Round Robin

Dear Mum,

The presents have been opened and admired, the films have been watched, the hangover slept off, the turkey eaten and the waistband stretched.

All in all, I’d say 2011 was a good year for festive frivolities.

I am blogging to thank you for providing me with a ‘sample’ of Christmas cards to peruse. I do enjoy reading people’s tit-bits of news and updates.

You know that one of my favourite Christmas customs is reading the Round Robin letters that plague our yuletide joviality – I appreciate you positioning new ones by the kettle so I can read while making a brew.

These letters are dire, dismal and yet totally addictive for several key reasons.

Firstly, there is no personal message to this letter. It is very evident that fifty of these letters were printed out and stuffed into envelopes carelessly, with little regard for each family on the receiving end.

There is no thought of ‘How has the house move been?’, ‘How are your parents?’ or ‘What are your plans for 2012?’ Instead, these letters are riddled with reflections and social listings of the writers’ own lives.

Secondly, the type is invariably impossible to read. These letters take one back to the early noughties, when computers were still novel and all print-outs were written in Bradley Hand and Jokerman fonts. I find Comic Sans and Calibri adequate, thank you.

There are also always a few too many photos.

As pleased as we are that the five of you had a fabulous time in Singapore, we don’t need a picture of the family pretending to dive into the waters by the iconic Merlion statue. Nor one of Dad doing a similar pose by the pool in his Speedo. Vom.

The most bleak aspect of these letters, however, is the overload of details about personal lives. Never before has the phrase ‘too much information’ been used with such an acute relevance.

Particularly at our family home.

I am delighted that friends feel they can confide in our family of these details, although the fact that this is a Round Robin instantly reminds one that these same lines of tedious detail have been posted around the country.

I don’t regard these details as assisting in the strengthening of our relationship.

The Simpson family’s letter, for example, dedicated an entire paragraph to their jack russell, Molly. And although I am delighted that Hannah, their youngest daughter, and her boyfriend are wonderful dog-sitters, this has not enlightened my outlook on life or our blossoming friendship.

Similarly, Bill and Janet’s month by month summary 0f 2011 makes Molly’s subsection a lot more apealling. Take April, for example, when Bill was outraged that he couldn’t get his senior bus pass until a whole eleven months after his 60^th birthday!

Goodness, thank you for informing me of this. I can now accept that the world has truly gone off its rocker.

This was the same family whose letter two years before informed their list of Christmas card recipients that their daughter had had her warts frozen off.

This is wrong on so many levels. Wrong that this is newsworthy; wrong that this information is shared outside the confines of family; wrong that this message was typed up, meaning conscious action (as opposed to accidentally letting it slip over a tipsy cocktail); and totally wrong of parents to inform friends they haven’t seen for years of their poor daughter’s misfortune.

Shame on you.

I’d like to think that if I had any such hard luck you wouldn’t broadcast it to our nearest, dearest or distant acquaintances.

But I must confess I thoroughly enjoy these letters - simply because I love to gasp and snort at their sheer absurdity. Rather like when you put your finger in something unpleasant and can’t help but continuously sniff at it even though you know it makes you feel nauseous. Hours of entertainment.

But it does make one ask, what happened to the art of a personal letter? Although the build up to Christmas is always busy, a bit of extra time invested in writing a few lines on a Christmas card really does enter into the sentiments of goodwill. A handwritten paragraph giving a quick recap of the year’s events – or updates since you last saw the recipient – perhaps with a meet-up invite, this is thoroughly welcome.

Although I would miss the Round Robins should they stop... I look forward to hearing more about Molly, outrage at train fare prices and swapping a Saab for an Audi A3 in Christmas 2012 – but not before, please.

Drinking and Driving

Dear Mum

It’s Christmas Eve and I type this sitting in a cafe, sipping a cup of cha. You’re currently driving Kate to a friend’s thus continuing the traditional parental taxi service.

I, on the other hand, am watching the clock. The car is parked in a two-hour maximum stay car park. We’ve one hour, forty minutes left.

Dad is a few doors down from me, at a brewery for a wine and cheese tasting event and I’m his ride.

I’m very happy to do it. Sitting in this cafe, watching families reunited for the season and chirping ‘Merry Christmas’ is delightful. It’s not snowing (hallelujah!) and I have a week off work next week (God be praised!).

Thinking of Dad a few vicinities down the road, feeling mellow as he swirls glasses of ruby coloured elixirs – well, it’s what Christmas is all about. Treating yourself.

Whenever I’ve told people –people older than me, that is – that I’m driving for my drinking father this Christmas Eve, they say “about time!” or “the tables have turned!” (Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t this imply that I’m constantly intoxicated and so require one of you to collect me from booze fests, driving me home as I hang my head out of the window like a panting mongrel? I don’t think this has once happened...?)

I think these family friends really mean that it’s only fair that younger generations return the favour as they age and give lifts to their partying parents. I agree with this.

I thoroughly relish seeing you and Dad get dressed up to go out, excitedly piling into my car, and if you return home tipsy even better. It’s most entertaining and is what Christmas should be all about. (Like the year you held a Christmas dinner party and treated guests to your rendition of FreddieMercury’s ‘Barcelona’ as you served up the pavlova, tipping your chair back and throwing your arms wide, clutching two serving spoons).

Kate confided in me only yesterday “I think Dad is trying to get me drunk” after he ladled more mulled wine into her glass.

“Well, quite right” was my response.

I repeated these sentiments on the journey over here, telling Dad “You just have a good time. You’re not to worry about me, just enjoy yourself. It is Christmas after all.”

Even you, Mum, admitted that when placing the ham in the oven at 7.30 this morning, dousing it in cider, you saved the last finger for yourself. ‘Why not?’ was my reaction. Christmas is the one time of year when alcohol and chocolate is an acceptable breakfast.

We’ve all worked hard and, like everyone around the world, have faced some difficult times this year. The four of us are entitled to lie-ins, bevies and sweet treats during the coming days. I plan on taking full advantage of Christmas traditions – I aim to feel full, fat and festive all day tomorrow.

Now, however, I best make a move. We’ve got half an hour left in the car park. I’m off to coax Dad from the brewery.

Merry Christmas!

Ode to a Cheesecake

We all of us have an edible weakness - whether it be steak, Cadbury’s chocolate or caviar.  We all enjoy a specific foodstuff that makes one’s taste buds tingle with eager anticipation when one glimpses it on a menu.

My weakspot is cheesecake.

And I warn you, Mum, this letter is a dedication to the delicacy rather than a usual ‘Dear Mum’ epistle.

I can fully appreciate why some individuals are not a fan of the creamy dessert. It does seem perverse that a dessert’s chief ingredient is something that one previously enjoyed in a sandwhich, or on toast, or in a pasta dish.

But on a thick biscuit base, perhaps with a coulis or a few slices of fruit, that creamy cheese mixture is simply splendid.

It doesn’t matter how many calories I’ve eaten that day, or what the cost, if I spot a cheesecake on a menu or shop shelf my decision is already made for me.

Passion fruit, strawberry and champagne, fig and caramel, raspberry and white chocolate, New York vanilla with blueberry compote...

I’ll look at it with a yearning that can otherwise be equated to romantic desire.

Similarly when relishing the dessert it is me and that cake alone in the room. All other chatter is irrelevant, all other desserts are inferior, and I will end our sweet rendezvous with an analysis for the benefit of my fellow diners.

Points of discussion include ratio of cheese to biscuit base (the best cheesecake has a thick biscuit foundation); texture of cheese topping (not too wet, dry or stodgy, of course); the success of other ingredients (such as sauces, added textures etc.) and, crucially, the size of slice.

Pippa nails it by serving me two slices of cheesecake rather than one single large one, knowing that no matter how beautiful the cheesecake, the larger and more representative of a door stop the more likely I feel sheer terror. Needless to say I will still eat the cheesecake slice but will progress to feel distinctly nauseous.  

And on those rare occasions when I can’t manage a full slice (the only memorable occasion being at the Hard Rock Café, when a vat of nachos and burger weighing that of a discus inhabited my stomach) an hour later I am guaranteed to experience intense feelings of shame, regret and bafflement.

There is, however, one other memorable occasion...

I cooked a meal for Nat at uni and she (wisely) provided a cheesecake (strawberry) for dessert.

At this stage I had a housemate who was infamously tight with money; she willingly paid fistfuls of cash for sailing lessons but did not identify the need to reimburse her friends for luxuries like toilet paper and hot water. Upon recognising a give-away she was nothing but free, friendly and totally famished.

Nat and I ate a third of the cheesecake between us and arranged another night in to finish it.

Plans fell through, however, and when the outer edges of the cheesecake began to turn a transparent colour, I rang to ask “Do you mind if I go ahead and finish it?”

“My God!” she replied “You’ve gone a good three days without touching it? Very restrained!” (My thoughts exactly) “You go ahead.”

Upon removing the cheesecake from the fridge my housemate appeared from nowhere and nonchantly trailed after me - and the cheesecake.

“Watch and weep” I thought as I scooped chunks of creamy deliciousness from the dish, ensuring I ‘hmmed’ and ‘ahhed’ lots (not difficult).

I sat balancing the cheesecake on my chest so as to catch any crumbs and provide a stretched surface area of the stomach to improve digestion.

Green eyes weighted with greed flickered at me.

My housemate channel hopped, distracting herself I thought. But in a tactful move she settled upon 'Embarrassing Bodies.'

This was a well judged manoeuvre.

I had a quarter more to go.

It played to her strength that this particular episode was about genitalia and the word ‘cheese’ was used in discussion. I battled forth but upon meeting Scott and his eighteen month problem I pushed the cake across the coffee table.

“I give in, its yours,” I groaned, defeated.

Delighted, she threw the remote at me.

Very well played...

Out with the old? In with the old!

Dear Mum,

I have, of late, experienced various craft events and vintage institutions, which offered a plethora of homemade keepsakes and reminders of the past.

As a result, I am itching to recreate past decades. This itching is, in part, due to the eighties style cable knit jumper I’m modelling. The one you said made me look like I should be in Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’ music video.

My knitting needles have been clicking furiously and Caro Emerald plays on a constant loop as I hope to time travel to another decade – ideally not the nineties, having been there, done that and got the Spice Girls t-shirt.

A recent getaway break in Lyme Regis with Sarah offered a charming getaway.

A walk along the Cobb before tea amongst a caricature like group of locals made the two of us feel like we were in an Agatha Christie novel. Cue the suspicious disappearance of a wealthy young man. I’ll bring my knitting.

In our exploration of the coastal town we stumbled across two second-hand book shops.

One was positioned on the seafront, a crumbling, makeshift corner of a shop that was as large as the cupboard under the stairs yet packed to the rafters with volumes and tomes. We left no nook unexplored, no book untouched.

Another second-hand book store extended over two floors and consisted of some five rooms. Each room was cluttered with maps, postcards, puppets, record sleeves and patterned shawls plus leather hardbacks and forgotten paperbacks.

Customers found their feet tapping uncontrollably to the salsa music that filtered throughout the vicinity along with the vocal exercises of the owner – a chap in his sixties who wore a Russian-style fur hat.

Between them, these two shops stocked every book ever written. I bought a 1955 copy of Orwell’s ‘1984’ for just £5.25. This choice of purchase was mainly because of the Classic novel’s iconic orange cover and well thumbed appearance.

It even has that old book smell that you oh so loathe, Mum. I wouldn’t go as far as Cary Bradshaw in the first (and slightly better, only slightly) Sex and the City film when she inhales a book of love letters, sighing that she loves the library book smell.

But the idea of pages having been thumbed by over five decades of readers, as far back as post-war Britain and the Queen’s first years on the throne, does make cheer with P.G. Wodehouse sentiments of “Jolly good” and “What-ho!”

Similarly, at the Kitsch and Sitch Fair that you, Kate and I recently attended, the three of us cooed and swooned at old fashioned doilies and rusting jewellery.

Our nation has gone vintage crazy. Never before have shapeless crocheted cardigans and mismatched china been so desirable.

After all, the word ‘vintage’ essentially means ‘second-hand’ yet has been bandied around these past three years and gained a multi-layered definition as a result.

If one sees a CD Discman or black and white Nokia, for example, they’re labelled vintage. A Mickey Mouse watch from the 80’s is vintage. An old stained tea caddy is vintage.

If you had referred to Kate’s hand-me-downs as ‘vintage’ when I was fifteen I would most probably have worn them with more enthusiasm.

There is nothing wrong with this new label. Vintage items offer value for money, a one-off piece and a little piece of history. Ideal for a cash-strapped graduate with a hunger for a chic lifestyle.

Now where did I leave my sewing bag...?

Rocking around the Christmas tree

Dear Mum,

I’m sure you’ve gathered that one of my favourite parts of decorating for Christmas is the festive CD, having pranced about the house in a Santa hat every year upon its first annual play.

Whilst The Buble is for Christmas dinner, his sultry croons providing the ideal aid to digesting vast quantities of festive goodness, the Christmas pop album is the better soundtrack to the decking, adorning and general titivating of halls.

Listening and, certainly in my case, shimmying to the Christmas classics is rather like pulling on an old favoured jumper. It offers the phrase “Oh I forgot about this one!” along with comforting nostalgic recollections and great value for money.

One simply does not grow tired of Slade, Band Aid or Macca (whom Dad and Kate saw last night and said was sensational BUT didn’t play ‘Wonderful Christmastime’, thus losing a few brownie points with me) jingling their bells. Like a Santa outfit, they are timeless.

This is not, however, the case for all yuletide yodels. Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ makes me want to vom into my Santa hat. This is mostly down to it encouraging couples to canoodle in public. Nasty.

As for “Lonely This Christmas’ (without you to hold), I will be avoiding this song during Christmas 2011 if I’m going to avoid bawling into my pillow.

And what of ‘A Fairytale in New York’ and ‘The Power of Love?’ How are these in any way festive? They don’t mention babies in barns, snowy winter wonderlands or the charming innocence of children.

They instead taunt festive listeners with lyrics like “You’re an old slut on junk,” and “the hooded claw, Keep the vampires from your door.”

And a very Merry Christmas to you too...

Some of our favourite festive anthems do offer some perverse and, frankly, questionable lyrics.

‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ presents a rather ominous old Saint Nick, who lurks in the corner of rooms, judging those he casts his eye over, e.g. "He sees you when you're sleeping, He knows when you're awake, He knows if you've been bad or good, So be good for goodness sake!” Yikes!

Johnny Mathis, on the other hand, steals phrases from traditional carols in ‘When a Child is Born’. A bit of a cop-out really. And factually inaccurate.

I refer, in particular, to ‘Jesus Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day.’

Aside from the fact that theologians have established that the baby Jesus was born in Spring rather than the bleak mid-winter, it is no happy coincidence that Mary went into a convenient labour on an existing festival day. Whether religious or not, one cannot disagree that Christmas is celebrated because of the baby Jesus. He was not born on Christmas day, Christmas was born on his day of birth. Durgh.

The Beach Boys’ ‘Little Saint Nick,’ on the other hand, offers further gems of lyrical poetry after the classic “Ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann.’

Specifically, “Christmas comes this time each year.”

Well, boys, thank you for this insightful exploration of the true meaning of Christmas. Your profound meditations on this iconic holiday is palpably enlightening while subtly explaining the reason for Christmas trees being erected worldwide.

Nothing gets by you, boys.

Pretenders join the Beach Boys in obvious examinations about the holiday, pointing out “2000 miles is very far”.

And yet, like that old jumper, with its pulled threads, back-of-drawer smell and questionable stain, we accept these classics for what they are - Christmas corkers. As cringe as Christmas cracker jokes and just as much of the festive tradition.

Holidays are coming

Dear Mum,

Although it may seem like a past occurrence, a faded memory from mid-October, Christmas dawns in just three hours...

In principle.

Kate and I are returning home on Saturday to partake in the decking of halls, the stirring of mincemeat and the traditional family visit to Rudyard Kipling’s Christmas homestead of Bateman’s.

Christmas truly begins, however, when the glinting red lorries and nineties hairstyles grace our TV screens to the accompaniment of ‘Holidaysare Coming.’ Coco-Cola’s website confirms that Christmas this year therefore began on 12^th November.

This advert may be some fifteen years old but it is timeless.

An alternative Coca-Cola advert was aired a year or so ago. This included a strangely illuminated girl presenting a bottle of Coke to the iconic Santa Claus, clad in the Coca-Cola red, every Christmas throughout her life.

You may remember this. It was traumatising.

Due partly to the overt cheesiness, plus the computer graphics giving the characters an eerie glow, like wax works with frantic smiles permanently stretched across their shiny faces.

Fortunately, these creatures were once more replaced with the wholesome festivity of snowy vegetation, cheering communities and the mystical red lorry.

Joy to the world, indeed!

Aside from the kingly Coca-Cola advert, the commercials currently being aired fall into two categories; the moderate and the drivel.

The Marks and Spencer advert, in my opinion, is drivel.

If you don’t watch X-Factor, which I don’t and am assuming a vast proportion of M&S shoppers similarly don’t, the musical interludes offered by the show’s contestants will be of little meaning. Their trills do no entice me to shop at M&S.

I was only made aware of whom this motley crew were when reading about Frankie Cocozza’s expulsion from the competition and Christmas single due to drug abuse.

Certainly, intoxication is a huge part of Christmas festivities. Like you, Mum, and, indeed, our whole family, I love a festive tipple. But drug and alcohol misuse is not the finest form of advertisement, particularly during the season of goodwill.

What happened to the James Bond advert? The one with Shirley Bassey? Or even the one with Philip Glenister perving on the lingerie model?

Take a leaf out of Coca-Cola’s book, M&S, bring back the classics!

John Lewis’ advert is preferable – I’d say it is a moderate advert.

John’s aim is clearly to make viewers cry, after the ‘She’s always a woman’ commercial. Similar to the Coca-Cola advert it tracked a girl’s life in thirty seconds. The fundamental difference, however, was it made viewers bawl at the fragility of human life rather than scream with fear at the spine-chilling Barbie figure.

I read a comment article online, which said anyone who wasn’t moved to tears by John Lewis’ impatient child protagonist caged a heart of flint.

I accepted this challenge. I was determined I would remain composed and unmoved.

But the minute the little boy skipped past his bulging stocking of treats and into his puzzled parents’ bedroom I could feed my throat tighten.

Which is ridiculous. What kind of a person gets affected by or emotionally involved in an advert...?

...

Fashion in foggy London Town

Dear Mum,

Winter clutches us in its frost bitten palm – and it is chilly!

Standing on the platform at London Bridge this week, hands thrust in pockets and swamped in the woolliest scarf I own, I couldn’t glimpse the top of The Shard as it was immersed in thick mist. Commuters around me stamped their feet, breathed into their clasped hands and stood with hunched shoulders, clustered like penguins.

London has evidently turned out its winter wardrobe. Gone are maxi dresses, board shorts and flip flops. The winter warmers have arrived.

These cosy accessories are, on the whole, a source of great visual amusement and often a practical disappointment.

Mittens, for example, are one of the most impractical items of hand clothing. No doubt they keep the hands insulated but the only occasion in which they are of practical use is on a country walk, when opening shop doors, handling small change and accepting receipts are not entailed.

Witnessing mittened commuters attempt to pass their tickets through train barriers and, again, accept the ejected ticket is farcical. The excess material means the pincer action is of limited success, causing the frustrated commuter to eventually tear the mitten from their hand using their teeth.

You can now purchase retractable mittens, which allow the finger socks to be folded back and buttoned to reveal more convenient fingerless gloves.

“Genius!” I hear you say. “Oh contraire,” says I.

Remember this innovative design still requires a thumb and finger to fasten and unfasten the button as required. And, once more, the fold of fabric at the fingers of the mittens doesn’t allow one to do this easily.

Some, therefore, simply model the fingerless. This design enables dexterity, effortlessness in general tasks but offers an additional layer to protect the hands from the sharp winter winds.

I find, however, this design provides very little warmth. After all, when one complains of cold hands it is the fingers that are in reality the coldest and thus the source of complaint. Fingerless gloves therefore rather defeat the point of wearing winter garb on the hands.

You have told me before, Mum, “Cold hands? Wear a hat.” I know, however, you do not approve of some of the hat attire that is currently fashionable.

Such as the chullo – the Peruvian style of hat that includes ear flaps with long tasselled plaits, which seems to be inspired by the tambourine-playing teenager in ‘About a Boy.’

Or these woolly bobble hats that boys my age wear. There is, however, clearly a law which states one who wears this hat MUST have tangled and greasy locks and wear the hat on the very back of their skull so that it spills down their neck. (Thinking about it, perhaps the first part of this law is what enables the hat to stay on in the second part...?)

These boys do not, however, take note of your saying because they wear Granny’s knitted head cosies in all seasons, often with board shorts and flip flops.

There is another variety of boy who prefers the bodywarmer to the woolly hat. Or, as he identifies it, ‘the gilet.’ This boy is middle class. (Lucinda, my middle-class alter ego, recently admired a gilet in Zara. She was quickly controlled).

I don’t quite get the point of this half-hearted item of clothing. You might as well wear a jacket or coat, which has the added bonus of attached layers for your arms – most innovative, indeed.

Some girls my age model leg warmers. This always makes me smile.

Similar to the above, rather than wearing pumps and ankle warmers, I think a pair of boots would make more sense. Not only does this mean you avoid looking like you’ll break into the ‘What a feeling’ dance at any given moment, but in just two boots you get everything covered; toes, the forefoot, ankles, legs. The whole shebang.

The most amusing winter warmer is, however, the muff.

It is a very practical accessory; it offers insulation, a hand can be easily removed for ticket purposes, it looks chic...

The reason I laugh is purely for the word. Muff. 

This singular word is hysterical. I can’t help but shake with laughter. As in one seminar at uni, in which giggling Lana and I received many disapproving glances from classmates when our lecturer read a passage of Jane Eyre aloud...

“Gathering my mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold”. (It’s Chapter 12 if you’re in need of a giggle).

For practical, accessible but fashionable purposes I’m sticking to earmuffs. Although a mantle also sounds comforting on an epic scale...

Plenty more clichés in the English language

Dear Mum,

I have been somewhat hesitant about writing this blog but the recent break-up has offered food for thought.

They say ‘write about what you know’. Who this body of advisors is I do not know, but its counsel has developed into a bit of a literary cliché, a rule my blog’s content follows ‘down to a tee.’

And this is precisely what this particular blog is about. Language.

I’m not here to air my dirty laundry.

This blog is instead about the language we use in response to a break-up or shaky relationship – something I feel could do with revision.

Post-break-up, I followed my instinct, as any daughter would, by snivelling down the phone to you, before sending a round robin text to my girlfriends and gay friends confessing the day’s upsetting events.

This slightly cowardly act meant I avoided the emotionally fraught experience of numerous face-to-face briefings. I have had so many lovely words in response to this SMS update and some equally disappointing ones.

After questioning my growing sense of sadness I realised these idioms and expressions of comfort are, in a nutshell, a load of tripe. They struck a chord – but not a good one.

All that follows was kindly meant and no offence is meant to anyone who recited these expressions. I myself am guilty of having used them before in a variety of social situations.

I begin with the inspiration to the title of this blog; “there are plenty more fish in the sea...”

Generally speaking, individuals who have recently suffered a break-up will be feeling a) miserable and missing their boyfriend/girlfriend (delete as appropriate) terribly or b) miserable and wanting an extended break from men/women (delete as appropriate).

The prospect of their being more bait out there is thus, generally, not reassuring or consoling. One either convulses at the thought of being romantically involved with someone other than the person one has split from, or convulses at the prospect of their being a wealth of the opposite sex looming out there.  

Secondly: “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. It is fair enough to tell someone this a year after their break-up but it is not wise when they’re surrounded by countless Wispa wrappers and used tissues. In this scenario, this phrase is about as comforting as glimpsing the bottom of a vodka bottle i.e. not comforting at all, but rather another reason to well up. 

Thirdly: “It obviously wasn’t meant to be”. This phrase is used in countless situations, including break-ups, failed job applications, cancelled holiday flights and lost competitions. If ‘it’ wasn’t meant to be, why did life throw ‘it’ into one’s path and why did one invest such time and emotion into ‘it?’

Fourthly: “Time will heal”. Excellent. Now I know I’ll be feeling like s**t for month. Thanks for this.

Fifthly: “You’ll never forget your first love”. Same as the above.  But years rather than months.

Consider this blog a petition for a ban on these expressions. Let’s rethink our use of language and come up with something genuine. Like Dad’s gem of wisdom:  “Life is pretty s**t and so people can be pretty s**t.’

Honest, forthright and not dressed in imagery or metaphors, these words were of great solace. 

Don’t stop till you get enough

Dear Mum,

Your daughter has an addiction. A time-consuming, merciless compulsion.

To complete crosswords.

I was introduced to the cryptic word puzzle at work. My internship colleagues start a crossword at lunchtime and hope to have completed it, often with some help from others, by the end of that day.

In an attempt to bond with them, and score a few brownie points along the way, I have endeavoured to decode the odd clue. My moment of glory was 16 across; ‘Shakespearean heroine,’ 6 letters... Portia?

Ding Ding Ding!!

Aware that this single and slightly nerdy contribution might not earn me the abundance of friends I hope for, I have taken to the morning paper with a never before experienced enthusiasm for word games.

Seemingly innocent but now I cannot stop.

I’m sure this is a relief to you. Your daughter, knowingly feeling a tad vulnerable being unemployed and recently single, is addicted to puzzles, which is far preferable to illicit substances and online gambling sites.

This new relationship is not, however, healthy.

The torn out crossword and I go everywhere together. Bleary eyed on the train of a morning, snuggled up in front of the sofa, brushing my teeth in the evening. Always balanced on my knee and receiving my greedy glances, like my filthy secret.

I am unable to concentrate on my friends’ conversation as my mind is really thinking “3 down = ‘praise or honour,’ 5 letters...?

I am preoccupied by achievable yet elusive clues, meaning I don’t realise that it has started to rain and my umbrella lies redundant in my bag.

Yesterday, Dad and I discussed FIFA’s choice to allow the England team to wear poppies in their match against Spain. Dad was puzzled when I ‘casually’ interrupted the tête-à-tête to ask “Can you think of any south eastern Spanish cities, six letters long, ending with an ‘A’?”

This newfangled relationship not only consumes my time but toys with my emotions.

I fume at the crossword’s way of keeping me guessing with its vague clues, that it’s me alone that puts the hard work in, that the crossword does not appear to recognise or react to my emotional condition.

Yet I cannot resist going back to it and putting myself through the emotions once more.

I think I need a bit of a break. After all, there are plenty more puzzles in the sea – Sudoku, Codeword and Clockword to name but a few. 

Comfort Stop

Dear Mum,

I recently interrupted a five hour car journey to stop at a service station. It was here that I experienced Heston Blumenthal’s redesigned Little Chef at Popham.

In actual fact, I passed through the restaurant in aid of a toilet break due to several pre-journey cups of tea.  

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no roadside facility is going to offer a memorably pleasant toilet stop.

But this was certainly memorable.

It was all pretty clean and had clearly been refurbished complete with mock cloudy-sky ceiling tiles. As I queued I gazed amusedly up at these tiles before being awoken from my trance to ask my companion, “was that a sheep?”

Yes it was. Various farmyard animals and birdsong were played on a constant loop.

The sound of sheep bleating does not inspire my bladder to perform and these sounds are not what I understand the term “nature calls” to mean. They instead reminded me of my childhood, when a quick nip behind a bush during a family walk was acceptable but the sense of mortification and panic was no less prominent.

Upon venturing into a cubicle at the Little Chef a bird apparently flying over my head gave me stage fright. I half anticipated a voice to say “Get off my land!” causing me to flee from the toilets altogether.

Whilst this experience defied my idea of a comfort break, as I felt distinctly uncomfortable, it was reassuring that the toilet was new and clean.

During my student years, however, friends and I experienced some nauseating toilets.

On one such occasion Lana and I, plus two inebriated housemates, ventured into a fast-food restaurant at 2am to satisfy our housemates’ yells of “We need chicken!” Lana ventured into the depths of the seedy vicinity in need of the toilet. When she re-appeared she walked purposefully toward us, ashen faced.

“I think it would’ve been more hygienic if I’d wet myself.”

The mind boggles.

I think perhaps the worst aspect of public-toilet going, however, is the awkwardness. Everyone is there to accomplish something that we all have in common and is only natural, yet it is still embarrassing and not open to much discussion.

I can only imagine for men that it must provide some dire situations. For the ladies, and particularly English ones, it is the etiquette of queuing that causes controversy and unease.

Despite being in close circumstances, one can never find the correct words. One day, I learned that it is best to simply keep schtum.

On said day I sauntered into a cubicle, retreated after glimpsing that which festered in the toilet bowl and so continued to another cubicle.

Thirty seconds later, when washing my hands, I witnessed a lady repeat the exact same action; enter, recoil, exit.

I thought it would be a comfort to her that I remark “I did that.” It was her second recoil that made me realise the implication of my remark. S**t. 

Do they know it’s Christmas time... in November?

Dear Mum,

It was a joy to spend Halloween at home.  I was very touched that my previous blog did not fall on deaf ears as my trick or treating duties were adopted by Dad.

Who, I think, was a whole lot better at it than I was. And I’m not just saying that.

For example, after answering the door and cheerily exclaiming, “Well, you all look very scary. Well done, you all deserve a treat,” he did not proceed to slam the door and mutter “stupid Halloween” as is my habit.

All in all, a much better ambassador for Halloween than myself.

And, please note, I did try to throw myself into the spirit of things. I assisted in your candlelit display on the front porch.

And it is for this very reason I’m sorry that the doorbell only rang twice. Whilst it made for a pleasant, undisturbed evening, it was a shame more children weren’t able to admire the spectacle.

I am also sorry that, whilst enjoying your company and home comforts, I paid a visit to Chunder Town. Or, more specifically, several visits.

I’m sorry that the piercing echoes of my retching kept you awake and that, from thereon, I turned my nose up at any food other than toast and crackers.

(Note to self: don’t eat all of the trick or treating sweets out of sympathy for your disappointed mother).

The good news is Halloween is done and dusted.

The bad news is supermarkets are stacking their shelves with mince pies. A chilling reminder of the mutability of time.

This marketing choice of retailers evokes anger in the vast majority of our society.

It finds it confusing and unsettling to hear the trills of “Santa Claus is coming to town” as one meanders around a department store in October.

I think I am alone, however, in having no objection to retailers introducing Christmas decorations and gifts in Autumn.

Being surrounded by festive items now means one can eye up Christmas presents, mull them over and purchase them before the mad rush of December, when Christmas present shopping is just as stressful, undignified and uncomfortable as heaving Haribo Halloween mix into a toilet bowl.

Furthermore, stocks are high earlier in the season, not battered from rigorous manhandling and one has the luxury of seeking out the best deals.

Plus, I just like Christmas.

I like the fact it brings family and friends together to share in its many traditions. I like the fact it offers a wealth of happy memories.

Seeing Christmas trees now reminds me of this season of goodwill and makes me think of my nearest and dearest.

Although I do draw the line at eating mince pies. I have some standards.