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.

“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...