‘Tis the season to be lechy, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la NO

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IMG_4591Summer’s here!

The sunshine brings out the best in most people. We’re happier, more energetic and just delighted to no longer need a scarf after seven months of winter. Yes, it’s finally fine to lose the 80-deniers and the 25 layers of vest tops, long sleeved tops, jumpers, hoodies, coats, hats and gloves and throw on a summer dress or even, dare I say it, a pair of shorts.

So long had it been since the sun last came out that I had forgotten the downside of the summer months. On the first day of extreme heat a woman ahead of me walking into town was greeted by a passing truck with not one but two loud beeps of the horn in response, I presume, to the short skirt she had chosen to wear. After jumping clean out of my skin I turned round to see where all the noise was coming from and saw two men leaning out of their window like dogs over a sausage – open mouthed and drooling.

And the next day it was my turn. It was 26 degrees and too hot to even move without becoming immediately dehydrated. No sooner had my summer-appropriate dress and I left the house than we had become the next victims of drive-by hooting.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not attempting to claim that I can’t even leave the house without someone almost crashing their car because I’m so beautiful. Let’s be honest, a beep of the horn is not an indication of beauty – it’s the most basic animal-like response to the sight of human flesh there is, and no more. It’s the equivalent of a dog barking at a moving object. It’s moving so surely the dog should either eat it or hump it, right? I mean yeah sure, the dog and the item have never met, and the item hasn’t actually done nothing to demonstrate any interest in this animal’s attention except go about its daily business, but a dog’s a dog I suppose.

So you’ll see that I am actually comparing myself – at best – to a generic moving dog treat, so you’ll need to direct any hate mail you had planned elsewhere.

This knee jerk caveman style reaction to the slightest hint of skin is the least enjoyable part of the summer. What are we supposed to do when this happens? Feel pleased that our flesh has received the toot it deserves? Call our parents as the father of their future grandchildren has finally been found? Or, more likely, carry on walking, confused and embarrassed about being brought down to such a basic level by a complete stranger.

I am most definitely not tarring all driving licence owning men with the same brush. Most people just get on with their lives and are hopefully too busy concentrating on the road/their next meeting/which song they should listen to to notice who is going by. It seems that maybe the others – the ones that evolution forgot – just live under a rock until the sun comes out, and then come bounding out in search of the closest moving being to howl at.

The truth is that it’s just not flattering. It’s back to basics animal instincts which one should really be able to keep under control, especially when in charge of a moving vehicle. If they thought about it, and I mean really thought about it, they’d realise that what we wear actually has nothing whatsoever to do with them. Yes, ok, a fitted dress is there because we want to look nice and possibly also attractive to the opposite sex, but gaping tongues out of car windows and hooting horns isn’t really what we had in mind. It makes us feel cheap and nasty and like we should just go home, put on a cardigan, and wait for the Autumn.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

 

First class travel – I shan’t let it change me

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297We went to Sheffield this weekend for a wedding. And very nice it was too.

Booking ahead for our early morning train ride on Saturday morning, I decided to opt for First Class tickets. Why not eh? It’s quieter and more comfortable and not much more expensive. Screw the recession, let’s treat ourselves, I thought.

I’m rather partial to a First Class voyage when I can get away with it, and who isn’t. My only concern lies in the effect it has on my brain.

Racing onto a plane home from Croatia a few years ago just in time not to miss it altogether, the on-board crew had no choice but to put us in First Class as the rest of the flight was full. The fact that this so-called area looked and was exactly the same as Standard just with a different label didn’t stop us being all ‘get us!’ and la-di-da about the whole thing. We’d been bumped up and even though it didn’t actually affect our flight experience in any way whatsoever, we were still disgustingly smug.

Even as I walked onto the train on Saturday – planning as I stepped to write a piece about the First Class illusion when I got back – I could feel that I was swinging my hips and, in spite of myself, striding like I mattered. It was a walk that said ‘Excuse me, step aside, I’ve got some free tea and coffee (which I actually hate) to consume, because THAT’S what it means to sit in First Class, don’t you know.’ That is all it means.

Online train booking means high-end travel is now a game everyone can play. Advance tickets and discount sites allow the likes of me – if we’re organised enough – to sit amongst the leather for the same cost as perching on whatever the cheaper seats are made of.

Like so many brands, the First Class effect is, of course, just a silly illusion. There is no such thing as a First Class person – you’re just a person who happens to be sitting in a particular type of chair. But the label and the palaver have the potential to make you, if only momentarily, believe that you are somehow better than those sitting/flying/eating elsewhere from you. How bizarre.

The train is like a long narrow microcosm of what’s going on beyond the stations it stops at. Some people are choosing yet another snack from the food trolley, whilst others are just trying to find somewhere to sit down. Either way, no group is better than the other.

And in reality nobody called me Madam, no-one polished my shoes, and when I went to the bathroom, there wasn’t anybody in there to hand me towels. Don’t get me wrong, it was very comfortable but all in all, it was just like I was just a girl on a train, sitting in the blue section rather than the red section – like it didn’t actually say anything about who I am or my place in society at all.

Thank goodness for that.

It’s not you, it’s me – how Facebook and I almost broke up

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IMG_1107Yesterday – for the first time since becoming a member – I considered leaving Facebook.

“But how could you?” you say. Well, I’m just starting to wonder whether the whole thing is good for my health.

The constant influx of updates detailing just how much fun everybody else is allegedly having has started to make me feel a bit inadequate. This person is at this supercoolandfunky bar, that girl and her boyfriend are at an outofthisworldhotel, whilst a distant acquaintance has just had the best day of their life. When I’m checking in on Facebook to break up the time between one course of cheese puffs and another, this kind of information makes me question what I’m doing with my life.

And it’s only in the face of this building internet insecurity that I’ve taken the time to realise that, of course, the whole thing is just an illusion. People only post about the very best, the very worst and the very funniest parts of their days – anything in between just doesn’t work as a speed update. If your friends don’t know how to react to what you’ve said within the first 2 seconds, it’s not really worked out.

And what difference does it really make to us that other people know what a good/bad time we’re having? Last weekend my beloved came home with a bunch of tulips for me and beyond being very touched and pleased by this gesture, my next gut reaction was to share the news. A tweet or even a photo upload of the flowers in question would have taken mere seconds to do, and it may even have been ‘liked’ by one or two of my friends. But what good does that do anybody? Is the act made more romantic because other people know about it? Or will I simply annoy a load of my friends by boasting about something nice that’s happened?

On this occasion I didn’t found out as I made the conscious decision to keep this news to myself and remember how it felt to hold a little snippet of enjoyment back from the rest of the world – well, until now anyway.

It was oddly grounding to react to a small act of kindness without any technological assistance. This didn’t get recorded in internet history as proof that somebody out there loves me, should anybody I used to go to school with be looking for such proof, nor was it there to irritate my friends who are quite frankly sick of hearing about the whole thing. It was a bunch of flowers – a simple and small scale gesture – and for once I had a simple and small scale reaction to it. Much healthier.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that you must compete to be seen – if only online – as the happiest/fun-est/drunkest of all your friends because, sadly, this is the place they see you most regularly. The image you project is often the only image they know, or at least until you see them at your next three-monthly catch up or however frequently you actually get to see real friends in person. In my case walking talking human beings are a rare treat.

I think, like with so many things, the problem here lies with me. It’s my reaction to Facebook which is making our relationship so unhealthy. A quick scroll down my newsfeed is like a cut down version of the everyman’s Match of the Day; it’s just the highlights – the goals, and the relegations – but without any of the analysis to explain what’s really going on in the changing room. It’s not really the window to my friends’ souls that I first believed it to be.

So, I don’t think there’s any need to leave after all – just a little more pinch of salt taking to be done. And anyway where am I going to post this if I don’t have a Facebook profile or a Twitter account? Somebody out there might like what I have to say.

Dinner’s on the table!

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011The introduction of a dining table to our home has taken us up the next step to fully fledged adulthood.

We’ve lived here for seven months and 13 days now (to be precise). The weekly trips to Ikea we did in the early days ground to a necessary halt sometime before Christmas when our bank balances and patience could take it no more. We’d got everything we needed to set up home and took the opportunity to enjoy living here for a bit, and to start looking at each other as more than just flat pack constructing robots.

But this weekend the time came to start the next phase of flat development. Complacency kept us warm throughout the winter as we patted ourselves on the back for the excellent curtains selection we made in November, but with the Spring light of day flooding in through the window, we could no longer hide from the gaps we were still yet to fill.

We needed a big mirror for the lounge wall, a chest of drawers for the bedroom and, most importantly, a dining table for the kitchen. Eating on our laps is all well and good but as we finally admit that university life is a distant memory, the purchase of a table is an essential step to civilised living.

And the trip was very successful. All items were purchased and brought home in once piece – or at least the correct number of flat pack parts – and, after a quick beans on toast lunch to help us recover from the shopping ordeal, the assembling process commenced – starting with the table. And what a beauty she is.

We had our first table based dinner this evening and if our life were a computer game, which I’m delighted that it’s not, I think this move would have marked our move up to the next level. We had a nice chat, we used mats and coasters, and we didn’t watch a moment of TV the whole time. “I think having dinner at the table will be good for us,” I said, “It’ll give us more time to chat.” A polite raise of the eyebrows and silent nod of the head was as good a response as I could have hoped for to such a declaration as I watched his dreams of a lifetime of dinners in front of rugby highlights seep out through the ceiling.

So now this house feels like a real home. We can eat, we can sleep and we can sit down just like they do in adverts. All we need to do now is buy enough furniture so that other people can do all those things too should they happen to pop by. We might need an extension to fit it all in.

There’s a time and a place – and the 8am to Bank is not it

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095In no place is a happy couple less welcome than on a packed commuter train.
Whilst love and a successful relationship may be celebrated the world over as some of the ultimate achievements in life, it is best to appear alone and miserable when travelling to work.

I can say this both as a commuter and as a member of the contented clan. I am happy – I wear a ring on my finger and I may even look down every now and then and smile at it, but within the hours of 7.30 and 9am that is as far as it goes.

Yes, we do occasionally travel into central London together, but such is the level of distance that Mr Ring Purchaser keeps from me, you’d find yourself hoping he’s kept the receipt. “I’m leaving at the same time as you so we can go in together,” I said this morning. “Ok, but I want to read my book,” he replied. It’s the kind of romance that teenage dreams are made of.

But he has a point – commuting is essentially about staring in one direction – whether it be the direction of a newspaper, a book, a phone, or just mindlessly ahead – it is not for staring into your lover’s eyes. And preferably not into the intimate details of a stranger’s relationship either.

Gaining a seat on the tube during rush hour is a big achievement but occasionally it comes at a price. Yesterday, for example, I was sat below and before a couple who were not aware of the commuter code. Let’s call them Love’s Young Dream, and London’s Worst Nightmare. Many a hug, many a kiss and many giggle did they share – the calling cards of the happy. And in any other situation this is perfectly reasonable (if slightly sickening to the onlooker) behaviour. But the contrast between their smiles and the grave looks of the rest of the carriage crowd was so stark that it made such demonstrations of affection intolerable. How dare they bring their actual, happy lives with them onto the train – there’s no room for real or measured emotion in here.

It is best, as I have said before, just to pretend that one is not there whilst travelling. Pretend to be invisible, squeeze in, and remember that real life awaits at the end of the line. Consider the morning tube to be a place to practice abstinence, if only for the sake of those around you – some of whom may have their face dangerously close to your crotch/armpit – and save the rest for later in the day, and preferably a different setting. Unless, of course, you’re going to have a row. Definitely do that on the train, it really helps break up the journey for other passengers.

A light read

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I feel like I have been through all of the emotions associated with wedding planning whilst reading just one wedding magazine. Fear, excitement, frustration, creativity (not technically an emotion but definitely a feeling), helplessness and calm; all brought on by flicking through just 263 pages of bridal ideas and advice. And I’m only just two thirds of the way through.

How do they expect you to feel? Adverts showing beautiful dresses at unspeakable prices, articles about flat-deposit sized wedding budgets, and a throughout assumption that you have access to ‘vintage’ on a day to day basis. I just don’t think I live a bride-to-be’s life, or perhaps it is all just a fantasy.

I’ve clearly not fully thought this through. I’m not talking about the marriage itself, I’ve definitely thought that through, but the size and detail of running a wedding.

‘How about having a vintage birdcage for guests to put your wedding cards in?’ Well, that is a really lovely idea, but oddly the suggestion of it fills me with simultaneous joy and panic. Joy at how pretty the example looks and how nice it would be to have one, but panic at the realisation that I hadn’t even considered that this kind of thing would need to be considered. I want to get it right, I need to get it right, it’s just going to take a few nudges in the right direction to help me along the way. Or a checklist, a very long checklist.

The prospect of committing to making parts of the wedding myself is currently spinning around my brain. Table decorations, wedding invitations, pin boards for the reception room – in theory it sounds like a lot of fun, but in practice I wonder if I have the skill and patience it takes. But this is why we gave ourselves at least 18 months to get everything in place I suppose. Time to spend weekends writing place cards and weaving paper together into heart shapes. Time to drift from shop to shop, picking out little vases and flower pots. I don’t think I’ve never heard a wedding planning story which sounded like it involved much drifting, but we can try.

And the excitement comes from the brightness of it all, the colours and the pretties and the knowledge that it’s our turn to give this big show a go. What will we choose? How will we make it all look like us? There’s no two people better placed to figure that all out I suppose.

So as the ideas come, I shall write them down and we’ll take it from there, one step at a time. Wedding magazines are there to add to the fun, provide a little advice, and definitely to test the boundaries of what we can afford. And it’s certainly helpful to have a group of people 50 steps ahead of me on the planning front – if there’s something missing from the checklist, and there will be, they’ll be the first to let me know.

As long as I keep at least one foot on the ground and an eye on the horizon, I should be able to keep my perspective long enough to revel in the glossy pages and shiny pictures without suddenly finding myself the bride at a wedding I’ll be paying off for decades. And I’d better lap it all up whilst I can anyway. If I’m spotted buying one of these in a couple of years’ time when that extra ring is firmly on my finger, I’m definitely going to get some questions.

How to sober up in 10 seconds

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IMG_1799If you venture out of a Friday night, consume a cocktail or four and not much dinner, you may well feel a little dizzy on your arrival home. What one is looking for in this situation is a piece of toast, a sit down, and perhaps a calming bath. Upon my return last night this was exactly the trio I had in mind, and yet what I found when I opened the door was a very worried looking boyfriend (mine, to clarify) and a fair level of blood scattered around the flat.

A number of questions popped to mind at this sight, and it was only when he put his two bandaged fingers in front of me that I was at least able to confirm that there was a rational explanation. The expression on his face was similar to that of a child showing a grazed knee – unsure as to how he’d done so much damage, scared by the blood, and just starting to realise that it really really hurt. Of course the main difference is that there were no tears and no bike involved. No, this little injury occurred due to the accidental close proximity of a razor and a set of keys in his bag. An eagerness to get in the front door and a lack of light led to what I understand was a very quick and sharp shredding of the tops of two digits. Let this be a lesson to us all.

If there is to be anything good to come of this unexpectedly bloody start to the weekend, let it be this: I am the most squeamish of people and really no use to anyone in the face of a physical crisis; something happens to my knees and my arms start to flap and I generally try to keep my eyes and ears closed ’til it’s all over. But I was pleased to find that when asked by my injured dear this morning if I would take a look at the damage to assess whether stitches would be required, I stepped up. I can only take this as a sign of true love because I can assure you it was not pretty. The other good thing is that the distraction of last night’s events managed to make my brain forget that consumption of cocktails usually means that it must make the room start spinning every time I close my eyes.

It’s nice to find the silver lining.

Any questions?

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20141114_132707If I were to write? Like this? You’d probably find it exhausting? Wouldn’t you?!

Just as a warning, it may be hard to tell whilst reading this post when I am actually asking a question? because I will amusingly drop question marks all over the place? Just to help make my point. If you can’t tell, just look at the words and establish if I am actually asking you something and you’ll be just fine.

I played the most intense game of rising intonation chicken with a sales person yesterday. She rang and told me what she had to offer but after every statement about what she had to sell, her voice went up and she waited for me to respond. It went something like this:

Saleslady?: Our TV packages include broadband?

Pause. Refusal on my part to respond as what she had said was not a question. Longer pause as I realised she wasn’t going to say anything else until I had acknowledged her ground breaking statement.

Me?: (grudgingly) Uhuh

Saleslady?: As well as a phone line and set up?

More silence. I tried to see just how long she would remain silent for and after a while it just became uncomfortable.

Me?: (irritated) Yup

Saleslady: And we can come and install it all for you without any trouble?
Another pause.

Me?: GREAT!!

I really don’t understand how this has happened. Nobody used to speak like that. It’s actually really hard work even if you try? Writing it is even more difficult as spell check is having a cow over all of these ill-placed question marks.

There really is nothing wrong with having a little conviction. If you’re ringing to try and sell me broadband, or anything else for that matter, it is ok to be confident when telling me about it. You either do or you don’t sell it, but it seems unlikely that you’d call if you were as unsure as you sound.

The biggest problem with rising intonationitus is that it’s very catching. I fear that this was part of this poor lady’s training and that now her entire conversational life is quite literally in question.

So for anyone who decides to call in the future and requires a response after every inflection, I’m afraid you’re going to be waiting a long, long time. I’ll just carry on with my life until you’re ready to start your next sentence. We could be here a while…