“It gives me the heebie jeebies...”

Dear Mum,

One of my closest friends is frightened of buttons.

Not any and every button – that would be bizarre. She doesn’t hyperventilate when walking through the button haven that is the Marks and Spencer knitwear section. But upon spotting buttons looking up from the gutter or abandoned and desolate at the bottom of desk draw and Sara becomes a quivering wreck.

A housemate from uni, on the other hand, was frightened of jelly, meaning at any house party serving jelly vodka shots Carrie would find refuge sitting on the stairs, out of sight of the wobbly sweet treats.

It was easy to forget this phobia. Once, when she was unwell with a ‘stomach upset’ (hangover) and I took her a cup of fresh water and some toast, I absentmindedly rambled “I tell you what always made me feel better. Jelly. My Mum would make big bowls of the stuff and I’d have portions throughout the day. I always got fed up of the plain taste of toast and craved something with flavour. Plus it slips down so easily. I tell you what, I need to nip out and get some milk, I’ll get you some if you like.”

I turned round to discover her crying.

Food dislikes are generally acceptable. If you don’t like a food there is nothing worse than being forced to eat it. Heart pounds, forehead moistens, nausea sweeps through the minute it touches your tongue.

One colleague revealed yesterday that visible chopped onion in a cooked dish and her stomach reels. If it is chopped finely and disguised by other ingredients she can eat the dish but, if this is not the case, she flees the room.

Allie explained her Gran was not a gifted cook, producing big all-in-one dishes, which provided the prevalent memory of a scummy pool of liquid sitting on top of the food bulk, paprika and onion pieces rotating in circles, hypnotising her into a lifelong fear of onion and paprika.

You’ll be pleased to hear I have no such scarring memory.

As you well know, I think baked beans are Satan’s spawn on earth, something I was mocked for ruthlessly at uni, baked beans being the staple part of 99.9% of the student body’s diet. Statistical fact.

They have a vile, watery, mushy texture and insipid taste and they look minging, slithering about the plate like conscious entities. What’s to like??

But this hatred was not sparked by being force fed them as a child. You have always been very respectful of the fact that I have point blank refused to eat them.

I do have one recent memory that fed the fire of loathing. An old boyfriend’s housemates bought an industrial size can of the foodstuff. One day, one housemate decided to open it, took a spoonful and left the small vat tucked away in a cupboard. It was forgotten about for weeks, until the then boyfriend unearthed it, its top layer blanketed in a green moss of mould.

I was one lucky lady to be witness to this discovery. We discussed the subsequent course of action as I hid beneath the kitchen table.

He rightly pointed out it wouldn’t be sensible to put the contents into the bin in case the bin leaked, and it was a non-starter to pour it down the sink. He settled upon depositing it down the toilet but, the vessel being so big, this took several stints.

Think about it... The consistency of baked beans and the sound it would make hitting water. It sounded like he wasn’t very well, particularly as the sound of heavy dollops and the accompanied trickling juices was interspersed by flushes of the toilet.

A golden memory.

Every fear and phobia must have a cause, whether it’s obviously inspired by real life events, like the onion pieces, or something slumbering in the unconscious and only awoken when provoked. Like Sara’s button phobia.

Whilst it seems perverse, I agree there is something forlorn and miserable about an orphaned button – once useful and now forgotten about, once adorning a cardigan and now sticky with cobweb and dust behind the back of a cupboard.

Perhaps Sara’s phobia is that she really fears a similar reality, being useless and unwanted, left waiting for someone to rediscover and reinvent her.

Or perhaps Sara simply needs to man up and collect neglected buttons in a Quality Street tin, therefore both facing her fear and turning it into a positive.

BUT that doesn’t mean I should start eating baked beans. I’d rather eat Allie’s Gran’s scummy stew.

***

What is YOUR phobia, Reader of this blog. Yes, YOU. (No doubt Brontë edited out a paragraph similar to this blog in ‘Jane Eyre,’ in which Jane admits her darkest fear is of monsters under the bed or in the attic). I would like to know YOUR fear, Reader, however simple of perverse it is. It can be weird, wonderful or magnificently woeful. And why do you think, Reader, this phobia haunts you? Is there method to your madness? Please comment below, in a therapeutic admission and exploration of your darkest thoughts... 

Skin Deep Fashion

Dear Mum,

The late night library sessions as a student have taken their toll; squinting at obscure footnotes in dusty tomes; nose buried in Dickens, unperturbed by the lack of light on an evening’s train platform.

I need glasses.

Choosing my frames was utterly overwhelming but fortunately geek chic is ‘in.’ I settled for a pair of rectangular, thick tortoiseshell frames, though part of me wanted to go for a pair of immense black rimmed frames, worthy of Melanie Griffiths in ‘Working Girl.’

Today it’s fashionable to be a geek, which is most fortunate for me – a geek through and through. But when I was at Primary School, anyone with glasses was ridiculed by school bullies.

Clearly, fashion is fickle. What we all model one day can be ‘so yesterday’ the next. Friday saw the dawn of London Fashion Week. Consequently we’re all being informed of ‘what’s hot’ and ‘what’s not’ in the media.

The ensembles that are strutted down catwalks are, on the whole, laughable. If newspapers and magazines feature highlights from fashion shows I’m loathe to imagine what else was paraded on those poor models.

Swamped in fabrics, clashing colours and prints, buckles and chains draped at all angles, hair backcombed and hairsprayed into an ozone-breaking helmet.

The Evening Standard, for example, today referred to Peter Pilotto’s creations.

I can accept the nipped in waist and flared skirt as a trendy style. But inspired by “‘Japanese fetishised vehicles adorned with thousands of lights’”?

Really, Peter? Because the last Tesco truck I saw did not wet my fashion appetite in a Scarlett O’Hara “I saw it in the window and couldn’t resist” way.

Indeed, a few pages later, it was reported Vivienne Westwood has questioned her own styles, admitting she doesn’t like all her clothing creations. If the world’s most famous fashion designer is questioning her designs, then the fashion world has definitely lost its way.

It’s no wonder models all look miserable as they skulk down the catwalk. And how does this practice show the practicalities of these ensembles? For once, I’d like to see these fashions be put to a genuine test; let’s see the clothed models walk through a revolving door, or empty the dishwasher, or manhandle their ensembles onto a rush hour tube.

Which brings me to high heels. I admire any woman who goes shopping in a pair of court shoes. I bow to their resilience and strong calf muscles.

Indeed, I love a pair of heels and though I wear them to the office, or on a night or lunch out, I always arm myself with boots or pumps for the journey.

But I struggle with what my Godmother calls ‘bondage shoes’ – the great big whopping monstrosities with a platform at the front and five inch heels, which make the wearer look like their training to be a circus stilts performer.

These wearers look like pillocks. They look like ever step is a huge effort (which I don’t doubt it is) and these shoes simply can’t be good for the pins.

It was announced on Friday that UK model agencies were banning the use of sunbeds by their models, as part of Cancer Research’s R UV UGLY? Campaign.

It’s fantastic news that this has been introduced. I naively never really thought about how models gained the sunkissed look. But how has such an obviously sensible and necessary policy only just been introduced in 2012? It also seems very naive of the fashion industry.

Fashion is arguably the most frivolous and superfluous industry.  It therefore seems perverse that models’ health should be jeopardised, all for a ‘feel good’ dress.

The last few years has seen various campaigns to curb the number of stick thin models in fashion adverts and women’s magazines, which consciously or unconsciously encourage young women to look the same.

I think it’s time a similar campaign was established in magazines to discourage the use of sunbeds and extended exposure to sunlight.

As stated, today pretty much anything goes in fashion, including geeky glasses and, indeed, un-sun-kissed skin.  I would, therefore, like to see very healthy, very human looks on the catwalk.

This human and healthy look also includes banning David Beckham’s unforgiving scanties being advertised on carrier bags. I feel a colossal wally swinging this by my side. And it does nothing for onlookers’ confidence as no-one other than Becks can carry off that number of tattoos.

Besides, clad in just that, you’ll catch a cold David. 

Funny Little Valentine

Dear Mum,

It is upon us. The worst day of the year.

Valentine’s Day. Or, to the vast majority, Have-a-Whine Day. Or better still, Have-a-Glass-of-Wine Day, to make it easier to bear.

I don’t have a problem with romance. Several newspapers published some delightful articles on love poems and love letters this week.

And I have no problem with couple’s being romantic, provided they don’t do it when I’m standing behind them in a queue and am being subjected to the sound of their lip-locking.

But Valentine’s Day divides society into those that embrace it with fully flung arms and those that spurn it, instead taking part in Have-a-Whine Day. I’m in the latter category.

This is for the following reasons:

1)      As every magazine and columnist point out, commercialism is rammed in our faces in the form of nauseously cutsie cards, tacky teddies and meal deals. If you are single, strapped for cash or have a degree of taste this is overwhelming and demoralising.

2)     As a result of the above, I have no idea why we celebrate it. It must have religious roots but, a bit like Halloween, this has been lost with time along with Capitalism’s expansion. You brought me up on the philosophy that if you don’t know where it’s come from, don’t touch it. I treat Valentine’s Day with your advice.

3)     There is no pucker tradition that goes hand in hand with the day. No traditional songs, no particular meal, no timeframe of events. Just that dratted poem ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue.’

4)     Hearts are everywhere. In shop windows, on posters, menus, carrier bags, attraction leaflets, Google’s homepage, not to mention heart shaped foodstuffs. This is a symbol one ordinarily rebuffs. Take any person who dots their i’s with hearts. Ordinarily, these people are mocked by society but Valentine’s Day comes round and people adapt their own handwriting in greeting cards to incorporate the loathed emblem.

5)     If you’re single you are reminded of this fact. Constantly. This consequently makes you nostalgic and you think back to past Valentine’s Days with old boyfriends. For example, this time two years ago, I was in Florence. Today, I’m at sitting on an office chair that gradually lowers itself in the space of ten minutes until my chin is practically on the desk, and with a gurgling radiator that makes my bladder feel like it should also be constantly sloshing its contents. How glamorous.

6)     If you are in couple there is a pressure to mark the occasion. People ask you “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?” and you feel that you should come up with something intensely spectacular, particularly if the person asking is in a relationship themselves. “Well, we’re going to have a romantic evening picnic on the beach, snuggled up under the stars with glasses of pink champagne and a single violinist serenading us, puppies pawing at our feet before riding home on a unicorn.”

7)     Related to the above, it is a popularity contest. At school, rumours flew about who got the most Valentines. Now it’s who travelled the furthest for their Valentine’s Day.

8)    There is nothing personal about it. A couple’s anniversary is their day and, as a result, there is no-one else to compete with, no-one else to steal one’s thunder and no-one parading meaningless tat in shop windows for you to buy your loved one. An anniversary means something. Valentine’s Day means squat.

9)     As of 1^5th February, you completely forget about the day. You only remember it a year later when you think “This time a year ago...” Once more, Valentine’s Day means squat.

10) It is said like a sigh. Try it. “Valentine’s Day.”  Your volume and tone of voice declines, as if you’ve totally given up hope and succumbed to the sickly sweet pressure of Valentine’s Day. In truth, it is because every normal human being who isn’t a loved up teenager dreads its approach and knows it will be an utter disappointment. Have-a-Whine day becomes Have-a-Sigh day.

I’m off to open that bottle of wine...

One is not amused

Dear Mum,

It has recently been brought to my attention that I gained a work opportunity because of my accent. My articulation, worthy of a BBC news presenter, ultimately gave me the edge, meaning a girl from Upminster missed out.

I’m pretty miffed about this.

It is, of course, wonderful that I gained the opportunity and, had I found this fact out before accepting, I admit I wouldn’t have turned down the role in moral protest.

But this other girl was more experienced than I, more subtle and very capable. Despite this, the scales tipped in my favour, apparently under the weight of my precise articulation and pronunciation.

Objectively, this is unfair. It’s not fair on her that her regional upbringing was her downfall and unfair on me that my accent as opposed to my skill set meant I took the biscuit.

In a Carrie Bradshaw “I couldn’t help but wonder” way it got me thinking about accents.

Kate and I were born to you, a southwest country maiden, and Dad, a Londoner. Both born in the north west, our family moved to the south east when I was just six months old and, as a result, I consider myself a southerner.  

My social and academic education in Kent instilled in me a dialect that is sometimes called ‘The Queen’s English’, other times 'well spoken', and is sometimes called ‘posh.’

I am NOT posh. I have always lived on a housing estate, I’ve never been privately educated, I’ve not been ferried about in a Land Rover, I don’t have a black Labrador with a name like ‘Bunty’ and I’ve never partaken in lashings of gingerbeer.

Yet people assume that because I don’t drop the t’s in ‘butter’ that Mummy and Daddy paid for my education.

How archaic.

I admit that I am middle-class and there are times when I have to rein in my middle-class alter-ego, Lucinda. Certain situations seduce her from her slumber, like a snake gyrating from its basket to the evocative melody of a snake charmer.

At uni, for example, whenever I spoke to you or a friend from home on the phone, my housemates (a Geordie, a Londoner, two Welshies and an Essex gal) would shriek “Oh my god, you get SO POSH!”

Worse still, I could see where they were coming from. When Pippa came to stay, for example, a situation gained her reaction of “OMG, Luce, that was PIPS!” which made Lucinda and I feel very much at one, safe and sound in the cosy comfort of middle-class norm.

I’m not alone in being aware of and shrinking from my own accent. My Essex housemate frequently would tell us “I had to come up with an excuse to end the phone call, my Mum’s accent was so grating. No-one should use the phrase ‘I couldn’t give a tiny little rat’s arse’ so many times in one anecdote, least of all your mother.”  

The rest of us shrieked with laughter at this. I would relish it if, every once in a while, you and I dropped such expressions into conversation.

Indeed, my housemate would become even more ‘Essex’ when her parents came for tea. It was wonderful to listen to.

It only seemed fair that I then offered her similar entertainment and so answered the phone to you with a cheery, “Good evening, Mater” and a cheeky wink in her direction. She was thrilled!

But, rather sinisterly, the same housemate admitted that her Southend school had held elocution lessons. This seems a little dramatic.

Hasn’t twenty-first century Britain moved away from these outdated, Victorian attitudes? I thought or, rather, hoped that we had.

It is healthy to pass judgement on one’s own upbringing and accent. In fact, teasing one’s self is good practice for gaining a little humility and modesty.

But accents are no-one else’s business and an accent certainly shouldn’t be the basis for a final decision about someone. An accent is as important as a facial mole or colour of one’s hair. It’s just one of those things that make a person what they are.

This is my rambling attitude about accents, anyway. In the words of Rhett Butler, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”