Write A Wrong

Dear Mum,

Yesterday I joined the thousands of Brits who ventured to a petrol station – waking up to the news this morning that this really wasn’t necessary.

It was an experience I’m glad I don’t encounter every time I need to top up on car juice.

On the whole, people waited patiently for a spot to come free, the wait only taking about five minutes, (enough time to listen and power-sing to ‘Jar of Hearts’, clutching at my steering wheel and taking huge breaths in preparation for the chorus, shrugging off the looks of my bemused fellow drivers).

But there were some (men in vans, I hasten to add) who thumped their horns like horrified Britain’s Got Talented judges if the pour soul at the front of the queue had not spotted a pump ahead becoming available. The pour sod then attempting to manoeuvre the car to claim the spot, a difficult task with a battalion of cars tightly positioned behind them.

It was a messy business. But, on this occasion, complaints about petrol prices seem to have diffused. Desperate times calls for a review of the situation, choosing convenience and necessity over the extortionate cost of car juice.

The cost of petrol does, ordinarily, make me wave my scrunched up fists in disbelief and beat them on the bonnet of my Yaris. But, as said, I do need it. And it is absolutely no-one’s fault, my little Yaris included.

Same with stamps. Good god. 60 pence for a first-class stamp, 50p for second-class? To send a thank you card to Grandma? When I was a girl, a first-class stamp cost just 27p, and second-class stamp 19p! How much will they cost when I’m a grandma? £3.00 and £2.50?

I will be visiting the post office to stock up on stamps before 30^th April when Royal Mail introduces its profit-boosting strategy.

This is not ‘panic-buying’. This phrase, bandied around in the press, doesn’t make much sense in these situations. And was undoubtedly what triggered many, myself included, to think ‘Mm, perhaps I should be stocking up on the dinosaur soup.’

Ordinarily, this phrase should be used as a snow storm approaches, or during an apocalyptic disaster, or when the last Mars Bar will be in production (Heaven forbid).

This is absolutely not the end of the world. It’s just a bit inconvenient and buggered up Christmas card lists. (I don’t want to go without the traditional round robin newsletters at Christmas but, alas, we may find a dearth of them on our doormats this year, Mum).

But the present rush to fill the car tank and stock up on stamps is, simply, a sensible preparation for the coming month and an attempt to save some pennies in the current economic climate.

As for the cost of stamps – I will be purchasing stamps before the new rates because it will save me money.

In a digital age with the ease and immediacy of texts and emails, we are losing the joy of finding a handwritten addressed envelope on the doormat. Ripping it open and revelling in the letter’s written content over a cup of tea is one of life’s simplest pleasures.

But LOOK at what you’re reading! A blog used as a form of contact, fashionable in this day and age, quick, accessible and easily located. Indeed, I use technology to stay in touch with friends and family day in, day out.

But I’m lucky that I have friends and relatives who also write to me. I find it touching to think they thought about me, putting a pen to paper and projecting their thoughts onto it.

I began this blog for the aforesaid reasons – an easy way to stay in touch and voice my experiences of the world. But I am anxious and disappointed that this will be the soul form of communication for future generations.

Will I be sending e-Christmas cards when I’m a pensioner? Will literature be updated – Lizzie receiving a text from Darcy about Wickham’s past indiscretions? – Tess’ email about her lost child finding itself in Angel’s junk box? – Jane blogging about the mysterious noises coming from the attic?

Talent Shows and Talentless Show Offs

Dear Mum,


With this Saturday witnessing the launch of two rival TV shows, I’ve chosen to dedicate this blog to the sheer beauty and total absurdity of such televised programmes. More specifically, this blog is inspired by ‘real life’ programmes exploiting the ‘ordinary man,’ most commonly seen in talent shows and reality TV.

In one camp; The Voice, Britain’s Got Talent, The Apprentice.

In the other; Geordie Shore, Made in Chelsea.

When it comes to intellectually deficient but jolly entertaining programmes... well, it’s a damn good show. These two camps have a surprising amount in common, despite falling into two TV genres.

Indeed, there are five elements critical to making entertainment and reality television enjoyable:

1)      Tense music. Usually requires a strong beat or, if more emotionally fraught, a tinkling piano. Might be complimented with dimmed lighting. Crucially includes a long pause before tension is relieved by an individual breaking the silence. Seen on most TV competitions, such as StrictlyCome Dancing and X Factor. Usually associated with Point 2.

2)     Long loaded looks. As in Point 1, Point 2 offers another form of tension and is usually frequented in pre-recorded TV shows. Eyes often pleading. A burrowed brow and glistening forehead not uncommon (as in Britain’s Got Talent). These sideways looks often provide viewers with a subtext (as in Made in Chelsea). For example, Deal or No Deal. Long loaded looks include when lid lifters watch anxiously and helplessly as Noel negotiates with The Banker (who is most probably his wife reminding him she’s defrosting some chicken). In Made in Chelsea, on the other hand, long loaded looks go hand-in-hand with pouting lips and wistful glances, indicating its characters are trying to remember whether or not they slept together... Oh yep, they have...

3)     A sob story. Vital in talent competitions. Alternatively, can be a nod to a higher cause e.g. “I was born to dance.” Often joined by emotive music of the Westlife calibre.

4)     A mean judge/tough judge not easy to please. Take Simon Cowell, Craig Revel Horwood, The Banker (aka Noel’s wife). Someone whose respect is hard earned and hair style is questionable.

5)     An underdog. We need someone who is entertaining, likeable but not the next Gene Kelly. Someone utterly human and accessible to the masses. Russell Grant. SuBo. Stavros Flatley. Pretty much the whole cast of The Only Way is Essex.

Combine these elements and BOOM! That’s Saturday night telly sorted.

I neither object to nor revel in these TV programmes. As a rule, anything with Simon Cowell in makes me want to throw the remote at the screen, though Britain’s Got Talent is a not-so-guilty pleasure of mine, as I do think some of its contestants are genuinely gifted (and some are clinically insane).

The Voice was a wonderfully refreshing change; first for it being based purely on talent; second for its judges being genuinely talented; and third for the judges all appearing to be nice, kind, and supportive individuals.

(Since Saturday night I have found myself with a crush on Will.i.am, and have fantasised about Jessie J and I painting one another’s nails).

The Apprentice is whole different kettle of fishy entrepreneurs. Unlike Simon Cowell and his contestants, Sir Alan has every right to lay into the arse-kissing subordinates because they are head-in-hands embarrassingly arrogant.

And because they are cretins.

‘This is a bus.’

This is a door. You’ll remember it when you pass through it to your taxi home.

As for the likes of Made in Chelsea and Gerodie Shore... Shameful!! I’m embarrassed to be in my 20’s. At least The Only Way is Essex has an irony to it.

With the introduction of The Voice, I’m hoping there’ll be more original, entertaining reality TV shows introduced. Such as my idea: “Made in The Apprentice? Or ‘No Deal’ as You’ve Got No Talent.”

This show sees the Made in Chelsea cast stand before Sir Alan, Simon Cowell and the big shouldered lass from Dragon’s Den, where they must present a business plan via a song or dance or both (it’s their choice of medium). If the judges like it, the Made in Chelsea ignoramus opens a box to discover what figure of money is inside, which concludes the board of judges’ total investment in their business plan (Nick and Karen having faithfully ferreted away the high figure boxes before ensuring there aren’t enough chairs for all the contestants to sit on in the boardroom.)

It’s fool proof. 

A Whole New World (at 22 Years)

Dear Mum,

It is appropriate that this is my 50^th blog as I am one year older. 22 years ago you clutched a babe to your exhausted and tender body, wondering what sort of a person you had brought into the world.

As a child I thought that when I was in my 20’s I’d be cool and wise but, alas, I am neither of those things. This was made particularly clear when meeting up with old school friends. Sitting around the table, comparing notes on our prospective futures, one girl said “It’s weird to think we’re all settling down.”

Come again? ‘Settling down’? I’ve NO IDEA what I’m doing in life – I’m so far from settling down, I’m still pacing the floor, stirring up dust with my curious pacing and stumbling over lose floorboards.

As a child I thought that come 22 I’d have a fiancé, a house and a career. I don’t think I was alone in anticipating this fate. From what I gather, other young men and (particularly) women thought their futures featured similar details.

Where do we get these ideas from?

Walt Disney certainly has a lot to answer for. Snow White and Co. feature heavily in my childhood memories. The posse of slim, big eyed and soft voiced heroines taught me that if you are good and kind then, one day, your prince will come and carry you off to a rent-free castle, and you will ride on a gentle steed that does not need to be insured thanks to the innocent and safe world of Disney.

This is not, actually, a fate I would choose. The Disney princesses are simple folk (I doubt any of them read Tess of the d’Urbervilles and thought “Jesus! That Alec is a son of a bitch”). And, without question, they led excruciatingly dull lives after their wedding nuptials.

Besides which, birds resting on my shoulders and encouraging me in a sing-song to the furniture simply doesn’t butter my crumpet.

But the films are misleading. They encourage you to expect certain qualities in those of the opposite sex.

Such as chivalry, a quality I actually think is better dead and festering. I don’t need a man to trail after me, serenading me in a woodland scene, concerned if I so much as trip over a toadstall. Thoughtful, but a little patronising and very claustrophobic.

No, chivalry is best dead but kindness and manners – there’s something we need more of, and not just in menfolk. But that’s a whole other blog...

It’s not just the romantic plots. Disney films lead a child to believe good always conquers evil and that wealth and happiness is as easy to achieve as a urinary infection, and less painful.

And not that I blame you, Mum, but you and Dad raised me with the ethos that, if you work hard, you can achieve just about anything. I’ve worked hard and where am I? Strapped for cash, unemployed, a statistic read in the newspaper.

This is not what my lifeplan included when I mapped it out as a six year old. Death did not punctuate my existence as it does today (we don’t see Belle drink herself into a stupor to numb the pain of being without a mother), ‘debt’ was not in my vocabulary (I’d like to see Cinderella on the phone to her bank discussing Cash ISA interest rates) and I was not familiar with that feeling of exhaustion and disbelief which accompanies a ringing alarm clock in the morning (Sleeping Beauty doesn’t know how lucky she’s got it).

So 22 years is not what I envisaged. I am not ‘settling down’. I’ve barely paused to lower myself into the sofa of life. But should I be? I’m only 22 years old. Four years ago, I bought my first glass of wine at a bar, three years ago I passed my driving test and nine months ago I entered a whole new world called ‘The Real World’.

So I don’t really want to settle down - because I’m simply not old enough or mature enough.

Yes, I’d like a career and a sense of stability but I’m feeling pretty content all the same. I don’t want to be cool or wise. I just want a slice of birthday cake.

Big Brother is watching...

Dear Mum,

I’ve no doubt that you’ve read about the changes Facebook is making, specifically the introduction of a ‘Facebook Timeline.’  This new style means a person’s profile will not simply display their most recent updates but include ‘highlights’ of their Facebook activity since signing up to the social networking site.

These highlights from a Facebooker’s life will be random statuses about what they had for breakfast or photos of them lying inebriated in a puddle and wearing a traffic cone, as opposed to statuses conveying exam results or proud photos of newborn babies.

I deactivated my Facebook account over winter. I was growing tired of its gossiping nature, its way of coaxing Facebookers into ‘stalking’ the ghosts of their past and it being utilised as a washing line for drying dirty laundry.

Oh it was bliss. No gossip, no bitching, no addictive browsing...

But hearing that Facebook was introducing the inescapable biographical bent to the site, an ominous shadow lurked at the door of my safe haven.

I logged back in and increased all of my security settings in the hope this would police what was published on my profile before The Switch.

This in itself was a mission. The website has become more and more difficult to navigate and I am not confident my action has made any difference to the future privacy of my past actions.

This is not, of course, to say I have anything to hide. There aren’t any photos of me uncouthly licking rude objects or flipping the bird. I would simply prefer past relationships, dull statuses and inconsequential wall pasts verbalised solely in Flight of the Conchords quotes to be locked behind a door labelled ‘For Lucy’s Memory Only.’

I do feel like an element of my basic right to privacy and censorship is being threatened. Take the column on the right of one’s homepage, which shows a handful of friends’ friends that you might have an inkling of. I have no interest in this list and resent being listed on other individuals’ homepages, as if I’m an item on Amazon under the ‘More items to consider’ section.

One could argue you put it up there for public knowledge, you have no right to complain now. But as one did consciously chose to display this information, I think it’s only right they have the right to choose what becomes permanent and what becomes forgotten history.

After all, most of my friends have been on Facebook for some five years and so much has changed in our lives during this period. It does, therefore, seem that the parts being randomly selected by Facebook employees is to become your new identity, defining you for the benefit of new Facebook friends who look into your timeline.

I’ve completely lost interest in the social networking site. I log in once every three or so days and, when I do, for some inexplicable reason, my heart races and I get butterflies. It might be because I don’t trust it, it might be because I fear my Facebook will have undergone The Switch without my consent (which would not be surprising from the website, which constantly undergoes changes).

I can’t deny that Facebook is a brilliant public service. It is a free way to stay in touch with friends and share photos, to pass on birthday wishes and make announcements.

But it seems to be turning into a huge violation of privacy. We all have memories we want to keep private or forget, but the Facebook phenomenon continues to rule our social lives.

This is not a fiction – Big Brother is watching, and his name is Mark Zuckerberg.