potentially have four weeks to find somewhere else to live.

It's difficult to explain without telling you all the boring details - you'll just have to take my word for it - but I can't live here if they don't.

It's difficult to explain why I didn't get angry immediately, or demand to know why, if they've been considering other living arrangements even if just for a month - they didn't think to give me a heads up until now.

And it's difficult to explain why I feel really, really shaken up by the prospect of what comes next.

Do I move in with people I don't know?

Do I, almost a year to the day after I moved back in with my parents last year, let history repeat itself?

Do I really have to call my parents up and admit that once again, things that weren't meant to fall through actually have?

And like every time something changes - I just wish for once that it wouldn't.

Or failing that, I just wish it would give me a bit more notice.

I've read some really bloody good blog posts this week.

2012-02-10T16:01:00.000Z

Earlier this week I went home for the night, which meant commuting to work the next morning from the suburbs.

There are pros and cons to having a longer commute from Zone 5 (aka The Sticks). Firstly, the seat-grabbing mentality is fierce out there. Seriously, I made a beeline for a spare seat at precisely the same time as an older woman from the opposite end of the carriage. We engaged in what can only be described as a battle of speed, agility and sheer-bloody-mindedness as we both held steadfast to our claim on that square of bum space. I won, but lord, did I know about it from the look on her face afterwards.

On the flip side, once seated I realised a commute above ground means internet signal. Having missed the Metro Newspaper gold rush (another downside; they're all gone by half past eight), I delved into my Google Reader and made my way through the week's blog posts.

Now I've got a job that demands I, you know, do stuff all day - sometimes it's hard to keep up. The evenings whiz by in a haze of pasta and catch-up TV, the odd bit of writing, or drinks with friends. Reading what other people have to say takes a back seat.

But that morning on my long commute, I read a few blogs that reminded me why blogging - reading, commenting, writing - is something that's worth putting time aside for.

1. This post on Team AWOT
The Awesome Women of Twitter does exactly what it says on the tin: a group of awesome women, who can be found on Twitter (or a bar in Shoreditch) and now on a blog. This blog was started last week and it's already top of my reading list because it discusses and engages with the important stuff on girls' minds. If you are female, or male with an interest in girls and what makes the awesome ones tick, then read this post on why our perceptions of our bodies are all wrong.

2. This post by Chelsea Talks Smack
I've been reading Chelsea's blog since I started writing this one, and if the starred items in my reader are anything to go by, this is one girl who seems to have hit the nail on the head a fair few times over the years. From love to heartbreak and everything in between; this week it was the following advice that made me think, once again: "Yeah. Nail, meet head."

"Oh and you should know this, but for the record, you should probably stop giving a shit about that guy. You know why? Because you're really fantastic and you should never need to convince someone of it. Bye. bye."

3. This post by The Unbearable Banishment
Perhaps it's because I'm part of the generation that has seen technology take its grip to the extent we see now, nothing worries me more than society's reliance on the little screens we all carry around, that no one can seemingly be without. This post just encapsulates perfectly the irritation I feel when people sit in groups, communicating with their phones instead of each other. Read the post, then catch yourself next time you find yourself reaching for the phone.

4. Coffee Helps by Hails
Ever been to Korea? Ever moved there and started teaching in a school? Neither have I. But Hails has, and most days she writes a blog about a culture which is so alien to anything I have experienced in any country, it just fascinates me. And seeing as I'm pretty sure I'll never go to Korea, this blog makes up for it.

Blogs can put into words what you can't, make you think differently about a subject, or educate you about something you know nothing about. And that's why I read them.

Keep up the good blogs, all.

These are a few of my favourite things: bookshelf

2012-02-02T09:49:00.002Z

When you move out of home into somewhere rented, it never quite feels like it should.

It's sort of a home, in that you feel "at home" when you get there, and it has everything you need from home. It's where you eat, sleep, and stumble in blind drunk. Sometimes it's better than home; it doesn't question where you've been, or get offended if you go straight upstairs without a "hello" when you walk through the door.

The rented home has someone else's floors and a bland mushroom colour scheme, and it's like you're just plonking your belongings on top of it all for a while.

So that's where my bookshelf comes in. It sits vertically in the corner of my bedroom; all available surfaces crammed full from the top with a speaker, leaving, thank you and birthday cards, photos, a Masquerade mask and, of course, books.

In this house which isn't mine, my bookshelf is one of my favourite things.

It's a comfort, a snippet of me in a bedroom that has all the personality of a Primark vest top. It's a list of things I've poured over again and again, or probably will do at a later date.

It's also why I'll never, ever get a Kindle.

Here is my bookshelf. (Unedited)

Emma Jane Unsworth, Hungry The Stars and Everything // A.A. Gill, Paper View // Alain De Botton, Essays In Love // George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty Four // Ian McEwan, Enduring Love // Charlie Brooker, Dawn of the Dumb // Steve Toltz, A Fraction of the Whole // Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go // Mark Radcliffe, Gabriel's Angel

Jilly Cooper, Rivals // The Never Ending Story (DVD) // Labyrinth (DVD) // Submarine (DVD) // Stephanie Meyer, Eclipse // Hangover Square // Grace Dent, How to Leave Twitter (Didn't work.) // Stephanie Meyer, New Moon (FYI, there's a gap where I've lent Breaking Dawn to a friend. Yeah. You 'eard.)

The Superior Person's Third Book of Words // Jilly Cooper, Polo (Read until the spine fell off) // Charlotte Bronte, Wuthering Heights // A notebook (empty) // A.A. Gill is Further Away // A.A. Gill is Away // The Smelly Dog

Being single means drinking from your pig-cup with pride

2012-01-31T14:34:00.001Z

I could see a lot of people getting excited on my last post, so I'm going to preface this one with a nice, soothing note:

It's ok, I'm fine. Straighten your head if it's cocked to one side in concern. I have not spiraled into a pit of despair.

Ready?

He didn't reply.

I'm putting this down to one of three things:

1. A change of phone number since last July

2. He's a bit rubbish. Er, like me.

or

3. He does not remember our conversation on Sunday night in which we compared and contrasted the merits of various supermarket pizzas and our penchant for eating them on Monday nights for ease of cooking; thus rendering my 300+ character message which concerned itself solely with last night's cremated Co-op pizza entirely obsolete, nonsensical and a load of wtfbollocks.

Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. Perhaps it might have done the last time I sent a text message to a boy I thought was nice - circa 2009 if we're counting - but now...well, it's no loss. It's ok.

In fact, it took half an hour for me to stop obsessing over my phone and resume Monday evening as normal, i.e shouting out the wrong answers on University Challenge before getting untold amount of joy from drinking camomile tea from a pig-cup:

Best mug ever. His bum sticks out the tea when you get near the end.

And I think that's the prize for waiting to do these things until you're entirely happy being single.

Not a pig cup (although that would be the best prize ever). I mean - when you're happy being single, not worrying about the last one or looking for the next, anything else is just a bonus. And that includes sending text messages.

Reciprocated or not.

Some things are coincidence, and other things just take a bloody long time.

2012-01-30T19:51:00.000Z

"It was sweet. We were watching from across the table. He was looking at you, then he'd look away and you'd look at him, then he'd look at you..."

We were sitting in a pub on the Essex Road; the remnants of the day's red wine scattered on the table, our boisterous crowd of 14 whittled down to the last four still yet to admit they had work in the morning.

It was coincidence that yesterday was picked as the day that our big gang got together for a Sunday lunch for absolutely no reason at all. A group of friends that I didn't know this time last year, but now wouldn't be without, and a group of friends who, quite frankly, are the biggest incentive to go through a break-up that I've ever known: I'd never have met 90% of them if the events of January 2011 hadn't happened.

Whether it was a coincidence that someone else should join our party as well, I don't know.

"He's cute" stage-whispered the PIB, performing the facial equivalent of a wink wink nudge nudge in my direction.
"Shhh" I replied with a grimace. But she was right.

It was later on in the evening when me and him found ourselves chatting and I felt something bubble up inside me; a feeling which I can quite accurately describe as a lovely sort of abject terror. Not only was I standing talking to a boy - a good looking one at that - who didn't repel me, but I was smiling and laughing and feeling like should this end up going further, then I wouldn't much mind.

There was just one problem: last year, it almost had gone further - but that time the terror had been different, and so acute that I'd cancelled the date.

Yet here I was on the tube home five months on, reading over the text messages from last year and thinking "Why the hell did I do that?"

The simple answer is that I wasn't ready. But whether it's coincidence that some little spark returned a year to the day after my heart got broken, and whether I've blown it this time or not, and whether it's this boy or the next, perhaps I am ready now.

I've just sent a text message to find out.

And yep, it's still bloody terrifying.

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.