tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85900276456431893102023-11-16T17:05:01.527+00:00Grumpy Young Women: every bit as grumpy as the old girlsGrumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-79584267084061854842011-09-19T09:01:00.002+01:002011-09-19T09:02:46.818+01:00Cut the crap; I just want to wash and go!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wjY2ijEcw84C9fftcGvggxvpEOnMvXcemyw96hnsLL0FtzXj8M0gDC5yg6e8zxrFsNpSrsM7WOlVNRQL4VcHg5PVr-_2tf6VK6E9Jrv9q2lBbOitdWUTk9HoWto5WY2cxTNCGArFX9U/s1600/Shelly_B%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wjY2ijEcw84C9fftcGvggxvpEOnMvXcemyw96hnsLL0FtzXj8M0gDC5yg6e8zxrFsNpSrsM7WOlVNRQL4VcHg5PVr-_2tf6VK6E9Jrv9q2lBbOitdWUTk9HoWto5WY2cxTNCGArFX9U/s1600/Shelly_B%2526W.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><strong><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span style="color: magenta;">SHELLY BERRY</span></a></strong></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Hair. We all have it – some more than others, and not necessarily on our heads, but there’s no escaping it. Never mind shoes; hair is the first thing we notice about other people. And first impressions do count, which makes the fact that hair often has a mind of its own more than a little bit of an obstacle when it comes to making oneself presentable to the outside world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m one of those people who have to wash their hair every day (anything less than squeaky clean locks triggers post traumatic flashbacks to my greasy teenage years). So for me it is essential to have hair that is easy to style – as in wash and go easy.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><a name='more'></a>As someone who is also afflicted with wavy tresses that like nothing more than to do exactly what I don’t want them to do, I have quite specific requirements when I visit my hairdresser. There’s always a sense of relief when I find one who seems to understand my basic hair needs and one of trauma when I move away from my favourite salon, or, worse still, my trusted stylist leaves without a trace.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OzZLc47cfPLqPtN6xCd-xEpKo940lx0eeIDOG09w9rSj8mkaXGUyQ3bkLAKJZ7sPtWj9jzx-KkNUtaiGDPPDHsULQUw4YNNHLZJUN0WVRGCZY4lALT6sILZucvvU9JLY9O3Yv1Hv82c/s1600/dscn4173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OzZLc47cfPLqPtN6xCd-xEpKo940lx0eeIDOG09w9rSj8mkaXGUyQ3bkLAKJZ7sPtWj9jzx-KkNUtaiGDPPDHsULQUw4YNNHLZJUN0WVRGCZY4lALT6sILZucvvU9JLY9O3Yv1Hv82c/s400/dscn4173.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I get incredibly nervous when I find myself in the position of having to find a new hairdresser. I have been scarred in the past. It’s about 10 years since that fateful day. I should have bolted as soon as I laid eyes on the girl who was about to be let loose on my tresses. She had just had her own peroxide locks tended to by a colleague. As I gave her strict instructions about the dos and don’ts of cutting my hair, she nodded along whilst admiring her own mane in the mirror.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The result?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I thought I’d go for the Victoria Beckham look.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It seemed to have passed my hairdresser by that, as a curvaceous 5’11’’ blonde, my resemblance to Posh was decidedly absent. Even more disturbing was the unfortunate fact that at the time Mrs Beckham was sporting a rather feathery bob. Needless to say, my unruly kinks had their own take on this cut. It became clear the next morning that, without the aid of a hairdryer, a plethora of hair styling products and a spare set of hands, my hair was less Posh, more Scary.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There have been other mishaps. When I was a student there was the perm which was supposed to be short and cute. Think Drew Barrymore circa 1999. My hairdresser had other ideas and I turned out more Jennifer Gray circa 1985. Not good.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5caeg4zAESARdsWaKu41dbDqjErRHGuA620VTNcXI2Ffvki1mzq3aEzpneCaogUrk8SmyldTYOy-hDEi_I8frFtoTlk636Be0v8X4ysTBzhH2nSQ8EC7q8P53B2z_qHaCEyyYmyRPJXU/s1600/cutthroat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5caeg4zAESARdsWaKu41dbDqjErRHGuA620VTNcXI2Ffvki1mzq3aEzpneCaogUrk8SmyldTYOy-hDEi_I8frFtoTlk636Be0v8X4ysTBzhH2nSQ8EC7q8P53B2z_qHaCEyyYmyRPJXU/s400/cutthroat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today, after a lot of soul searching, my hair and I have reached a compromise with a funky bob and full fringe. It takes me a couple of minutes to keep curly curtains at bay and I occasionally spend an extra 30 seconds twisting my hair around my fingers to give it a bit of a lift, but other than that, it’s good to go.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It would appear that not everyone is willing to give up when it comes to the struggle against what we have up top. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with people who like to give their bonce a little bit more care and attention than myself, but I have my limits when it comes to accepting other people’s vanity. And that is people who are constantly titivating their hair to make sure every strand is perfectly in place. And I’ll tell you something else. It isn’t just women.<br />
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The Metrosexual man has got a lot of catching up to do. We ladies have learnt that coiffure preservation can be done discreetly. Hair can be held in place with clips and spray and doesn’t necessarily need constant care and attention. Sadly some men have yet to grasp this concept. I recently was walking along the Southbank when I noticed a young man walking towards me, his head on one side. Being a curious type, I wondered if he was okay – had he had some kind of stroke or injured his neck? Or just pondering the meaning of life? Then I realised that his unusual posture was in aid of his hair. You see, his fringe was carefully swept to one side, and he was using gravity to keep it in place as he walked along. Seriously.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUnh9ox1HOOxJQCz-qjKg6veIcHiybFHM3waU2RNbJoRW_k0wxQGi-e6gK_FyH_F4TQ-2Bl1zEmhOjkSLTurLRArTlz2IGDyuT8rSqLgOH_LUmc6OqTuyqJf8HjojI6G7aNSmxMN4pJ8/s1600/Sassy-Bieber-Hair-Helmet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKUnh9ox1HOOxJQCz-qjKg6veIcHiybFHM3waU2RNbJoRW_k0wxQGi-e6gK_FyH_F4TQ-2Bl1zEmhOjkSLTurLRArTlz2IGDyuT8rSqLgOH_LUmc6OqTuyqJf8HjojI6G7aNSmxMN4pJ8/s400/Sassy-Bieber-Hair-Helmet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He isn’t the only one. I watched the first episode of the new season of <i>X Factor</i>. Those of you who saw it may remember a young man who had several women’s names tattooed on his bottom – and the same swept-across style. Again, windy weather took over his tresses as he was interviewed by the lovely Dermot. His determination to keep every single hair in place was rather amusing – and almost heroic. I half expected him to lick his palm and stick his fringe to his forehead with some good old fashioned spit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
The concept of working with your hair, not against it, had clearly not reached him yet. My point? Respect your hair for the individual that it is. Go with the flow. Fighting against it will only end in tears – or make you look like a berk as you try to keep it under control on national telly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As for any hairdressers reading this, not all of us have the time or the inclination to spend hours tweaking our tresses to try and look like someone we aren’t. We just want to look half-presentable when we leave the house in the morning. And, although it might not seem like it sometimes, I think it is what our hair wants too. <strong><em><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Shelly.</span></a></em></strong></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-4662016953774333652011-09-08T13:24:00.000+01:002011-09-08T13:24:52.002+01:00Grumpy single gal WLTM: an age appropriate man<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmFc7f59TtcRWZC4eOukuJ_G6_3hYerF9zWG6Q0UBXwJHeQM5cCLHp4hgJwp9xY4LqNfvWk4PGhHZSaexEXFLVBfjALtoJchuNqKqem0XkebshHwlajs3XJ-o2QPfpoDbyEuIU3gxUnY/s1600/Judy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmFc7f59TtcRWZC4eOukuJ_G6_3hYerF9zWG6Q0UBXwJHeQM5cCLHp4hgJwp9xY4LqNfvWk4PGhHZSaexEXFLVBfjALtoJchuNqKqem0XkebshHwlajs3XJ-o2QPfpoDbyEuIU3gxUnY/s200/Judy.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Judy%20Johnson"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">JUDY JOHNSON</span></b></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Every girl likes to be approached by a man on a night out, don’t they? Even if you’re not single, it’s probably nice to know you’ve still got it. If you are single, it’s exciting to meet someone, right? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What if that man is pushing 50 (or 60 but tried Botox), has a big enough beer gut that he can’t remember what his toes look like and yet still thinks he’s God’s gift to women? Thought so. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is what happens to me on a regular basis. I am only 25; I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope for men aged 30-ish and under to approach me instead of middle-aged balding ones who may or may not be having a mid life crisis. What’s even worse is that these ageing, leering, old-enough-to-be-a-granddad men are getting in the way of the good ones. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><a name='more'></a>Recently, a friend and I were out in Soho having a long overdue catch up and a few cocktails. Sat at a table big enough for four, I’d been hoping the very cute guy who was sitting a few tables away with his friend would maybe come over and strike up conversation; and even if he didn’t, it wasn’t a bad view.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, he might have come over if it weren’t for two old (at least 50, easily) men who decided to come and chat us up. Chat. Us. Up. It was embarrassing. One was more talkative than the other, both stank of whiskey, and neither would take the hint that we wanted them to please leave, now. Question after question came, which we politely answered with as many not-so-subtle ‘please leave us alone’ lines as possible. Old men; maybe it’s not clear, but the following are not invitations to continue bothering us:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘We’re just having a good catch up because we haven’t seen each other for ages.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘We don’t want to dance, because like we said, we’re busy catching up at the moment.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘No, I don’t want another drink. No, really. No, I don’t want to try yours.’<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBc1xGUAfEMW0ki8D9yutB7EuGh0HKrGIHKv6ZjHJiP5DQEhfm3A1midF_bx5m996V-0TFYB_IIAfIOMYFY93BlpJFgjHtgHZfAKzcC5JJeTXFsK978g0mjh6nSkJ7ZWA9fgtqSQWO468/s1600/sleazy-man-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBc1xGUAfEMW0ki8D9yutB7EuGh0HKrGIHKv6ZjHJiP5DQEhfm3A1midF_bx5m996V-0TFYB_IIAfIOMYFY93BlpJFgjHtgHZfAKzcC5JJeTXFsK978g0mjh6nSkJ7ZWA9fgtqSQWO468/s1600/sleazy-man-.jpg" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why do fifty-something guys who are – I assume – single, think that it’s perfectly acceptable to chat up a girl who is young enough to be their daughter? Why do they think they have a chance? Why do they not realise that it just makes them look like a pervert and makes us feel uncomfortable?<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
I’m not against talking to older men. I love listening to their life stories, hearing about where they’ve travelled, and generally learning something from them. I do this often with my granddad. But that doesn’t mean I want them to come up to me in a dark club, put their slimy hand on my bare knee and make bad jokes through a mist of alcohol breath. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmPxTY51JmrregrHR4r-tn4a2XOXE4aukv8AKWsqIUukf3HgMARR5u7te5Y_mJZv9Sg-sUSUEhKFhoAQE32WosRVEeBPWvKDuWzGw0SlasOH1W26HJ3ql_6Tv_S1rltb4XmJOYyW0HVs/s1600/wmf-whiskey-glass1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmPxTY51JmrregrHR4r-tn4a2XOXE4aukv8AKWsqIUukf3HgMARR5u7te5Y_mJZv9Sg-sUSUEhKFhoAQE32WosRVEeBPWvKDuWzGw0SlasOH1W26HJ3ql_6Tv_S1rltb4XmJOYyW0HVs/s200/wmf-whiskey-glass1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, a plea to older men – pick on someone your own age. I’m sure you’re lovely really, and any hot 50 year old woman would love to meet you. I, on the other hand, want to meet the young man I’ve been looking at all night who isn’t reading my ‘Help us!’ eyes as well as I’d hoped. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Judy%20Johnson"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Judy</span></i></b></a>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-53902356368289585962011-08-23T09:26:00.006+01:002011-08-23T13:30:11.512+01:00How do you like your toast in the morning?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXC4FkkCHpXJs2tj6bJ0ZZKECvsV7sTyGqs8wlwnDGHe2xBiuPExmEwlyCnegcvrY137aEMeXtH70jQh3jWjCAAmNtHdQOIV7FFR43qB74fYEHEEOTiZ58IfJNZnhQOUTcqxYRY71U3zk/s1600/Rosie+McGee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXC4FkkCHpXJs2tj6bJ0ZZKECvsV7sTyGqs8wlwnDGHe2xBiuPExmEwlyCnegcvrY137aEMeXtH70jQh3jWjCAAmNtHdQOIV7FFR43qB74fYEHEEOTiZ58IfJNZnhQOUTcqxYRY71U3zk/s1600/Rosie+McGee.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">ROSIE MCGEE</span></strong></a></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s a lot not to like about being in hospital. I can state this as an unequivocal fact as I recently had the pleasure of three long weeks held hostage in one. There isn’t enough time left between now and the eventual end of the world to detail each and every thing that annoyed me, every comment that irked and every slight to common sense and good manners I underwent. They were simply too numerous and too pestilent. Before long I accepted that if I was going to make it out alive I’d just have to shut down the grumpy part of my brain and accept it all or else I was in danger of having an aneurysm or, worse still, being more closely “monitored” than I already was. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
So as I endured all the horrors of the ward I tried to remain upbeat about the fact that most people were under the delusion that in a hospital fabric has the same properties as brick and therefore pulling a curtain means that your conversation cannot be heard by those six feet from your bed. There are now people who I could convincingly impersonate based on the amount and depth of detailed, personal information I now know about them. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After being kept awake late into the night by the phone calls of others (behind their solid concrete, soundproof curtains), I could look forward to being woken throughout the night by someone shaking my exhausted, sleep-deprived body awake all under the guise of taking my blood pressure. Needless to say, many of those readings suggested a stroke was imminent.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, I’d finally make it through the night and as I attempted to doze for a little bit longer into the morning, a member of the catering (I use that word in its loosest possible sense) staff would march in and bark ‘BREAKFAST’ at me. My spirit broken, I’d meekly comply, heaving my weary body out of bed and shuffling down the corridor to stand in a queue of other bleary-eyed patients. I felt like roadkill, but at least I’d get a cup of tea and a bit of toast. Surely that was something to take the edge off it all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsBtwn1zchc3N_7ULiESztG9Sy6vnuxN2NDFssW__ipw-JZx9KGvbcZi-KnQ7CcB1uBurHDi0JYY1sl6ESsfIGyrSM-O1YyVVmMJ3hdN1PbDQX6MK_qYCPc_ILpxNWcMac7lbvld6d2U/s1600/toast+rack2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsBtwn1zchc3N_7ULiESztG9Sy6vnuxN2NDFssW__ipw-JZx9KGvbcZi-KnQ7CcB1uBurHDi0JYY1sl6ESsfIGyrSM-O1YyVVmMJ3hdN1PbDQX6MK_qYCPc_ILpxNWcMac7lbvld6d2U/s320/toast+rack2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sadly even such simple pleasures had been institutionalised. From what I can tell, hospitals have been mercilessly attacked by the health and safety police. Because Joe Public is so moronic he cannot help but continually hurt himself, someone has gone around the nation’s medical institutions trying to metamorphose large, solid buildings into one giant padded cell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It manifests itself in several ways, the most maddening of which being that hot water is banned. Want a bath? Well, you can have a lukewarm one. Want a cup of tea? Well, you guessed, that’s lukewarm too. The regulation hot water urn has been set to the temperature of a normal cup of tea roughly 20 minutes after being made. Once armed with a cup of extremely tepid tea, then the unsuspecting patient is shuffled onto the toast section of the <em>breakfast-from-hell</em> experience.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course it goes without saying that we are not permitted to touch the toaster itself. We have not completed the training, the risk assessment or signed a disclaimer. So instead it’s done for you as you stand and wait, tepid tea getting colder by the second. As soon as it’s ready, and irrespective of whether there is someone waiting behind you or not, the steaming bits of bread are plonked straight onto your plate flat, meaning that by the time you have collected your pre-measured serving 80ml of orange juice in a pre-sealed plastic container and accompanying sterile straw and then got to the butter, jam and marmite stand (where you collect your plastic one use knife) your toast is stone cold and completely soggy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_iLKVW3mZeEEVCVs92lqGRkSTgpCcN2m1C1gA8ugm-Lb3se7ix7_oUQlwscbU6h836Pl0TjO_fMZJrXhYqAnNnJDOBAAt8-8MuMNQbRED7E6qzpZnyWzL4pSp1nnp8DCWLTooPMdSAQ/s1600/toaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_iLKVW3mZeEEVCVs92lqGRkSTgpCcN2m1C1gA8ugm-Lb3se7ix7_oUQlwscbU6h836Pl0TjO_fMZJrXhYqAnNnJDOBAAt8-8MuMNQbRED7E6qzpZnyWzL4pSp1nnp8DCWLTooPMdSAQ/s400/toaster.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">During my stay I tried a variety of different tactics ranging from balancing said toast in a wigwam shape on my plate to pleading with the toaster wardens to just, for the love of humanity, let it stand for a few seconds. All my efforts were in vain. Some mornings I relished the challenge; I let myself believe that today, maybe, just maybe, I’d do it. I’d actually get crisp, crunchy toast. Other days, my failure first thing came to represent how bad the whole day was going to be.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I suppose that’s the thing about being in hospital. You’re there because you’ve got something wrong with you. Life has already taken a definite turn for the worse and there’s this uncomfortable sense of losing control over your life, your body and also your breakfast. And while I accept that during a period of NHS cuts it probably is not economically efficient to buy tens of thousands of toast racks so that each and every person can have a more satisfactory breakfast experience, it’d be nice for there to be a small touch somewhere or other to make the whole ordeal a bit more bearable.<strong><em><span style="color: magenta;"> </span></em></strong><strong><em><span style="color: magenta;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee">Read more by Rosie.</a></span></em></strong></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-78379235637648658412011-08-12T16:46:00.000+01:002011-08-12T16:46:13.111+01:00Time at the bar: how not to treat the regulars<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZGFdpOAbxtugbd4oFMHZt-yAbUvjk5PNtPVc3S0ypgOOIMn8pvUicjNkIbcRer3nWTcuyYv86tiX6obMVy9IcoidHWy3IKSmC2u5YoAsiHm1sP-GOmzLzG0FtCqbVZll8uT0Shrpav8/s1600/Naomi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZGFdpOAbxtugbd4oFMHZt-yAbUvjk5PNtPVc3S0ypgOOIMn8pvUicjNkIbcRer3nWTcuyYv86tiX6obMVy9IcoidHWy3IKSmC2u5YoAsiHm1sP-GOmzLzG0FtCqbVZll8uT0Shrpav8/s1600/Naomi.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Naomi%20Saffery"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">NAOMI SAFFERY</span></strong></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Generally, I choose the house I live in based entirely on the local. In London we lived a few doors down from a boozer that served Pimm’s by the bucket load and knocked out a wonderful BBQ every summer. This was followed by the lovely ramshackle gastropub just around the corner from our house in Oxford; it served amazing mulled wine and I had a very happy winter indeed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
The village that we have moved to has a wonderful pub made of stone, with roaring log fires and wooden floorboards akimbo. It is suitably ‘ye olde worlde’ and I fell in love with it. I had visions of numerous hours spent sitting next to the fire with a good Merlot whilst chatting to villagers about badgers, hedgerows and cricket. That was until the landlord arrived.</div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It all started so well. We moved in the snow and took refuge in the warmth of the pub whilst being bestowed with free mulled wine by the most amazing barman I have ever encountered. We spent many evenings enjoying the company of villagers and just as I was about to learn all about badgers, hedgerows and cricket, the new landlord took over. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4hW9anwFPo439MdSxkyNFURUUnigrJ9SK5jJJmFkln_dd-SPNQcPfDxazXqqXnMrz39C5U_R1e0gQhe2OExAJijD1wTamTJcJ8i1ZCikNQ4jPbOg5P92UOnSjCLF29w5dK2TG9El1to/s1600/country+pub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4hW9anwFPo439MdSxkyNFURUUnigrJ9SK5jJJmFkln_dd-SPNQcPfDxazXqqXnMrz39C5U_R1e0gQhe2OExAJijD1wTamTJcJ8i1ZCikNQ4jPbOg5P92UOnSjCLF29w5dK2TG9El1to/s320/country+pub.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is bad customer service. I have said it before and I’ll say it again, customer service is not hard to get right. A village pub should be an easy gig surely? Miles from the nearest town, we are all sitting ducks and (speaking for myself here) we are all so bloody bored that we are practically hammering the door down with our empty vessels. Yet despite this, the new landlord got it oh so terribly wrong. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
We pitched up with a couple of friends for dinner at 8.25pm on a Saturday night, the pub was only half full and we settled ourselves down in a cosy corner near both fire and bar. Then the shouting began. “We aren’t serving dinner. You can sit there and drink but we have closed the kitchen”. We looked at one another in astonishment, we checked our watches – nope, not 11.30pm but 8.30pm. Why this man felt the need to shout across the room I have no idea. I enquired as to whether there might be the chance to have a sarnie or something simple, “No, the kitchen closes at 8.30”. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
So we got up and left. As we were driving to the next village in the hope of sustenance we sat in stunned silence. I decided that we would boycott and go on every online review site to leave diatribes of indignation (yes, that really is how vindictive I am). Still, a few evenings later we sloped off to the pub in search of an answer, after all perhaps he had been having a bad night?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
We ordered our bevvies and settled down next to the fire. It wasn’t before too long that I realised I could no longer see the boyfriend let alone draw breath as the fire had begun to unleash its smoke into the room. Did the landlord come and sort it out? No, instead some choking diners ran around opening all doors and windows. Eyes streaming, we went home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3GSQetyuCuuu4zDR8ggDb0K7CbDKii1XPm06hkSKvJJSrsli_hvHG_uY9VSf8DUnbsmUhwgRR4fBHhMZGP0LA2WFY2zPEUMnBo079EbcvX7cAxHTVPcqKlhE_keOxq_fOr5t88M1B0U/s1600/smoking+fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3GSQetyuCuuu4zDR8ggDb0K7CbDKii1XPm06hkSKvJJSrsli_hvHG_uY9VSf8DUnbsmUhwgRR4fBHhMZGP0LA2WFY2zPEUMnBo079EbcvX7cAxHTVPcqKlhE_keOxq_fOr5t88M1B0U/s1600/smoking+fire.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
The weeks passed and I cycled by the pub on numerous occasions with a tear in my eye as I mourned the halcyon days of dining after dawn and drinking in a hotbox free zone. I decided that I would give it one last try. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
I participated in a scheme that gave free books out to people and I decided that I would keep a small number back from my hospital tour to give out to villagers in the pub. In I went with said books and as I tried to explain that it was a national scheme that was giving free books to members of the public, I was met with a barrage of arsehole-like behaviour. And I quote: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
“Well, I don’t want to be responsible for anything.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Erm” I answered, “You won’t be, they are just free books, it doesn’t matter if they don’t get taken, it’s a nice thing to do”, </div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Right because I’m not going to sign up for anything.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I am not asking you to.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Because I don’t want to be responsible for anything...”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
And on it went. Eventually I left, having given a paltry few to the bar staff who all looked rather haggard.The chips were down so I went home and poured myself a glass of something strengthening as I proceeded to find numerous online review sites....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
I don’t know if it was my ‘reviewing prowess’ (considering levels of squiffyness whilst writing, I doubt it) or karma but shortly afterwards he left and so I am happily installed in the boozer once more. The moral of the story? Don’t piss off the locals. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Naomi%20Saffery"><strong><em><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Naomi.</span></em></strong></a></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-22396144407651542972011-08-04T18:18:00.002+01:002011-08-18T18:55:08.173+01:00And finally, news broadcasts get even more frivolous<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoraecULj7IPfhpQMQKz8HlXMwQ5PgB8bDRFyOPrGq7aLYq6eR-sXgAoV0IC9PJZ60lFwiCFuLMWRHf4794kSYLYIkCYIQPtbTpdmsUfIG67jwnLE0CyaimTAefYbAK52u0SbL8IimX4/s1600/Shermaine+W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoraecULj7IPfhpQMQKz8HlXMwQ5PgB8bDRFyOPrGq7aLYq6eR-sXgAoV0IC9PJZ60lFwiCFuLMWRHf4794kSYLYIkCYIQPtbTpdmsUfIG67jwnLE0CyaimTAefYbAK52u0SbL8IimX4/s1600/Shermaine+W.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shermaine%20Williams"><span style="color: magenta;"><strong>SHERMAINE WILLIAMS</strong></span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">A writer’s lot is a hard one. Why are you scoffing at the back? Well, I suppose it does all depend on the type of writing that one undertakes and how successful they are, but I reckon most writers are in the same boat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
While everyone thinks that ‘writer’ means you’re getting paid like JK Rowling or Stephen King, the reality is often that a ‘proper’ job is also required in order to ensure the bills get paid. Oh yeah, this industry is all about the glamour. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
One of the worst things about writing for (something of) a living is that switching off from work is like attempting to stop the wind from blowing. The laptop is always there no matter what you are doing, taunting you with its ability to travel ‘look at me—I’m portable!’<br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Whether you want to take a day off to relax or simply have something else to take care of, it remains an effective technological bully, adept at psychological torture so that you can think of nothing but approaching deadlines. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
With this to contend with, I have found there is a very real risk of becoming a recluse, making use of the pyjama selection and saving money on re-heeling shoes. When going outside actually requires an excuse, it’s nice to keep up with what’s going in the world beyond my window. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Newspapers? Nah, they’re too much trouble as they actually involve me going outside, which might result in me wandering off, attention drawn by a new shop that seems to have sprung up from nowhere or dazzled by the sunlight like I’m brand new. Radio? No, there’s something very unsatisfactory about listening to a disembodied voice. Maybe I’m just the visual type, which would make the internet a good option, but I don’t like that either. Any period spent on the internet just feels like work. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
That leaves me with the television—old fashioned as I am. I like to keep up with the news by watching the google box, making a concerted effort to test the validity of the Old Wives’ Tale about sitting to close to the screen.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7s4z0YU_NUoZ-8RksV7KoJOcn2Cue7AOP8IZUQT3y7vyTsWoOPgAfx9ELu3IqGHkHftxadmMN7_AhxKXkM6RhslSAFQEAdoGVGnt3O9JNSayL8tgimHfpyp_ejDTebFb1BfjDZVC1gQ/s1600/bbc+news.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7s4z0YU_NUoZ-8RksV7KoJOcn2Cue7AOP8IZUQT3y7vyTsWoOPgAfx9ELu3IqGHkHftxadmMN7_AhxKXkM6RhslSAFQEAdoGVGnt3O9JNSayL8tgimHfpyp_ejDTebFb1BfjDZVC1gQ/s320/bbc+news.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Keeping up is relatively easy with the rolling news channels available. However, this doesn’t always guarantee that you actually get the news. I like to watch the made-up faces of the various newsreaders, to see if I can detect any reaction to the stories they deliver. All I can say is that they must have a lot of rehearsal time to enable them to keep a straight face when it comes to, what I call, the nonsense stories. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
It used to be the case that just a single one of these stories at the end of the news report, but now they seem to be coming thick and fast. Let’s say nothing about the ridiculous ‘celebrity’ stories – they are never ending and I can’t see that changing. But these have been added to by a range of other absurd stories that have no business being called news. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Is it too much to ask to simply be able to find out about what’s going on in the world without all the guff? Wars, crimes, politics, justice, finances, animals that look like people and freakish vegetables. Hmm, something’s not right there. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8PZ7e75wnF_hIJG3tYJeavq7aWejvNwg8B-0LYGbeqBNlcnqP8uwbE9Os_mfU7NtNyOZoBNLyj-suwaPQ8-5hv82JVRAexG6uWXsVteWoJxNxZx_CmBlZAEYzJiVd36BDdqsM6PWMHk/s1600/carrot+foot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8PZ7e75wnF_hIJG3tYJeavq7aWejvNwg8B-0LYGbeqBNlcnqP8uwbE9Os_mfU7NtNyOZoBNLyj-suwaPQ8-5hv82JVRAexG6uWXsVteWoJxNxZx_CmBlZAEYzJiVd36BDdqsM6PWMHk/s1600/carrot+foot.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It must really be a slow news day when we need to be concerned with random morons sending misogynistic emails to each other and houses that look like Hitler. Is life really that mundane? Do we not have better things to do? I know I do. Any time spent away from the laptop is precious and can’t be wasted. I’m a writer—I’m busy. <em><span style="color: magenta;"><strong><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shermaine%20Williams">Read more by Shermaine.</a></strong></span></em></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-34962507375887323502011-08-01T12:25:00.000+01:002011-08-01T12:25:32.242+01:00Beware the temptations of the internet<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5-zzrc6rJgIE7S4aFpZOOF447fVbaO8sEdak78TzLd0YP5smMt1BgXde6fSaFaLKK1siULHtVvN4BROsqLJqGhziUt1OV45OWJMy5mhTQDfV13G3xluIIP_TpRvFWkntbI5KT3Oc4Cs/s1600/Shelly_B%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5-zzrc6rJgIE7S4aFpZOOF447fVbaO8sEdak78TzLd0YP5smMt1BgXde6fSaFaLKK1siULHtVvN4BROsqLJqGhziUt1OV45OWJMy5mhTQDfV13G3xluIIP_TpRvFWkntbI5KT3Oc4Cs/s1600/Shelly_B%2526W.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">SHELLY BERRY</span></strong></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Ah, the internet. You have to love it, don’t you? How did we ever live without it? Communicate with our friends? Find out the name of that actor in that obscure film on the telly last night? Find a recipe that includes the random contents of our fridge at one in the morning? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I mean, you wouldn’t be able to read this when you’re supposed to be writing that important report or sorting out that account for your boss, would you? You might actually be doing some work. Perish the thought!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Having said that, the internet is not all good. Oh, no. It is a dangerous place indeed. And no, I am not talking about online stalkers, viruses and scams. I’m talking about its convenience. It makes life easy. Too easy. Especially when it comes to spending money. Let’s be honest here. Paypal is the shopping equivalent to the atomic bomb: just press one little button and the result can be catastrophic. It is even easier than a debit card. When you use that in a shop you have to physically hand over your form of payment to another person before you part with your hard earned cash.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
And, of course, you can find anything on the internet. That randon 60’s sci-fi book for your fella? No problem. Daffy Duck tie? Done. Size nine shoes that do not resemble a pair of Dutch clogs and cost less than a week’s rent? Amazingly, it is possible. All just one click away, 24/7.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNPdNpKONaaLbR8H96Hm9PvWZ9btJyWBGZn7tDrFeWmAYGR_WDfkOFkOOP8bl1RD4DY8zFrOR8TPlPGYyp_XchI4CVyBnfIhWoM9hPDJpN-Yujktc_svq8-BT3BYvqqw0E4jsfrrzSE8/s1600/daffy+duck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNPdNpKONaaLbR8H96Hm9PvWZ9btJyWBGZn7tDrFeWmAYGR_WDfkOFkOOP8bl1RD4DY8zFrOR8TPlPGYyp_XchI4CVyBnfIhWoM9hPDJpN-Yujktc_svq8-BT3BYvqqw0E4jsfrrzSE8/s1600/daffy+duck.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But it doesn’t stop there. Take booking tickets for a gig, for example. Not a thrifty activity at the best of times. Add a humongous booking fee, delivery and handling charge and a reasonably priced night out can make your bank manager weep. Sure enough, the booking agent will proceed to email you every week with a list of shows that you “might” be interested in. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Mention you went to Yoga on Facebook? Miraculously an advert for a Yoga retreat in India for £3,000 pops onto your screen. Buy a crate of wine from Oddbins for your summer barbeque? A voucher offering you 10% off your next purchase lands in your inbox. As long as you spend over £50, that is. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5O_n908YANH-XOxjUeT9XpCeKFNOiSfTUPr0XbIaxRe1TvYrQroYp1q7PwpQ1h6hNI6XIc-k1Q_HyfJWqrGLIFQTSXFXFrLbFz8Ao6hYouJPG5HjFXzJXIZKdxDq9ZEJwGUZrm2_cvT0/s1600/discount+voucher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5O_n908YANH-XOxjUeT9XpCeKFNOiSfTUPr0XbIaxRe1TvYrQroYp1q7PwpQ1h6hNI6XIc-k1Q_HyfJWqrGLIFQTSXFXFrLbFz8Ao6hYouJPG5HjFXzJXIZKdxDq9ZEJwGUZrm2_cvT0/s1600/discount+voucher.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Everywhere you look is temptation. Voucher Codes offering you 50% off at Gap. Groupon promising you a Hot Stone Massage for only £23. Living Social enticing you with a meal out at that new Gastropub for half price, with a free dessert, cocktail and coffee thrown in for good measure. Oh, go on then. Before you know it, your diary is full of nights out, pedicures and trips to the theatre which, quite frankly, you’re not even all that bothered about. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
And finally, there is the added problem of what to do if something does wrong. Beautiful vintage dress doesn’t fit? That will be £5 return delivery. New mobile phone doesn’t work? You have to stay in for 12 hours on a Saturday to wait for a courier to collect it. Asda forget to deliver the chicken you need for this evenings dinner party? Well, you could have nipped down to the local butchers but they closed down last month along with the local bookshop and green grocers. Apparently no-one was shopping there anymore. Bummer.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ9nERmYugVYtK-XSNezhwPV0EXtXUKvJvj2vkGeTSsDrK632zxCnDW3DxarS25Tr7z4GVebqJ_iGythnjf-GayNiYIGtAQKO2FM74AE7noCe_axmhISj1fFcQyHhFW-MmzDqQVtVh9c/s1600/shop+to+let.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ9nERmYugVYtK-XSNezhwPV0EXtXUKvJvj2vkGeTSsDrK632zxCnDW3DxarS25Tr7z4GVebqJ_iGythnjf-GayNiYIGtAQKO2FM74AE7noCe_axmhISj1fFcQyHhFW-MmzDqQVtVh9c/s1600/shop+to+let.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The list of pitfalls goes on. But I shall stop here. Why? Well, I don’t want to bore you. Besides I have to call the bank and ask them to increase my overdraft limit and train for that charity run I just signed up for... on the internet. It seemed like a good idea at the time...<em><strong><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Shelly.</span></a></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-78314663551574294402011-06-21T18:03:00.001+01:002011-06-21T18:06:42.655+01:00Fight or flight<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYrDJnuks1fs9KCzHXmq2Bvd0P6whTZiDxidjsjrb6S2DVxaJmmTKpnZrE8j49xnC4acRhEdF2golCtVihbxhiwtXK-89r8WwIa9Gu1asfLKxen7mp6qdiV-5e20KAnqRQo1jRM-h5YU/s1600/Laura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYrDJnuks1fs9KCzHXmq2Bvd0P6whTZiDxidjsjrb6S2DVxaJmmTKpnZrE8j49xnC4acRhEdF2golCtVihbxhiwtXK-89r8WwIa9Gu1asfLKxen7mp6qdiV-5e20KAnqRQo1jRM-h5YU/s200/Laura.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">LAURA DEMETRIOU</span></b></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Last year I had the unenviable task of being on a 16-hour flight to Thailand. While the cabin crew did their best to keep 400 passengers comfortable and entertained, flying in general is a horrible process (unless it’s the dream where you can fly above the clouds, of course).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Every flight I’ve been on, someone around me has managed to annoy me with inconsiderate behaviour. Being suspended thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube is never the nicest thought, but having to deal with annoying passengers is worse than the possibility of plummeting to the earth in a screaming panic.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, I’ve decided to make a list of things NOT to do so you don’t annoy the fellow traveller who might be sitting behind, next or in front of you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>THE CHAIR IN FRONT</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Please refrain from touching the chair directly in front of you in any way. This includes digging knees into the back of it, allowing kids to kick it or using it to hoist yourself up to go for a little walk. It’s not nice waking up in sheer panic thinking the plane’s engine has failed and we’re falling to the ground to certain death all because someone’s forgotten how to raise themselves off a chair unaided.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>CHILDREN</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sore subject but damn, it needs to be said. Keep children suitably entertained, and for goodness’ sake don’t let them run up and down the aisle screaming ‘Spongebob! Spongebob!’ while everyone’s trying to sleep. Until my idea of a zoo-like child section at the back of every plane is put into action, we ALL have to put up with them screaming, crying and being smelly. If they cry, feed them. If they cry more, entertain them. If they smell, remove them and change them. If possible, figure out a way to make them sleep the duration, and everyone will be happy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>ARM RESTS</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This mainly affects the middle-seater. For all those who have had the agony of being placed in seat B or E, I feel your pain. After trial and error I’ve discovered that two people can use one arm rest at the same time. Usually the smaller of the two can use the back part, nearest the chair, and the larger can use the front. Don’t hog the whole arm rest, and never engage in an elbow fight with a fellow traveller unless you want complimentary peanuts placed down your t-shirt while you’re asleep. Seriously.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>SMELLS</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unlike trains, buses, taxis etc, it’s generally frowned upon to try to open a window on a plane. Y’know. Because of the whole death thing. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t dream of not having a shower before a flight, but just in case you think you can chance it… don’t! There are showers at most airports so I’m sure this has been a longstanding issue. To the smokers among you, it’s best not to light up just before boarding. I don’t know if you realise, but you usually have a pretty potent smell after having a fag, no matter how much perfume you spritz or chewing gum you consume. Also, when purchasing food to take on board, please refrain from the following:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cheese and Onion crisps</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Egg sandwiches</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sushi</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Any citrus fruit that has the possibility of spraying acidic juice into someone’s eye</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>NOISE</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Planes are generally loud places and it can be annoying. But what’s more annoying is sitting next to someone who has their iPod on loud and hearing ‘tssss tssss tssss tssss tssss tssss’ for five hours. If it’s loud enough to give you a headache after half an hour then it’s too loud. Turn it down!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So what annoys you about in-flight travel? Leave a comment and let us know. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Laura</span></i></b></a>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-85333505900145901102011-05-31T12:01:00.000+01:002011-05-31T12:01:30.533+01:00Oh, it's awfully taxing<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmFc7f59TtcRWZC4eOukuJ_G6_3hYerF9zWG6Q0UBXwJHeQM5cCLHp4hgJwp9xY4LqNfvWk4PGhHZSaexEXFLVBfjALtoJchuNqKqem0XkebshHwlajs3XJ-o2QPfpoDbyEuIU3gxUnY/s1600/Judy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmFc7f59TtcRWZC4eOukuJ_G6_3hYerF9zWG6Q0UBXwJHeQM5cCLHp4hgJwp9xY4LqNfvWk4PGhHZSaexEXFLVBfjALtoJchuNqKqem0XkebshHwlajs3XJ-o2QPfpoDbyEuIU3gxUnY/s200/Judy.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Judy%20Johnson"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">JUDY JOHNSON</span></b></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Self Assessment tax return. Four words that will send shivers down any freelancer’s spine, particularly around the Christmas period when we should be thinking about family, joy and cocktails but are instead plotting just how much longer we can put it off for, since the deadline is 31 January.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mistake for the latest tax return was being a little cocky, thinking that actually, I had done one of these once before and it wasn’t too taxing, so why should this year be any different? In fact, I thought, it should be <i>easy</i> because up until April 2010 I was a full-time freelancer on a set wage. So, all I need is a few figures and hey presto! Tax return filed, Christmas parties here I come. But oh, no.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a>You see, what they don’t tell you is that once they have your carefully filled in figures, they then decide to guess that you’ll earn exactly the same amount in the following tax year. And ask you for the money upfront. This is a downright stupid assumption for any working person, but for a freelancer? Someone who works for different people, on different rates, at different times? And if you’re a poor, penniless writer like me and didn’t go to the School of Learning About Tax, you won’t have saved enough yet to pay it. Plus, as of April 2010 I was employed by the company so my only freelancing that required taxing was a couple of projects which would barely pay for a new dress – their numbers were 100% wrong.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So when, after over an hour of listening to the kind of hold music that makes your ears want to implode, some eejit who shouldn’t be allowed to speak to humans, let alone be in charge of people’s money, told me that I should pay the extra £2,000 ‘or else you’ll be fined for not paying’, I was not impressed. I pleaded with her that there is no way I would owe that, but would she listen? No. Instead she was pretty damn rude to me and said it’s on my head if I don’t pay it. So I hung up. The following weekend after getting as much advice as possible, I called again. This time I got a man who was so appalling at customer service I felt like changing the subject from my impending tax return deadline to whether or not his mother had ever taught him manners. I hung up, defeated. And might have thrown the phone at the wall.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;"><b>“Not to be put off, in my rage I went full steam ahead into explaining the awful service I had received despite the fact that I am a good and honest tax payer who is simply trying to pay the right amount.” </b></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thankfully, an accountant helped me file the return and avoid a heart attack, since he understood that there was no way I was going to pay £2,000 which I would never get back. But this was not good enough for HMRC. Despite the explanations I included in my form, they still insisted I owed them money and as I hadn’t paid them and it was now February, I was in trouble. By this point I had had a massive phone bill through my door, had spent hours and hours of my time at work, before work and after work agonising over how to sort this out and, in short, I was livid. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I called that number again (I may as well have it on speed dial), waited and waited through the tinny chiming attempt at ‘music’ and was all ready to kick some HMRC ass, when I heard a lovely, friendly Scottish voice that sounded a little like Mrs Doubtfire. Not to be put off, in my rage I went full steam ahead into explaining the awful service I had received despite the fact that I am a good and honest tax payer who is simply trying to pay the right amount, and that <i>actually I do not owe you any money so please can you stop sending me hate mail</i>. Mrs Doubtfire turned out to be my hero. In her little Scottish voice she apologised profusely, agreed with me that her colleagues were clearly money-grabbing simpletons (my words, not hers) and said it would take about two minutes for her to sort it out. A quick bit of mental maths to work out what I did owe for the current tax year and we were finished. I have never been so happy in all my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I got the oh-so familiar letter through last month asking me to complete my next tax return. Needless to say, this year, if I need to call them and get through to an utter retard, I’m asking to be transferred to their manager. And they’d better have changed their hold music, or I’m reporting them for abuse. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Judy%20Johnson"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><b>Read more by Judy</b></span></i></a>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-34939679607366291242011-04-25T16:36:00.003+01:002011-04-26T07:08:21.631+01:00My name's Shelly and - achoo! - I have a summer cold...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTCB18C3WwA2x4ncmFJvEPsIDS4hX1aysXed2CLKK0upUfRi5IZZ8sjdK82TI-ibJToXXP06WuoBz_85KbZSP93xBeFVX_HeFCB0i7i23svuOrKbH2e2txeLn2ZWCfCMmtYCpMGOy_z8/s1600/Shelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTCB18C3WwA2x4ncmFJvEPsIDS4hX1aysXed2CLKK0upUfRi5IZZ8sjdK82TI-ibJToXXP06WuoBz_85KbZSP93xBeFVX_HeFCB0i7i23svuOrKbH2e2txeLn2ZWCfCMmtYCpMGOy_z8/s200/Shelly.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">SHELLY BERRY</span></a></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">So, my winter coat has retired for the next six months, daffodils are now widely available in most supermarkets for 99p, and I have felt the need to replace last year's sunglasses with a pair of oversized shades that I think even Victoria Beckham would envy. Hell, I have even got over my jetlag from the clocks going forward last month. All is well with the world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or… maybe NOT. You see, two weeks ago, I came down with a cold. And not even a little sniffle either. A full-blown head-bunging, limb-aching, mucus-infested blinder. The kind of cold with which a lot of people would call in sick, pleading swine/bird/man flu before cocooning themselves in their duvet and demanding Lemsip and chicken soup from their sceptical other halves.<br />
<b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I didn’t have this luxurious option, though. Because two weeks ago I started a new job, in a new service, with a new boss. Calling in sick on day three with anything less than the loss of a limb or pneumonia did not seem appropriate. So I soldiered on, drugged up to the eyeballs on Sudafed, Sinex and whatever else I could lay my hands on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3Jb4Nswm7rgeOoUUN3hn9PAWngnf_zSsu8Yik5AtdP7-9Rf3ciLTYO7YWLkzoVe3x8uA4RX4Xmx5M-6sieviwjJUMbMJtw826nzcTOQIAQEnAihggEOU4EwSbCg59vHG-7ylAHvtSe0/s1600/sneeze-shake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3Jb4Nswm7rgeOoUUN3hn9PAWngnf_zSsu8Yik5AtdP7-9Rf3ciLTYO7YWLkzoVe3x8uA4RX4Xmx5M-6sieviwjJUMbMJtw826nzcTOQIAQEnAihggEOU4EwSbCg59vHG-7ylAHvtSe0/s320/sneeze-shake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then the weekend came. A chance for me to re-cooperate? Not a chance. Not only had my cold hit me A) when I had just started a new job and B) when the weather had finally become acceptable, but it also hit me on my parents' Ruby Wedding Anniversary. Which meant a party. And cake making. And cleaning. And food preparation. And not showing your parents up in front of their old college friends by being unsociable/falling asleep/sneezing and hacking in their faces. Needless to say, by Sunday evening and two sleepless nights spent trying not to drown in my own snot, the thought of work the next day did not exactly fill me with joy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, the other problem with having a cold when the sun is shining and when you feel (and look) like one of the extras from <i>Dawn of the Dead</i> is that, whilst everyone else is stripping off to their sandals and sun tops, you are alternating between feeling like you have been locked inside an industrial freezer and coming over so hot that you are starting to think you’ve started the menopause a few decades early. Not helpful, especially when you are sharing an office with a lot of people who don’t know you and don’t realise that your constant stripping off is due to a physical ailment rather than a lack of social etiquette and/or sanity.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Two weeks on, I am still snivelling at my desk, snorting my nasal spray every half hour and blowing my nose even more frequently. Luckily my nose has now recovered from the obligatory red rawness and flaking that accompanies over-zealous blowing. Unfortunately my mucus has now moved onto my chest, providing me with a really attractive, phlegmy cough that makes me sound like an old man. Beautiful.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, while you are enjoying the sunshine, spare a though for those of us with unseasonal illnesses, desperate to go out and enjoy the sunshine like you but, quite honestly, avoiding as many social interactions as possible while we are looking like crap and sounding even worse. Now, if you could kindly you pass me the tissues and take cover, I feel another sneezing fit coming on… <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Shelly</span></i></b></a>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-87419333465416636022011-04-15T13:46:00.005+01:002011-04-15T13:52:11.544+01:00"Hello, can I help you at all; would you like a basket?"<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhML9nz4Yqnr-yFUyItnYnZoK_2UCHeKPHzo0pRuhdWxzf9FTkDpiD2c4AZgdEepsDdKlu-qKCJl9a2mO3ZxCcJ8pbB9uhpYpJcJiDwcAbhnLz7du_gqT2hiHCKIR9JwYLMgkppzFuquw/s1600/Martha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhML9nz4Yqnr-yFUyItnYnZoK_2UCHeKPHzo0pRuhdWxzf9FTkDpiD2c4AZgdEepsDdKlu-qKCJl9a2mO3ZxCcJ8pbB9uhpYpJcJiDwcAbhnLz7du_gqT2hiHCKIR9JwYLMgkppzFuquw/s200/Martha.jpg" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Martha%20Casey"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">MARTHA CASEY</span></b></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">This is the story of how a simple shoe-buying mission became a rage-inducing heap of customer service fail.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had found my dream shoes online, and more or less had my heart set on them already but, to be on the safe side, I decided to bring a friend to the shop to make sure they looked fabulous. (Spoiler: they did!) The point is, this should have been a nice, simple, straightforward shopping expedition. It was not to be.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We entered the shop and were immediately pounced upon by a trendy-haired, chunky-trainered sales assistant with the general demeanour of a <i>Blue Peter</i> presenter on laughing gas. "HELLO!" she sang. "CAN I HELP YOU AT ALL WOULD YOU LIKE A BASKET DO GIVE ME A SHOUT IF YOU WANT ANYTHING". The experience was akin to being hit in the face with a glow-in-the-dark chair. Had I not already had my heart set on the shoes, I would have walked out then and there.</div><b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Having located the shoes, I asked to try them on. Or, rather, I asked four or five times if I could try them on, because the background music was so loud I was forced to repeat myself. I will never understand why some shops do this; ultimately it makes it more difficult to spend your money there, and in my experience shops want to make money. The only explanation I can think of is that someone, somewhere, assumes that The Kidz like loud music, and therefore, loud music will attract hip and groovy youngsters who will then buy their merchandise. To which I would say, well, how many of these hip and groovy youngsters can actually afford to shop here, eh?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP__msh7N79YAAzzBF86XdXCZCgnq8W5-BakSgLB4HvGDuykRMiu7F_pHhIqaw4M-MupuVhOtbCS1rPKv1WBHPast-Hkq18JiuFlm4-R5-CQXu9yiZNJsy_2lSSt50hesPC3x9aO20fY/s1600/shoe+shop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP__msh7N79YAAzzBF86XdXCZCgnq8W5-BakSgLB4HvGDuykRMiu7F_pHhIqaw4M-MupuVhOtbCS1rPKv1WBHPast-Hkq18JiuFlm4-R5-CQXu9yiZNJsy_2lSSt50hesPC3x9aO20fY/s320/shoe+shop.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>(Incidentally, I once worked in a high-street fashion store that had the same problem; we staff found the loud, pumping, inane music deeply annoying and the customers hated it, but still we played it at maximum volume because of some directive from the mysterious "head office". "Head office" also thought that it was a good idea to heavily imply that earrings costing £1 were real gold, but they were head office, so we had to do what they said or they’d do something awful to us, probably involving glitter.)<br />
<br />
Eventually, the sales assistant brought the shoes, and I tried them on. They were (rather annoyingly) fabulous and a great fit. As I walked around to test them, I was treated to a particularly shrill, stream-of-consciousness-style onslaught of the assistant’s opinions.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“THE GREAT THING ABOUT THESE SHOES IS THAT YOU CAN REPLACE THE LACES!” she shrieked. “YOU CAN MATCH THEM TO ANYTHING YOU LIKE JUST BY CHANGING THE LACES! YOU COULD PUT RIBBON IN THEM! YOU CAN BUY RIBBON IN A SHOP!!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, I agreed. It would indeed be possible to change the laces in these shoes. Had I been able to get a word in around her shrieking I might have pointed out that this is, in fact, possible with most shoes. I didn’t get a chance, as I was instead learning that “MY MATE’S GOT THESE AND SHE PUT BRIGHT YELLOW RIBBON IN THEM”. Moreover, “THREE PEOPLE HAVE PICKED THESE UP SINCE YOU CAME IN, THEY MUST BE POPULAR” (I don’t care if they are popular, but thanks), “I NEVER USED TO WEAR HEELS BUT THEY’RE SO GOOD, OUR ONES, YOU CAN WALK IN THEM UP THE STAIRS AND EVERYTHING” (congratulations, you’ve mastered a pretty basic human function), and “ARE THEY FOR SOMETHING SPECIAL, YOU’VE GOT TO LOOK SPECIAL IF IT’S FOR SOMETHING SPECIAL” (stop trying to sell me the shoes! If I like them, I’ll buy them. That’s how this works).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyyJ0ouE4SHpCGyxzdLRk8K74BhImnmaImlCaPaq6LVwziYSL6ROoed8A25qOTX5z07nRNf8xMatG_iiEgirBCjtpvKu3VaMzAe6jeTDjEWWkyZzW2cDkE_wUYDAN1ur4O1Coq8gMv8Z0/s1600/green+shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyyJ0ouE4SHpCGyxzdLRk8K74BhImnmaImlCaPaq6LVwziYSL6ROoed8A25qOTX5z07nRNf8xMatG_iiEgirBCjtpvKu3VaMzAe6jeTDjEWWkyZzW2cDkE_wUYDAN1ur4O1Coq8gMv8Z0/s400/green+shoes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, and kicking myself for encouraging the assistant’s behaviour, I managed to communicate that yes, despite her best attempts to make my ears bleed, I would like to purchase these shoes. I was almost annoyed at how well they fitted and how nice they looked, because I really wanted to walk out - but, as my grandmother used to say, vanity over sanity.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the till, my shopping companion remembered the sign in the shop window advertising a discount to students, and as she is on her way to a PhD, very kindly dug out her ID so that I might benefit. But here we stumbled upon another hurdle: “NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!” said the assistant.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“But there’s a sign in the window,” my companion pointed out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!!” came the answer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“But... the sign in the window?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!!?!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6TLn7ToSCOlTrQ5p0fRDAXN00p-xh_oUK0gKVxIVZrMdAJwBX8gJvbuPdxq9uPCZmB6LCYUm9RqemL1sHCYyg7ka0SShKZPhRkeasPOAuPP-xk_5I655ga42FtfXyF7GtpazBBWvn4A/s1600/Student+discount.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6TLn7ToSCOlTrQ5p0fRDAXN00p-xh_oUK0gKVxIVZrMdAJwBX8gJvbuPdxq9uPCZmB6LCYUm9RqemL1sHCYyg7ka0SShKZPhRkeasPOAuPP-xk_5I655ga42FtfXyF7GtpazBBWvn4A/s320/Student+discount.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This exchange was repeated a number of times, during which another assistant, also with achingly trendy hair and enormous trainers, joined in the “debate”. Presently it transpired that the presence of a sign advertising a discount means nothing if the assistant can shriek loudly enough. Possibly the pitch of her voice was sufficiently high that her eyeballs were vibrating and she couldn’t read it; I don’t know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The point is that the discount was not, it seemed, available, and for the most ridiculous non-reason. If they’d said that her discount couldn’t be used on my purchase, say, I might have understood. But there was no sense to it. If it weren’t for this lovely weather we’re having I might be forced to put down my cocktail and write a Strongly Worded Letter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">(Incidentally, my shopping companion thinks the assistants were lying. In the interest of fairness, I don't think they were, as such. I just think they were both irredeemably stupid. I think they probably "lie" to themselves each morning about whether they're wearing clothes or not, or whether walking repeatedly into a wall is a good idea.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we left the store, another customer entered and was immediately bombarded with the same high-pitched hard sell technique. Thankfully for all concerned, though, the assistant actually screamed so loudly and excitedly that her head exploded, and the customer was spared.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At least the shoes are nice, anyway. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Martha%20Casey"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><b>Read more by Martha</b></span></i></a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=2280"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-size: x-small;"><i>Image (woman shopping: digitalart, FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></span></a></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=1556"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-size: x-small;">Image (green shoes): nuttakit, FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></i></a></div></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-81982500018575698252011-04-11T13:00:00.001+01:002011-04-15T10:43:05.764+01:00A plea to the man in the street: keep your opinions to yourself<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77hbW-LLhCYB5uVqpETTYCHbz6iWpsAvlDjJCPfbSoyxgyX74TbypIDFP-h5no7M5fyxrdb-bsQdn1muU7NC7vjJZmRU64Z_Z6Ac9uQcRwNGsbihfg8QIIUaFceXqSqRpJuv-vXj210s/s1600/Rosie+McGee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77hbW-LLhCYB5uVqpETTYCHbz6iWpsAvlDjJCPfbSoyxgyX74TbypIDFP-h5no7M5fyxrdb-bsQdn1muU7NC7vjJZmRU64Z_Z6Ac9uQcRwNGsbihfg8QIIUaFceXqSqRpJuv-vXj210s/s200/Rosie+McGee.jpg" width="142" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">ROSIE MCGEE</span></strong></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Lots of things about modern British society perplex me. The culture of insanely long pauses on reality TV shows, the fact people seem to actually like eating at Nando’s and jeggins are just a few. However, all of these merely intriguing phenomena pale into insignificance compared to the entirely baffling, widely held notion that it is entirely acceptable to shout at complete strangers in the street, or in some other totally unsolicited way comment on people you do not know as they go about their business. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m not talking about greetings, pleasantries and other totally innocuous comments in the vein of <em>"good morning"</em> or "<em>beautiful weather we’re having"</em>. If anything I don’t think there is enough of that sort of nice, old fashioned chit chat. Instead, what I take issue with is people who deem it their God given right to pester unsuspecting members of the public with their inane drivel. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Been running recently? That never fails to set the morons off. Walk down the street and no one has anything to say. Break into the gentlest of jogs and suddenly comments are hurled from passersbys, car windows and even diners sitting outside cafes. Oh why, oh why? Ranging from the exhaustingly unoriginal ‘<em>Run Forest, Run!</em>’ to the epically unfunny ‘<em>your shoe lace is undone’</em>, I cannot for the life of me understand what these grade A idiots are actually trying to achieve. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span id="goog_1078731331"></span><span id="goog_1078731332"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUuqAAahxG3S9KS3hZDZ-YMyhEi7ZE9zgIjWu2-GQNV8UiuJNK8xRq6xm0jQj8En-FMxe2lYBeiPY_Mr4sdIdxuc4l3xUC5SRbxOl94m8K6kAKQKr7lXSGo9V1HZAFnIU10GDBNb2JWK4/s1600/jogger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUuqAAahxG3S9KS3hZDZ-YMyhEi7ZE9zgIjWu2-GQNV8UiuJNK8xRq6xm0jQj8En-FMxe2lYBeiPY_Mr4sdIdxuc4l3xUC5SRbxOl94m8K6kAKQKr7lXSGo9V1HZAFnIU10GDBNb2JWK4/s320/jogger.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then came the <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/2011/01/icing-on-cake-common-sense-apparently.html"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">cake decorating class</span></strong></a><strong><span style="color: magenta;">,</span></strong> complete with its own pitfalls the worst of which being the need to walk around carrying a cake in a transparent cake carrier. From the mass reaction of Joe Public I can only assume many people either never seen a cake before or believed they were delivered to your kitchen by some form of magic cake fairy meaning no one ever had to transport one anywhere. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can just about deal with the caricature of seedy looking man at the bus stop wearing regulation dirty Mac who called out: "<em>gis us a slice"</em> as I passed. My good humour wore yet thinner when no less than three people stopped me to ask me if it was my birthday. Nice enough you may say, but when you’re rushing to catch a train, holding a heavy piece of confectionary having to explain repeatedly that carrying your homework is simply not what you need. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPOGUNY9_e69JZl3jSGGcjJ5kMsYRsUPeg02pc8mQHkt6YOhGyjyyqirdU5_-Xu7XusFtx9CSudp4M6_C0WHypdh9oz3MALnrBm_LErbXQgY1N0OepsIMge1OJm8V7SLUxE0DOKAjpfE/s1600/cake+carrier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPOGUNY9_e69JZl3jSGGcjJ5kMsYRsUPeg02pc8mQHkt6YOhGyjyyqirdU5_-Xu7XusFtx9CSudp4M6_C0WHypdh9oz3MALnrBm_LErbXQgY1N0OepsIMge1OJm8V7SLUxE0DOKAjpfE/s1600/cake+carrier.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sat on the windswept platform as I waited for my connection things went from bad to worse. The man in the next seat, turned to me and asked, completely deadpan: “<em>got a knife?”</em> Now really, how on earth could I possibly respond? My heckled brain had had enough, and mainly because I genuinely could not think of anything to say, I stared back in cold, hard silence. Unperturbed by his idiotic conduct all the while chuckling at his own wit, he proceeded made a series of phone calls discussing an upcoming interview for a job as a professor. So it’s not just the tramps, drunkards and flashers who are at it, but apparently the academics too. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I brought that all on myself by doing something unusual, exposing people to a sight they don’t often see. If that’s the rule why then, whenever I have to take a suitcase on public transport am I exposed to a great deal more of the same? Surely we’re all familiar with suitcases and I’d hope that even the simplest of souls would understand that when a person is clearly struggling with heavy or cumbersome bags, the last thing they need is some wise arse shouting stupid remarks. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnq55Qg_paofUdbNrI90i2HgMZeXpwOQqURz1Qf_hCyJGA2tT8MtEfvWdmGRtfZK4YHzO0ICRmqOgB_0E6nf4UTQPQcyOInvHthh015fhDuImkXa5w93F2M2BvF50qWH582OCTOPmvPeM/s1600/large+suitcase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnq55Qg_paofUdbNrI90i2HgMZeXpwOQqURz1Qf_hCyJGA2tT8MtEfvWdmGRtfZK4YHzO0ICRmqOgB_0E6nf4UTQPQcyOInvHthh015fhDuImkXa5w93F2M2BvF50qWH582OCTOPmvPeM/s320/large+suitcase.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yet, the bigger the case, the more apparent my discomfort, the greater the desire people feel to come up to me and say things like, <em>“Woah! Big bag!”</em> No shit, Sherlock. Is the population having mass delusions that they are on an episode of Catchphrase complete with Roy Walker encouraging them to ‘say what you see’?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Now here’s zany idea. Rather than making someone’s obviously bad worse, why not use that energy to offer some assistance, failing that say something helpful or if nothing else give them a supportive smile. Or to put it as a very sweet primary school teacher of mine used to say, if you can’t think of something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Rosie.</span></strong></a></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-47158559427319626442011-04-10T13:16:00.000+01:002011-04-10T17:46:19.611+01:00Stuffing your face on the bus? DON’T!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq43oiNddSeeSKglLiiLxDuTBPPSLzDhTLEqBDU_zGB3hyMVuF3bNgmIRvlJX-Dz5hFZ7avU3XxGPwTObTuJU9NLgceW9_YRjq87io8J8xnRO5R8AGj6w0Zg3ZT8juqUBHvfURnlVUwHg/s1600/Naomi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq43oiNddSeeSKglLiiLxDuTBPPSLzDhTLEqBDU_zGB3hyMVuF3bNgmIRvlJX-Dz5hFZ7avU3XxGPwTObTuJU9NLgceW9_YRjq87io8J8xnRO5R8AGj6w0Zg3ZT8juqUBHvfURnlVUwHg/s200/Naomi.jpg" width="146" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Naomi%20Saffery"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">NAOMI SAFFERY</span></strong></a></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I have already written about <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/2010/01/public-transport-on-buses.html"><span style="color: magenta;"><strong>my issue with bus drivers</strong></span></a>. But let me now turn my focus of derision to my fellow passengers. Up until a few weeks ago I only had minor complaints when it came to my brothers (and sisters) in arms. We were all in it together, battling our way to work; negotiating delays, rude drivers and the maniacal passenger who had us all staring determinedly into our laps.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now all this has changed. The reason? The incessant need by a frighteningly large proportion of public transport-partaking society to eat their greasy, noisy and unnecessary food in front of others. I have been tipped over the edge by a particular incident that needs to be recounted in full for the enormity of the problem to be fully understood.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a name='more'></a><br />
I have been on trains and buses before with people eating. It’s always been annoying. And I have always muttered to myself a rant about the decline of manners, public decency and that surely people could wait the 30 minutes until they got through their front door before they started to mindlessly stuff themselves (which don’t get me wrong, I too enjoy doing – just in private).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRa-9yj5My6fVo2BcLVoG1YocgSYnWd63Z71GOfE8GBbGR1XBfFeniS7xCwYjCuPIdMuNPYUKhV3AbRruSRG04To2OolEop5NEStQVtuaICBwv237bvGlSen5jGXyh4B3PNdjwleeI_w/s1600/bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRa-9yj5My6fVo2BcLVoG1YocgSYnWd63Z71GOfE8GBbGR1XBfFeniS7xCwYjCuPIdMuNPYUKhV3AbRruSRG04To2OolEop5NEStQVtuaICBwv237bvGlSen5jGXyh4B3PNdjwleeI_w/s320/bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few evenings ago, I ambled onto the bus home. I opened my book and delighted in the fact that you can read on public transport – another reason why cars are rubbish. Anyway, just as I started to read, a family – I repeat, a family – with parents present, got on. I looked up and saw, aghast, that they were all carrying a very recognisable brown paper fast food bag along with the equally recognisable drinks containers with straws. No problem, I thought to myself, it’s only 6.30pm; they obviously live nearby and will tuck in once they are at home. <i>Don’t discriminate against those who have to use the bus as a drive-thru ve</i>hicle, I said to myself. I tried to get back into my book.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then it started. Slurp, gulp, much, snort (yes, it sounded like snort), slurp, gulp, munch. F*$k. I knew this was going to happen. The rustling, the slurping, the talking with their mouths full, the total absence of swallowing one mouthful before starting another, the sheer bloody rudeness of EATING IN MY EAR. And the stench. I personally love said brown paper bag fast food chain – there is no better hangover cure – but I appreciate that just because I am enjoying it, doesn’t mean everyone around me is.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-g4LxXUrgaS1ToUCCi-BDQ6m9tw2ei5cahSrO3lrz4D3PUO5fxLDiSxdUTBdie8klYDOJNIhFC6_e4-6pap820emrp4qIBCzMGXuFK4VZz8PrF8DvBS2jFef9Wf3Yu8OqVWRjZ-C1ms/s1600/french+fries2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-g4LxXUrgaS1ToUCCi-BDQ6m9tw2ei5cahSrO3lrz4D3PUO5fxLDiSxdUTBdie8klYDOJNIhFC6_e4-6pap820emrp4qIBCzMGXuFK4VZz8PrF8DvBS2jFef9Wf3Yu8OqVWRjZ-C1ms/s1600/french+fries2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What really got my goat was that the parents’ manners were horrendous. I mean, no wonder the children were a lost cause. Do people not know how to eat properly these days? Also, do they not know that eating in public is actually quite rude? By the time I got off the bus my blood pressure (aka internal rage gauge) was so high that my boyfriend thought that he was at risk of being murdered as I lashed out during the come down. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
So, I’m back in the car. Purely for health reasons, you understand. <strong><em><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Naomi%20Saffery"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Naomi</span></a></em></strong></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-14330672768693586982011-04-08T12:16:00.002+01:002011-04-10T17:44:09.246+01:00Don't judge a woman by her dress size<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhjYxtGAlemB7kyuINUg1KdGDx0BTrWBcTZ34t8qu_IX3Hob_fKvnPl5auyaEX4d8x_JQtoE-sOXbqOYkFVNAwIxJnwgSUiGxoPVP4jrcbfWDVQIXJ2mpg-HaM2TQN1T53npsFNEl1sU/s1600/GYW_Alice.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhjYxtGAlemB7kyuINUg1KdGDx0BTrWBcTZ34t8qu_IX3Hob_fKvnPl5auyaEX4d8x_JQtoE-sOXbqOYkFVNAwIxJnwgSUiGxoPVP4jrcbfWDVQIXJ2mpg-HaM2TQN1T53npsFNEl1sU/s200/GYW_Alice.JPG" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Alice%20Linley-Munro"><span style="color: magenta;"><strong>ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO</strong></span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I think I’m the last person you’d expect to be sticking up for models but I am and I believe quite rightly so. They may be in another universe from my plus sized figure but I’m happily going to put my head above the parapet on their behalf this time. I have a real problem with the term ‘<em>real women’ </em>and the connotation that if a woman is skinny she is therefore somehow not a real woman. It’s batted around a lot during campaigns for ‘<em>real women’</em> to appear on the catwalks and in magazines and I’ve reached the stage where I am offended on behalf of women everywhere. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">People don’t accept anti-fat propaganda and insults so why WHY do we denigrate a section of female society? When people don’t accept anti-fat propaganda why on earth should skinny women cop it? I find the insult ‘skinny bitch’ just as offensive as ‘fat bitch’. Can’t we all just agree, for the love of women everywhere, to move on from insulting someone’s size? </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just because you can see a woman’s hipbones and count all the ribs in her body, or she’s slim enough to model for one of the top fashion houses doesn’t mean she’s some sort of fake female. Granted she may not represent the average woman in the UK but please don’t take away her very essence of womanhood just because she graces the pages of your favourite magazine or can fit into a smaller size than you. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRmxbsI45L5dS0-edBL_q3qWJuK325F4gnB3lPnXDgn7hJOwJFeeiLqUFI8R_MP0CjoJKCJZYr996EZX5rRyI2KSefUSLYSkJB7jVzWgD0w7QZt0shhu_RviBogJ0-pN1HQFYoNGMYdo/s1600/fashion+magazines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRmxbsI45L5dS0-edBL_q3qWJuK325F4gnB3lPnXDgn7hJOwJFeeiLqUFI8R_MP0CjoJKCJZYr996EZX5rRyI2KSefUSLYSkJB7jVzWgD0w7QZt0shhu_RviBogJ0-pN1HQFYoNGMYdo/s320/fashion+magazines.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I appreciate the concern that having very thin models can be unhealthy to vulnerable teens who may look to them as role-models. However, I also believe that this notion that skinny women don’t count as ‘real’ can be potentially just as damaging. The idea that only <em>‘real women’</em> have curves is neither true nor promotes positive body image within the sisterhood. In the UK the average woman might have curves but whether curvy or not, every woman is as much a ‘real woman’ as the next.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnGw317piSr2eQYbMzOIEcqHxeHq32ri4Caj2QPtu8oeAVG-FZ1ZMDLBlwlVYhXODxl4XeEWZdAN8Yg2L2tpqdIeyyUiM2oKhc-4IoekOg0ZysZMrbFv1H9EZoQGAqDD22gZCxz4aPco/s1600/catwalk+model.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnGw317piSr2eQYbMzOIEcqHxeHq32ri4Caj2QPtu8oeAVG-FZ1ZMDLBlwlVYhXODxl4XeEWZdAN8Yg2L2tpqdIeyyUiM2oKhc-4IoekOg0ZysZMrbFv1H9EZoQGAqDD22gZCxz4aPco/s320/catwalk+model.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br />
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Unbelievably to some it is also possible to be slender and healthy, not every slim woman is hiding an eating disorder or locked in a daily battle against calories. Of those skinny women who do suffer with eating disorders they should be offered support and assistance not vilified as being the cause of others suffering. It is abhorrent that fashion houses use dangerously thin women as clothes horses, a practice which should be stopped not least for the safety and wellbeing of the models themselves, but they still as real as you or me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Women are beautiful, women are flawed and women are women size 0 to size 36 and beyond. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Alice%20Linley-Munro"><strong><em><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Alice.</span></em></strong></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-67648527700398892011-04-02T16:31:00.001+01:002011-04-02T16:35:50.427+01:00There’s more to Essex than vajazzles<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYrDJnuks1fs9KCzHXmq2Bvd0P6whTZiDxidjsjrb6S2DVxaJmmTKpnZrE8j49xnC4acRhEdF2golCtVihbxhiwtXK-89r8WwIa9Gu1asfLKxen7mp6qdiV-5e20KAnqRQo1jRM-h5YU/s1600/Laura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYrDJnuks1fs9KCzHXmq2Bvd0P6whTZiDxidjsjrb6S2DVxaJmmTKpnZrE8j49xnC4acRhEdF2golCtVihbxhiwtXK-89r8WwIa9Gu1asfLKxen7mp6qdiV-5e20KAnqRQo1jRM-h5YU/s200/Laura.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">LAURA DEMETRIOU</span></a></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s back. You’ll either love it or hate it. No, I’m not talking about Marmite. I’m talking about the reality TV show <i>The Only Way is Essex</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you’ve not seen the show, it’s about a group of orange 20-somethings who live in Essex showing us what they do best. Namely, partying at Sugar Hut Village, applying vajazzles/pejazzles, dressing up in leopard print mini-dresses and saying ‘shuuuuup’. Basically it’s trash TV both at its very best and worst.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
Now, I must confess. I am not a true Essex girl. I was born in Peterborough. Yes, my dad is from Romford, and yes, I’ve lived here almost seven years. Something about a five-year residency rule means I’m probably considered an honorary Essex girl by now.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">While the Essex Tourist Board may love the fact visitors to this fair county have increased some 140% thanks to TOWIE, let’s be honest, it’s not exactly for a great reason is it? I’m betting 97% of the increase in visitors is due to people wanting to party at Faces nightclub in the hopes of spotting a ‘celeb’.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;"><b>“It’s hard enough trying to get through the Essex jokes when I tell people where I live, let alone having to convince people I do not have, nor do I ever plan on getting, a vajazzle.”</b></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Essex girls have had to endure the negative stereotype associated with the county since the mid eighties. The number of times I’ve heard the ‘what’s an Essex girl’s favourite wine?’ joke would be enough to make anyone’s ears bleed. And in this case, the answer isn’t ‘babes, take me to Lakeside pleeeeeeeeease!’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The stereotypical Essex girl is portrayed as a dumb blonde. She is known for sleeping around, wearing mini-dresses and white stilettos and being generally quite thick. A career of choice for the Essex girl is supposedly glamour modelling (à la Jodie Marsh, who hails from my very own town of Brentwood and who is a lot shorter than I thought she’d be in real life). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here’s a newsflash. Brace yourself: the average girl from Essex is not like that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wish the makers of TOWIE would have at least tried to counteract it slightly by maybe featuring a lawyer or getting someone other than Denise Van Outen to narrate. Guys, you’re not helping me out here. It’s hard enough trying to get through the Essex jokes when I tell people where I live, let alone having to convince people I do not have, nor do I ever plan on getting, a vajazzle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love living in Essex. I think it’s one of the prettiest counties in the UK and has some of the friendliest down-to-earth people you’ll ever meet. It’s steeped in history. Did you know Colchester used to be the capital of England? And that BBC Essex is the most listened to local radio station in the UK? And that it has the record for sunniest place in the UK? And the highest population of adders? And the longest pier in the world?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s not all about partying and designer clothes and a generation of young people who have no idea who the current prime minister is. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So if/when you watch the show, take it with a pinch of salt. We’re not all like that, babes. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Laura</span></i></b></a>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-14658757963828921382011-03-22T13:40:00.000+00:002011-03-22T13:40:13.900+00:00Leisurely lunches: the enemy of customer service?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMPVzy90Ax4-SFytH8oatFPw8CgECJl135qlMSLCwPuV-VBsmQsr7fuA5vKxLJjjy4dto-kY-XLisMYn0M-ypgXecjzlmhp5ADkIUMrVtA_sxJ4M1oeeHJh8-eYCzAWRygDvDsl7UEhA/s1600/Rosie+McGee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMPVzy90Ax4-SFytH8oatFPw8CgECJl135qlMSLCwPuV-VBsmQsr7fuA5vKxLJjjy4dto-kY-XLisMYn0M-ypgXecjzlmhp5ADkIUMrVtA_sxJ4M1oeeHJh8-eYCzAWRygDvDsl7UEhA/s200/Rosie+McGee.jpg" width="142" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"><span style="color: magenta;">ROSIE MCGEE</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">You can hardly turn on the TV or open a newspaper without someone banging on about we’re losing the ‘work-life balance’. Apparently we work longer and harder than lots of our European neighbours getting fewer public holidays to boot. What with the added trauma of a recession causing people to fear for their jobs it’s easy to conjure up mental pictures of masses employees being chained to desks for anything up to the maximum 48 hours a week toiling ceaselessly in exchange for a few pennies to keep the bailiffs from the door. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As someone blissfully excused the horrors of working in an office I always have a great deal of sympathy for those who do. There’s lots about it to hate and everyone who endures it has their own personal favourite. Back in the days when I did have to, mine was always the totally unnecessary stress of trying to get anything done in your lunch hour. Seemingly innocuous tasks would turn into one of the labours of Hercules if you needed to perform them in that precious 58 minute window between a morning of drudgery and an afternoon of willing the clock forward. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nipping to the bank, returning an item of unwanted or ill-fitting clothing or even attempting a spot of online booking suddenly became impossible as huge queues awaited, cashiers went on their breaks and the server crashed due to sheer volume of people suddenly checking Facebook. All the while blood pressure levels rose as I tried to simultaneously gobble down a sandwich, reply to a text and somehow not to lose my temper with the total and utter inefficiency of the world before I was back on the clock again. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPy9IMF-v9lpkpeIexCLI30KY8W_iLdmb02mg37hICYLVM4QYe6VYXRKwn0UM239_G_FFoR057sfmTwg3-Z0k16ieRIdlXNRPF_psUZfhJZr3l8UnruJ3IK5qvG8UCucl7h5lFjrquh80/s1600/sandwiches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPy9IMF-v9lpkpeIexCLI30KY8W_iLdmb02mg37hICYLVM4QYe6VYXRKwn0UM239_G_FFoR057sfmTwg3-Z0k16ieRIdlXNRPF_psUZfhJZr3l8UnruJ3IK5qvG8UCucl7h5lFjrquh80/s320/sandwiches.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now I can be much more flexible I try organise my day so that over lunchtime I’m at a desk furiously tapping and scribbling leaving all my errands for the tranquil and civilised periods before and after. However, it doesn’t always work like that. Sometimes it simply happens that stopping to make food and eat it is the stimulus your brain needs to remember those little things you need to do- popping to the post office, booking a dreaded doctor’s appointment and so on. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So when I realised sometime around 12.45pm that I had to send a letter recorded delivery that day, I cursed. Of course I could wait until later but then I ran the risk of getting engrossed in what I was doing, forgetting it and before I knew the Post Office would be shut. Far better to strike while the iron was hot I told myself pulling on shoes and coat and setting off. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If only the Royal Mail’s super helpful website had told me under the section entitled ‘<strong><em>Opening Hours’</em></strong> that my local branch was shut between 1 and 2pm. Stood waving my arms at 1.02pm there was nothing to do but go back home, wait and then return later wondering if this was the last place in the greater London metropolitan area to still close for lunch. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH71lvJymUBB1Y3uW6qZ0OoostX6jcn4vgATNZFlY3R30Fd3pL-i-ATa5sGaL7ypMqbAu8XMDow-eOakUpBvyY3UcYfzftplRFT6QMaZpi0723fkRvZCtTNcyzvgIcd2RVZ1v8wM01sXI/s1600/closed-sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH71lvJymUBB1Y3uW6qZ0OoostX6jcn4vgATNZFlY3R30Fd3pL-i-ATa5sGaL7ypMqbAu8XMDow-eOakUpBvyY3UcYfzftplRFT6QMaZpi0723fkRvZCtTNcyzvgIcd2RVZ1v8wM01sXI/s320/closed-sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I bit my tongue. Think of someone else’s work life balance and the fact they are allowed to eat in peace and digest for more than three and half seconds. I can’t begrudge them that. It’s only an hour after all. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Then it came to arguably the most irritating act of life admin: booking a doctor’s appointment. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/2011/01/need-to-see-doctor-receptionist-says-no.html"><strong><span style="color: magenta;">We’ve complained about it before</span></strong></a>- long and hard and all with good reason. However it’s made even more difficult by the fact that my local surgery is closed over the time when most people are most likely to make that phone call. From 12.30 to 2pm all you get is a curt message telling you that the answering machine does not even accept messages. Wonderful. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-0DhcsRuoq0r3CwtfmdLs_hHF7hwdBgNvRj-FQSY2jxeehUyjydzEUDbfB0sN5hsQZH0VjSjGgbMbGiLTHsKCaWaxU3_T38Kx6xZvxA-knB-oe6oU1KD6JUJOZl9b7P_R0ziu9CY-dA/s1600/one+o%2527clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-0DhcsRuoq0r3CwtfmdLs_hHF7hwdBgNvRj-FQSY2jxeehUyjydzEUDbfB0sN5hsQZH0VjSjGgbMbGiLTHsKCaWaxU3_T38Kx6xZvxA-knB-oe6oU1KD6JUJOZl9b7P_R0ziu9CY-dA/s320/one+o%2527clock.jpg" width="308" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">During this busy time the three, or four, receptionists who are usually on duty (and by that I mean discussing their personal lives and ignoring the queue of patients) all stop<strong> simultaneously</strong> to have their lunch break <strong>simultaneously</strong> for a leisurely hour and a half. Well I mean, that’s just a basic human right isn’t it? Surely someone with such a high profile, <em>life-and-death-in-the-palm-of-the-hand</em> sort of job of booking appointments needs a full ninety minutes each and every day to feed and rest so they can get through the long stretch until five o’clock. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, just when I thought that the business of lunch breaks couldn’t get any worse- or more ridiculous, I rang the vet to schedule a routine appointment for the pooch. Here the middle of the day madness has reached new heights when they informed me they closed for a whopping two and a half hours from 11.30am until 2pm every day. Unable to hide my shock I asked if this meant they stayed open late into the evening. You know so that people who work 9 – 5 can still get their sick pets seen. Apparently not. They close at 6pm sharp. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, granted I’ve never worked in one of those establishments so I can’t pass comment on how much behind-the-scenes stuff goes on while the door is locked and the shutters are down. Nonetheless, I find it incredible that in the 24 hour world we now live in that businesses and moreover, public services, continue to operate in such an antiquated manner making life a great deal harder for those engaged in the daily grind of running the rat race.<a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"> <span style="color: magenta;"><strong><em>Read more by Rosie.</em></strong></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: magenta;"></span></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-25610062494380758292011-03-18T19:47:00.000+00:002011-03-18T19:47:53.871+00:00Fat facism in the workplace<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5WQRyUol1t1QTN6uTwsxlhllLcLTvDeaopKVRTbyCJyX_8p5IWeX20_4nUCZ9fsOfr-PWzvn5VKzy9EB5ilGuCK3QbdjBi7nuLujUPW-s0h6ESCKGsBZJMsqqPc35CfbXpnMKbBcfTA/s1600/Shelly+B%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5WQRyUol1t1QTN6uTwsxlhllLcLTvDeaopKVRTbyCJyX_8p5IWeX20_4nUCZ9fsOfr-PWzvn5VKzy9EB5ilGuCK3QbdjBi7nuLujUPW-s0h6ESCKGsBZJMsqqPc35CfbXpnMKbBcfTA/s200/Shelly+B%2526W.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span style="color: magenta;">SHELLY BERRY</span></a></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is the Friday evening following an exceedingly long, arduous week. I have just gobbled down half a humongous bag of Doritos and some Minstrels, washed down with a bottle of Becks. Still on that sugary high, the guilt has yet to set in. But it will. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately this week has been particularly wicked when it comes to the calorific delights that have passed my lips. Having attended a handful of networking events over the last five days, I have been tempted with a wide range of naughty nibbles, from mini sausage rolls to chocolate crispy cakes and scones. With jam. And clotted cream. High levels of stress have prevented my usual willpower from kicking in, and one slice of pork pie has lead to an iced bun, bag of crisps and an egg mayonnaise roll, all in one sitting. Oh dear.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This hasn’t been helped by the knowledge that I haven’t done as much exercise as I would have liked over the last seven days. I have an excuse – after a particularly bendy Body Balance class on Sunday I pulled a muscle slightly, but decided that a run and weights session the following day wouldn’t be a problem. Cue the inability to walk up and down stairs and groaning like an old woman every time I tried to sit down for most of the week. But, if I am honest with myself, last night I could have managed my Zumba class without causing myself further injury. Instead, I drank half a bottle of Shiraz. Whoops.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kRWY_GXY_8L_vuLGYiiksl5GPpwwATQ0d28RhlmWWzpk3L2ys0Hs-NVqEalI06Y8uA8SYc8uNv0R6XOtHQ8Bh6dFxNKv6-GZBGQKms3Ju8kKLDILjecjEn_6QV8UYiKEqzWZDukyRMs/s1600/junkfood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kRWY_GXY_8L_vuLGYiiksl5GPpwwATQ0d28RhlmWWzpk3L2ys0Hs-NVqEalI06Y8uA8SYc8uNv0R6XOtHQ8Bh6dFxNKv6-GZBGQKms3Ju8kKLDILjecjEn_6QV8UYiKEqzWZDukyRMs/s320/junkfood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Chill out, Shell! You may cry. And I hear you loud and clear. This week my eating habits have been less than angelic and my attendance at the gym has been well below its usual par. But so what? We all have bad weeks, right?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This might be the case. But it isn’t in my office.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until last week I sat two desks away from a bride to be. Every day she would tuck into a healthy salad for lunch (bar the ritual weekly team trip to the local sandwich shop) and every morning she would tell us what exercise class she had done the night before. Without fail. Admittance of skipping her usual regime was met with gasps of disbelief from my colleagues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Is she fat? No siree. A bit wobbly? Nope. Paranoid about having “back cleavage” on her wedding photos? Oh yes. Never heard of the phenomena of “back cleavage” before? Neither had I, until three weeks ago. You live and learn.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf7Oq6EDE1RUBhgxpG9tF7_yn_mWnWDBuMYJEVv21TFpD37qrynVQh8_OipDH7_tn89sp3S7Un2m0t6_ag3pFPS2DuFSmaUIyEIbUWUQgJgDTm7CoY5gO-c43VzBWj4bnbEmjKv7Iftk/s1600/back-cleavage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf7Oq6EDE1RUBhgxpG9tF7_yn_mWnWDBuMYJEVv21TFpD37qrynVQh8_OipDH7_tn89sp3S7Un2m0t6_ag3pFPS2DuFSmaUIyEIbUWUQgJgDTm7CoY5gO-c43VzBWj4bnbEmjKv7Iftk/s320/back-cleavage.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It doesn’t stop there. The two other lovely ladies in my office are also militant in their approach to exercise. Literally. We are talking Boot Camp militant. In the mornings. Outside. In the cold. I shudder at the thought of it. One of these lovelies (who has also recently got into Ballet) told me today that she had received an email special offer: Boot Camp weekend for £179. Is it at a spa? I asked. Will there be a sauna and a masseuse on hand after a couple of hours rolling around in the mud? I enquired. She looked at me with pity. Apparently not. This is a weekend of back to basics. 12 hours of hardcore drill on the Saturday alone. All for the bargainous price of nearly £180.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It doesn’t stop there. Both gorgeous girls have also been doing some strange detox/elimination type diet. They sit down at their desks to fresh fruit and natural yoghurt in the morning, leaving me feeling guilty about by bowl of low GI porridge made with skimmed milk. Their organic hummus and celery sticks makes my jacket potato and tuna salad look decidedly lardy. And do they need to diet? Are they massively overweight? Well, in short, no. At around size 10-12, they are both perfectly proportioned princesses. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It isn’t actually the end of the world if I haven’t quite made it to the gym three times this week, and my cream bun count has gone through the roof. Maybe I will have put a pound or two on and my attempts to add some level of definition to my abs has probably taken a couple of steps back. But dare I admit it in the office? Face their pity? Try and ignore their condescending looks as they exchange diet plans and exercise techniques over the water cooler? I don’t think so. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, next week I will be well and truly back on the wagon. I will pencil my trips to the gym into my diary and make a batch of salad or soup on Sunday to see me through til Friday. I will snack on fruit, not Frazzles, and walk to the office rather than hop onto the bus.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPmODuRVipMM8OtpRff6Kj6h5ut791b6KOvvEw1gvHFmUvVAS8_8SaQXeMXjGpXGpUV5jjYRrrcpI2Pz_HhxyfQf7cbpPQB2KinDDtsVTxz0GhgZnnP8BrEzvUC4EuE_kyTpIAWjZTxU/s1600/exercise_class.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPmODuRVipMM8OtpRff6Kj6h5ut791b6KOvvEw1gvHFmUvVAS8_8SaQXeMXjGpXGpUV5jjYRrrcpI2Pz_HhxyfQf7cbpPQB2KinDDtsVTxz0GhgZnnP8BrEzvUC4EuE_kyTpIAWjZTxU/s320/exercise_class.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And if things don’t pan out? If there are doughnuts at my meeting on Tuesday and a buffet lunch at my training day on Thursday? Well, we will have to wait and see if temptation will get the better of me. But one thing is for sure. I won’t be admitting my weaknesses in the office, or sharing my inability to get my arse to yoga yet again. Instead I shall suck in my stomach and wipe sugar off my chin when nobody is watching. And pray that no-one finds my secret stash of Maltesers in my desk. <strong><em><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Shelly.</span></a></em></strong></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-9345216240802834212011-03-15T14:02:00.000+00:002011-03-15T14:02:08.712+00:00What do you call someone subjected to bad jokes at inappropriate moments? Shermaine...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX_vfJ_PYLSRXIom3JkV_YX3vPzw7KTjb3ZDrjDy2rCyqE2nFoYpFlSNo5GNhNsyWrPZHc0pHOKyYspYJlFbTz87svgY18owE3VOwWGFEaCMVogJ2nsXFF4j7SDGTMdVodlflY4-SxSk/s1600/Shermaine+W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX_vfJ_PYLSRXIom3JkV_YX3vPzw7KTjb3ZDrjDy2rCyqE2nFoYpFlSNo5GNhNsyWrPZHc0pHOKyYspYJlFbTz87svgY18owE3VOwWGFEaCMVogJ2nsXFF4j7SDGTMdVodlflY4-SxSk/s200/Shermaine+W.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shermaine%20Williams"><span style="color: magenta;">SHERMAINE WILLIAMS</span></a></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">According to Shakespeare, <em>all the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players</em>. It’s a fantastic line that I completely agree with. But where does it say that it’s a stage in a comedy club?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love comedy and, contrary to having achieved Grumpy status years ago, it is quite easy to make me laugh. Whether it be a sit com or a stand-up comic, I’m usually game and can often be found cackling at the most childish of slapstick scenes. It’s my guilty pleasure. There are people who barely have to do anything to make me laugh—tears streaming, belly cramping guffaws—but it is always in the right context. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What I hate more than people who think they’re funny, are those that attempt to pedal their particular brand of humour when the occasion doesn’t call for it. I wonder whether the explosion of social networking and general electronic communication (grrr, text speak) has hindered people’s ability to read emotions and act accordingly. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For some people, corny is all they have and that is not a problem. It is, after all, a niche. I don’t mind the odd Christmas cracker or lollipop stick joke that makes you groan. What do you call a penguin in the desert? Lost See? Corny yet still funny. But not when the circumstances doesnlt call for jokes. Changing the subject is often enough to lighten a serious situation when it is necessary, but jokes? No. Especially when they’re not even funny and delivered by people who actually believe that they are funny. </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gQfLqut6uSloIboD5F2z8o_9avJuuNpZh2OPHvCm1AeRJl4YUUZeYWTXLDFekdK6o7fmRgjlxEwYrGm3Qn3I3nJlu67PWcwoFdiMHBkcFfvBxTnNyCgqK0hKj6nWuvT5wuEBoF8Mins/s1600/corny+joke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gQfLqut6uSloIboD5F2z8o_9avJuuNpZh2OPHvCm1AeRJl4YUUZeYWTXLDFekdK6o7fmRgjlxEwYrGm3Qn3I3nJlu67PWcwoFdiMHBkcFfvBxTnNyCgqK0hKj6nWuvT5wuEBoF8Mins/s320/corny+joke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I had the need to visit the American Embassy recently (tax issues—paying tax in the UK alone isn’t enough for me). Anyway, simply getting into the building is a rigmarole that resembles what is necessary to get onto a plane. The security level is understandable, to a certain extent, given the attitude that many have to the US. What isn’t understandable is how people can simultaneously treat you like a criminal and have a laugh. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Electronic equipment is banned from the building and is retained in a little shack at the entrance. My question of one of the incompetent security staff as she took my MP3 player, which I thought was a reasonable one: ‘Am I going to get a receipt for that?’ Imagine how impressed I was to get the reply: ‘No, it’s going on eBay.’ Oh, my sides, my sides! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Driving licence and passport presented, sans bag, sans belt, sans dignity—not the time for laughter. I would’ve thought that was a given. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqU3sMS2_OOSiCEekqRw7Qdyxg2vyX94aEBK4kMhe-jH-KMb4c3EYndvDROSXsMZkGrSc6zX1JVSnpFSCApmCT6uCj0lGBX37TGtFgX3uRW_tLIiYPJyxKuYGLcSJB-goEMOC7Bg4nDY/s1600/security+guard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqU3sMS2_OOSiCEekqRw7Qdyxg2vyX94aEBK4kMhe-jH-KMb4c3EYndvDROSXsMZkGrSc6zX1JVSnpFSCApmCT6uCj0lGBX37TGtFgX3uRW_tLIiYPJyxKuYGLcSJB-goEMOC7Bg4nDY/s1600/security+guard.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Similarly annoying are those people—usually (im)perfect strangers—that insist on telling people to ‘Smile, it might never happen!’ What if it has already happened? Who’s to say that that person isn’t dealing with serious problems? What if they woke up on the wrong side? What if grumpy is just their default mood? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are a great many comedians in the world, many of whom do a fantastic job of keeping us all amused. A tip for nothing: leave it to the professionals, keep your wisecracks to yourself and mind your business. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you want to impose emotions on people, put some work in. Wanna see me smile? Tell me a joke. Simply tell me to smile, you’ll illicit another emotion from me—anger.<span style="color: magenta;"> <strong><em><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shermaine%20Williams"><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Shermaine.</span></a></em></strong></span></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-39556749466612043562011-03-12T11:41:00.003+00:002011-03-12T11:54:31.946+00:00Telesales: the worst way to start the day<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuIbR62co49TUR92HqRQoqO3_pTOjFSqtbO-G7e8kd7R_UY4g2B_VQ-vhZSz9LEh-WSGng2eQ6LSiNDJwIZA_G9M5Gdy0vgPt8TVRT7hOg8OmAHQjlAfAr2qWOtNSTFSkcCWold1_EJM/s1600/Laura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuIbR62co49TUR92HqRQoqO3_pTOjFSqtbO-G7e8kd7R_UY4g2B_VQ-vhZSz9LEh-WSGng2eQ6LSiNDJwIZA_G9M5Gdy0vgPt8TVRT7hOg8OmAHQjlAfAr2qWOtNSTFSkcCWold1_EJM/s200/Laura.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou"><span style="color: magenta;">LAURA DEMETRIOU</span></a></strong></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I had been wondering what to write about next. The world has seemed a very polite place for me recently. Train journeys have been pleasant, service at shops has been efficient and courteous and the postman even said hello to me when I walked past him the other day. I know, I know. It’s like something from a Disney film. I half expected the bin men to break out in song and dance. They didn’t.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My dream of a perpetually polite world was shattered when I received a phone call at about 8:00 this morning. Who calls at 8am?!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The unwritten rules of life proclaim that all weekday calls should be made after 9:30. This gives people ample time to get into work, stare at a blank screen for a few minutes, fill the kettle up and indulge in a tea/coffee before the drudgery of the working day really hits home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Calling at 8:00 is only for extremely special people I care about who, even though they obviously mean much to me, still have to gain my express permission, and only in emergencies. Real emergencies, not ‘I have a meeting to get to and I’ve just laddered my tights, can I borrow a pair?’ emergencies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Factor in to this equation that I’m not a morning person. At all. They say the early bird catches the worm. I don’t care about the worm. People who know me well enough know to keep out of my way before 9am. Usually when my alarm wakes me I’m in the middle of a dream about flying to Thailand and living in a beach hut with monkey butlers bringing me cocktails. Waking up means having to deal with people, grey skies and no simian staff. It’s not fun.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJhjH9F_2Z4EIFSoRST3UowYDEIO7IzvWyP2VBCZBIWHKLlcUENMBtZOjIqFX16UCRITruOK2pUNySL8YB0onhgV_QoC_v2JAEL8BA5johdau0bRgg15BOt82jta04rLRBrTGOmIrGLX8/s1600/telephone+ringing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJhjH9F_2Z4EIFSoRST3UowYDEIO7IzvWyP2VBCZBIWHKLlcUENMBtZOjIqFX16UCRITruOK2pUNySL8YB0onhgV_QoC_v2JAEL8BA5johdau0bRgg15BOt82jta04rLRBrTGOmIrGLX8/s320/telephone+ringing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">So anyway, I tumble out of bed (literally) and rush to the phone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Hello?!’ I say, a slight tinge of panic to my voice. What if it was a real emergency?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I heard nothing. Then a crackle. Then the distant, unclear voice of a man who I assume was calling from a busy call centre and was asking for a Miss Oliver.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Reader, I can assure you, I am a polite person. I really do not envy people who have to sit at a phone every day and call person after person trying to flog phone insurance or whatever it is they’re paid to do. I don’t see the need for rudeness when they’re just doing their job. I’ve been on the receiving end of rude people on the phone and it’s not nice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But call me at 8am in the morning AND get the wrong number and that’s another story.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, manners cost nothing, so I bit my tongue and politely informed the man that there was no one by that name living at this address. Usually that works. Did it work in this case? Oh no. He then rudely asked if I was sure. I said I was, unless my cat had somehow mastered the use of his vocal chords and thumbless paws to set up an alter ego or claim benefits or something.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJrfuNYoB3sZht2L8p6blVu-RVgTIrKXvc4kEfEEyLFY-vphznHcoDmJyxbh9vUlJVf6I11IL6E-6-zlJ-sPj6gWlAwj2W1crkX38jROQK5iVmsIhl3ML76rUViXA0ibcxxe3EuhSjZk/s1600/cat+telephone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJrfuNYoB3sZht2L8p6blVu-RVgTIrKXvc4kEfEEyLFY-vphznHcoDmJyxbh9vUlJVf6I11IL6E-6-zlJ-sPj6gWlAwj2W1crkX38jROQK5iVmsIhl3ML76rUViXA0ibcxxe3EuhSjZk/s320/cat+telephone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Oh I was sarcastic. Quite obviously sarcastic. For some unknown reason he seemed to take me seriously. After the man finally believed that my cat hadn’t actually jumped ten steps up the evolutionary ladder and his records were wrong, I was about to hang up when what did he do? He asked if he could add my name to his database and tried to sell ME the product. I admit he was a chancer. His manager probably praised him later that day for seizing the opportunity, but I was annoyed now. It was early, he was rude, I was tired and he was rude.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I did something I’ve never done (without prior warning). I hung up on him. And I don’t even care.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m just really not a morning person.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou"><span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Laura</span></a></em></strong></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-76905519094531619852011-03-10T19:14:00.000+00:002011-03-10T19:14:02.149+00:00The customer is always right- at least when allowed an opinion.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk35Vyh8eg1Ge9jSMhjh6QAW9oCL1GHsdwaweUcRRiIokp6ld480PPrvkA0Al4TvR6C0HtqrInHMrrlmILCYNv4zTKbbPc8A9f4AOCSjHZMHg4zoCcbrz8L6VRH3P-Y5hpZxRIp5mN67g/s1600/GYW+Alice.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk35Vyh8eg1Ge9jSMhjh6QAW9oCL1GHsdwaweUcRRiIokp6ld480PPrvkA0Al4TvR6C0HtqrInHMrrlmILCYNv4zTKbbPc8A9f4AOCSjHZMHg4zoCcbrz8L6VRH3P-Y5hpZxRIp5mN67g/s200/GYW+Alice.JPG" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Alice%20Linley-Munro"><span style="color: magenta;">ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why hello Mr PC World man who was steadfastly ignoring me until you realised I was female and had a low cut top on. Yes, you can indeed see part of my cleavage <strong>-*gasp*-</strong> and yes I know I am the most devastatingly gorgeous woman you’ve seen in a very long time but here’s the deal – you can be a supermodel like I am and still not be a complete moron when it comes to buying a new laptop. To be fair to you I did look a little bit blank when you started prattling on about graphics cards and one of the questions towards the bottom of my list was going to be ‘does it come in any other colours’ but I’m still not an eejit. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You didn’t even give me a chance to explain what I wanted before you started trying pigeonhole me as a customer and then attempted to baffle me with your superior computer geek prowess. I’ve never worked in a computer shop before but I would have thought that a great jumping off point with a customer would be to ask what they were looking for rather than leaping in and recommending a machine which was the polar opposite to what they wanted. </div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’d gone in to get a serious laptop for writing seriously grumpy articles and being a serious author on and here he was recommending me a tiny little notepad which was ‘perfect for online shopping and watching movies’ and ‘easily portable in a handbag’ because as a woman with her cleavage on display that’s all I’d be looking for, RIGHT?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After I explained what I wanted – word processing, internet, photo editing – along with some admittedly basic specs that I could remember about my current laptop he went so far in the other direction he almost combusted. It was almost as if he thought trying to blind me with facts and figures was a cunning ploy meaning I’d end up spending a squillion pounds on a supercomputer capable of plucking the thoughts out of my brain without effort on my part. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIFwitpr8JUOptw2-4mBthWoLHjho5y1av53w1lIG70PSxe8tkL3E8pKq9FPDx-aVVgBCHjZz6FK5a8eEXqcvjCLLnGBKBvv3grcxsFGCXgAGhQhjvzo8BK6MvZDKaP6CuEqJeZSV734/s1600/Computer%252520Salesman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIFwitpr8JUOptw2-4mBthWoLHjho5y1av53w1lIG70PSxe8tkL3E8pKq9FPDx-aVVgBCHjZz6FK5a8eEXqcvjCLLnGBKBvv3grcxsFGCXgAGhQhjvzo8BK6MvZDKaP6CuEqJeZSV734/s320/Computer%252520Salesman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then when he realised he’d gone beyond the realm of my knowledge and I was looking confused he had the cojones to suggest that perhaps I should pop back in when I had someone with me, subtext: you’re clearly an idiot who needs a big strong technologically minded man to complete this transaction you moron.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What really irritated me was that he didn’t even give me a chance to show him that I had more than two brain cells bobbing around inside my head. In an ideal world he would have asked what I was looking for, listened to my answers and then perhaps started to show off a little bit in terms of his technical knowledge whilst I looked suitably impressed. What I didn’t want was to be stereotyped as someone who would only be using it for online shopping and watching movies before being patronised to within an inch of my life when I couldn’t tell him the difference between two types of processors. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1iwxHacoS9aTXjxScKALu_MVPqghMKroyMpLv8FW8q_5SR5GRdGFpdfo-dX8a_e2tvzfOlZnjHs0WIRhTAAuk2gUeDKAQqQ4PHJyq6RXy66VbAbLMuGw7yKyBrpHaTEs-AH7_9MSbKvo/s1600/56_%252520red%252520laptop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1iwxHacoS9aTXjxScKALu_MVPqghMKroyMpLv8FW8q_5SR5GRdGFpdfo-dX8a_e2tvzfOlZnjHs0WIRhTAAuk2gUeDKAQqQ4PHJyq6RXy66VbAbLMuGw7yKyBrpHaTEs-AH7_9MSbKvo/s320/56_%252520red%252520laptop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hightailed it out of there with a sashay as fast as my heels could carry me and headed to my spiritual home of Johnnie Loulou’s in the hopes that they wouldn’t patronise me to within an inch of my life before expecting me to splosh a load of my wages in their establishment. I needn’t have worried because JL were fantastic and I’m now the proud owner of a shiny new laptop, in a girlie non-serious shade of cherry red.<strong><em><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Alice%20Linley-Munro"> <span style="color: magenta;">Read more by Alice.</span></a></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-2537490703675928822011-02-28T08:00:00.011+00:002011-02-28T22:44:38.905+00:00The office: a small-minded space<div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhML9nz4Yqnr-yFUyItnYnZoK_2UCHeKPHzo0pRuhdWxzf9FTkDpiD2c4AZgdEepsDdKlu-qKCJl9a2mO3ZxCcJ8pbB9uhpYpJcJiDwcAbhnLz7du_gqT2hiHCKIR9JwYLMgkppzFuquw/s1600/Martha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhML9nz4Yqnr-yFUyItnYnZoK_2UCHeKPHzo0pRuhdWxzf9FTkDpiD2c4AZgdEepsDdKlu-qKCJl9a2mO3ZxCcJ8pbB9uhpYpJcJiDwcAbhnLz7du_gqT2hiHCKIR9JwYLMgkppzFuquw/s200/Martha.jpg" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Martha%20Casey">MARTHA CASEY</a></span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are many things that frustrate me about the workplace. I won’t start listing them because, frankly, I need the material for future posts. But perhaps the thing that bothers me the most is the tendency - and I don’t know if it’s a recent tendency or if it’s been happening for years - for the processes that keep places running to be needlessly complicated and fiddly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And you go through with them anyway, because if you point out to the boss that there’s a quicker way of doing it, they might agree with you and hence realise they don’t need you around any more. As an example, let me talk you through the process one was forced to go through in order to purchase stationery at one of my previous workplaces, which happened to be a library (one of several I have been, er, privileged enough to work in).</div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let’s say I needed a new roll of Sellotape. First, I would need to check with the departmental manager that the purchase was justified and necessary. My job required a lot of sticking things to other things, and therefore Sellotape was a useful item to have around. Nonetheless, I would usually need to have one of those annoyingly specific and finickity and long-winded informal chats with her in which I explained exactly what I planned to use it for.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfFfTfsjyGBaLSm7-8U6S82r2SvXT3Yp7apZvJFqkGO306g9WXixXYVcjgvHNoXq8dCz93CYBvC4I1k6bQaeNSp7umKQySfzBZXSac_cZTD281OvLMftue0DfxIKF8fynuhRqH61qyKM/s1600/thoffspaceri1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfFfTfsjyGBaLSm7-8U6S82r2SvXT3Yp7apZvJFqkGO306g9WXixXYVcjgvHNoXq8dCz93CYBvC4I1k6bQaeNSp7umKQySfzBZXSac_cZTD281OvLMftue0DfxIKF8fynuhRqH61qyKM/s320/thoffspaceri1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Once I had satisfied her that I really, really did need to stick stuff together, and that the Sellotape would not be used in any way that was dangerous or wasteful or likely to cause serious injury or death in the workplace environment, I would be allowed to look the item up in a paper catalogue. I would then look up the item on an electronic version of the same catalogue, which would automatically calculate the cost of the item, less discounts, and including VAT. You would be forgiven at this point for thinking the process was close to finished. I would laugh in your face; there was no way to actually submit the form electronically, so the next step was to print the form twice, and then close it without saving it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, I would fill in a requisition form in triplicate, copying out all the information I had just printed, and hand it to the departmental manager, who would generally spend three or four days poring over it to ensure that I had not, since we last conversed on the subject, changed my mind about the intended use of the tape. Once she was, again, satisfied, the triplicate form would be put somewhere random for me to collect - perhaps under a stack of books, in someone else’s in-tray, or on the dark side of a small asteroid. This was, I presume, a way for her to increase morale by allowing me a fun game of Hunt The Purchase Order Requisition every few weeks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPwnnS0es1LM6eFa2Gbsi2ZsmnX1Skdng2rMeSgvmYrc8eZOaT6dF85WDQPB9GyT_XUi7VFUd0rJ-Uyxojdp1nxk0cx8niBwGzHBHB_lYmVdlr2abR3OyEagRXA83HCzcURKXLQ6XOQ0/s1600/Milton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPwnnS0es1LM6eFa2Gbsi2ZsmnX1Skdng2rMeSgvmYrc8eZOaT6dF85WDQPB9GyT_XUi7VFUd0rJ-Uyxojdp1nxk0cx8niBwGzHBHB_lYmVdlr2abR3OyEagRXA83HCzcURKXLQ6XOQ0/s320/Milton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Once the form was located, I would tear off the top two copies, paperclip (<u>NOT STAPLE</u>) one of those printouts from the electronic catalogue to them, and send the resultant document to the finance office. They, too, were keen players of the “hide it in a pile of rubbish and forget about it” game, so I would then enjoy a leisurely month or so of wondering where it was. In the interim I was able to entertain myself in two ways: firstly, by filing the bottom copy in a ring binder. Copies were filed according to the number printed in the top-right corner; these numbers were seemingly randomly generated by a madman, since there was little order to them. Secondly, I could enter the item on the library catalogue. This was a way of keeping track of money spent, with the unfortunate side-effect that the Sellotape, or blue biro or whatever else it was, would appear on the catalogue as a borrowable item. (There was a way of entering things without this happening, but it had been deemed “too complicated” before my time, and who was I to argue?) This would generate another order number, entirely unrelated to the first one. Interestingly, it was impossible to look up the order on the catalogue by any number other than this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, the finance office would send back one of the copies of the form I had sent them, along with a printout from their own database, complete with a third, again completely unrelated, order number. Something I should point out at this stage: the finance office generally refused to respond to any queries or problems without this number, but refused to provide the number except on this printout. On those occasions when they lost the original order, this would provide me a wonderful opportunity for a game of Smash Everything In Burning Frustration And Rage (sadly, I don’t have the space here to explain the rules of this enjoyable pastime).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiG-GABQ2MHvnAZiz33G99f6bgaa1jh7jPudaqPh2aIujda8HUnShDCr6Os3NnQep6JrppJeyxo3UGjeSksNsZ5BkSutAddfUwfZB5VXnJyw0ctNz7S1btMTmKk3TtrqkGoHQEHza9bOQ/s1600/Office+Space+Fax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiG-GABQ2MHvnAZiz33G99f6bgaa1jh7jPudaqPh2aIujda8HUnShDCr6Os3NnQep6JrppJeyxo3UGjeSksNsZ5BkSutAddfUwfZB5VXnJyw0ctNz7S1btMTmKk3TtrqkGoHQEHza9bOQ/s320/Office+Space+Fax.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later - say three months later - an invoice would arrive. Any delay in the arrival of the invoice was generally due to the finance office’s aforementioned unique filing system, which doesn’t deserve any more attention. So, a red invoice printed with “PAY THIS OR WE’LL SEND THE BOYS ROUND” would arrive on my desk. I’d photocopy the thing, write the three different order numbers on it for my own records, mark the sticky tape as “arrived and paid for” on the catalogue and then instantly delete it (really), and finally put the photocopied invoice in a box file, where it would never be looked at again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2_vC-RfZYU6ZfCti5wr0Yc1Z1-2XhkIOHFvDeHVeNQPco4oi2cxa6AahpHP-Q1aaTGgoSHMGU_5dnrOF3FGJunuasP0xqA-41VJwEzVhgXKEBLQ0pjCAcHrfCdRa755wCxW7hXRfe2M/s1600/worst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2_vC-RfZYU6ZfCti5wr0Yc1Z1-2XhkIOHFvDeHVeNQPco4oi2cxa6AahpHP-Q1aaTGgoSHMGU_5dnrOF3FGJunuasP0xqA-41VJwEzVhgXKEBLQ0pjCAcHrfCdRa755wCxW7hXRfe2M/s320/worst.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, finally, the invoice would be sent for payment. An invoice slip would be filled in with information including two of the three previously mentioned order numbers and three separate signatures (including that of the manager, who by this stage would generally have forgotten that she had agreed to the original purchase and would spend several more days studying the invoice and attached slip - perhaps dusting it for fingerprints, checking I hadn’t used the slip as a straw for snorting cocaine in the children’s section, that sort of thing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At this point, I would go to staple the invoice slip to the invoice and realise I had run out of staples... and reach for the stationery catalogue again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This, incidentally, as well as being a useful illustration of the meaningless of much of the employment on offer to intelligent young people in our culture - young people who have invested huge amounts of time and money in a university education, who have spent years learning to argue and debate and construct and create and use their brains only to find themselves thrust out into a workforce that patronises them, treats them like imbeciles, piles them high with menial tasks and awards them no responsibility - also explains, your honour, exactly what possessed me in the first place to jumpstart the JCB and drive it through a branch of Burger King while cackling incessantly and waving a hammer. <b><i><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Martha%20Casey"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Martha</span></a></i></b>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-53842813937428234872011-02-26T11:34:00.004+00:002011-02-27T12:29:09.246+00:00Feeling unwell? Medical staff can have that effect<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjej_weMO36EAMEb1bQprZRRZf3KVtQYcXPY8oMeI4Dbr3GKSdBMfJiWAhYRQ8gT76v4SVPKee9_0WftvDfb9ylwe20MuFaa7RzMAUvlb7cfC1S87rYfXEIh-6-DFBBRd_vLWEKvXgKht4/s1600/Christmas+2010+004+b%2526WGWY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjej_weMO36EAMEb1bQprZRRZf3KVtQYcXPY8oMeI4Dbr3GKSdBMfJiWAhYRQ8gT76v4SVPKee9_0WftvDfb9ylwe20MuFaa7RzMAUvlb7cfC1S87rYfXEIh-6-DFBBRd_vLWEKvXgKht4/s200/Christmas+2010+004+b%2526WGWY.jpg" width="141" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"><span style="color: magenta;"><b>ROSIE MCGEE</b></span></a></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">For many years I have enjoyed good health. I took it for granted never realising how truly inconvenient it is to suffer for any prolonged period. Now, I have a medical condition set to last for months and along with the other physical symptoms I also have to deal with an increased number of medical professionals. The friendly toned, chirpy books I’ve bought keep telling me: pregnancy isn’t an illness. So then why does the endless stream of appointments, check ups and scans make me feel decidedly off colour? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Primarily because the people I have to interact with all seem to have had a routine lobotomy performed immediately prior to my arrival. I’ve read that the poor old NHS is overstretched and underfunded, that staff have unreasonable and impossible targets to meet but even so that doesn’t explain some of the rude, unhelpful and downright inexplicable behaviour I’ve endured.<br />
<b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It began when I had to ring and chase my first appointment with the midwife, who then for the duration of the phone call called me ‘Maggie’, despite my repeated attempts to explain that wasn’t my name.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Things got worse as I arrived at the building I had been given clear directions to (large blue building on the main road, marked ‘Out Patients’) at the appointed time. Reception was deserted. How silly of me to expect a receptionist to be sat a reception desk. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3T4EBBrgQPmwyeJs6fcy4yy_wzfCgKjakhPBmmhLZE73ns795XUNvzrRQx-dKeYDv_-tLu5nXVzEcLv-WHJepiYkHScRxPTvg9FsHcYzhndzXQ9AQHvHdY_nyRayLsh82KMKfUtBwmY/s1600/Hospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3T4EBBrgQPmwyeJs6fcy4yy_wzfCgKjakhPBmmhLZE73ns795XUNvzrRQx-dKeYDv_-tLu5nXVzEcLv-WHJepiYkHScRxPTvg9FsHcYzhndzXQ9AQHvHdY_nyRayLsh82KMKfUtBwmY/s320/Hospital.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Leaning over I called: “Hellooooo” before someone appeared, tutted directly at me and then sent me to the first door on the right. In the waiting room I couldn’t help wondering why a bunch of very elderly ladies were also waiting to also see the midwife. Of course there was no one at that reception desk either. A further check of the door revealed I was actually in the waiting room for gynaecology. Maybe due to cuts they’d had to group related body parts together? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone finally deigned to appear. I told them my name and who I was due to see and another bored, weary voice told me I wasn’t on the list, casually mentioning there was no midwife in the building. Before I could open my mouth to reply the voice was already droning at the person behind me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back out in the hallway main reception was once again unattended. Probably some more interesting gossip being relayed by the kettle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Hellloooo” I called again. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Um- I’m here to see the midwife” I repeated to the same woman I had seen a matter of minutes earlier.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No midwife in this building” she replied. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">“But you just sent me down the that room”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No midwife in this building”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“We spoke a few moments ago and you told me-”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No midwife in this building.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The official medical equivalent of ‘computer says no’. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">By some small miracle I found the much sought after midwife -in another building, a quarter of a mile away. We went through the appointment filling out questionnaires, taking various fluid samples before she nonchalantly mentioned that due to an ‘administrative error’ I’d been struck off by my local hospital and all my impending scans cancelled. But it’s not all bad- they did manage to squeeze me in again, four weeks late, on the morning of my birthday. What a little gift that is due to be.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some days later I got a phone call from the well known bastion of friendless and service, the doctor’s receptionist. There had been an anomaly found in my blood test results, she curtly informed me, and I needed to come in and see the doctor. Heart pounding, my mind raced as to what could possibly be wrong. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Stammering I set about asking questions to ascertain what the problem was.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyM96fEchIsN3KXQ3mC6LUzDg3lWddhSEYXiX2bjwjZnNW0B-qhyr1BFSbIXnHnuELxh2DXKr6b2avbDMccg89-odlLsDBWeZX0LfHiOzYP0yLVpQWDfjyTPKIIouvu_yLEGKN8_An5x0/s1600/blood_tube.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyM96fEchIsN3KXQ3mC6LUzDg3lWddhSEYXiX2bjwjZnNW0B-qhyr1BFSbIXnHnuELxh2DXKr6b2avbDMccg89-odlLsDBWeZX0LfHiOzYP0yLVpQWDfjyTPKIIouvu_yLEGKN8_An5x0/s320/blood_tube.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Suddenly this creature, presumably intoxicated on the sudden rush of heady power, became incredibly vague. My panic fuelled interrogation intensified, grilling her until she finally revealed, with the all contrived pauses of a seasoned amateur dramatic, “We can’t be certain, but we suspect you might be pregnant.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Considering said sample was taken by a midwife, at an ante natal appointment, I jolly well hope that to be the case. If not, then I’d better stop binge eating cake for breakfast and address the issue of my rapidly growing gut.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Two appointments and a further blood sample later no one has ever been able to explain to me what that anomaly was or who in fact ordered a repeat blood test. Don’t worry, I know it was the receptionist, either being painfully over officious or suffering from a borderline psychotic doctor imitating disorder. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before I began down the joyous road to motherhood I used to look at the signs in doctors’ surgeries and hospital waiting rooms about attacks on staff with curiosity. I used to wonder what sort of dreadful, sociopathic, tracksuit wearing low lives stooped as low as to attack a medical professional at work.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJfItcFK-O0sh9oh0UlnNzCRzFqXDOHw4fWxld_ZPkjslNEf-K7jaGU1Vwfdqnjzquf3gJGcdGaArBxiK3jcG-3xtPDXuB2kiGh1Z3Oz-eUDp2NiqTQX-AMOFHSEmG8Ncp1PJuE-yDdg/s1600/doctor%2527s+waiting+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJfItcFK-O0sh9oh0UlnNzCRzFqXDOHw4fWxld_ZPkjslNEf-K7jaGU1Vwfdqnjzquf3gJGcdGaArBxiK3jcG-3xtPDXuB2kiGh1Z3Oz-eUDp2NiqTQX-AMOFHSEmG8Ncp1PJuE-yDdg/s1600/doctor%2527s+waiting+room.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Now I know. Instance after instance of temple twitching, jaw clenching frustration has taught me the hard way. That crazy woman you’ve seen hurling the fake pot plant before being dragged away could so easily be me, or you. Or any normally reasonable person finally pushed over the edge by another disinterested pen pusher who doesn’t care that your ailment is effecting every facet of your life but who is only concerned with clocking off and getting home to feed the cat. <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Rosie%20McGee"><strong><span style="color: magenta;"><em>Read more by Rosie</em></span></strong></a><strong><span style="color: magenta;"><em>.</em></span></strong></div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-65307912198961592982011-02-23T14:46:00.001+00:002011-02-23T15:36:24.898+00:00Ready, steady, competitive cook!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHrE6XBQPjJRMGsBxdbWZ3UeZZqver3yitFfpUYaURkF1D438NZcTdq6Mlq1hz7V0gtstGVsdSNdmGceT9y1CBzB8ylcUZ1ki_xrEMKhm6DrFKeOCkSRe42DuuAVvR0GzmkDFnFbWet0/s1600/Shelly+B%2526W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHrE6XBQPjJRMGsBxdbWZ3UeZZqver3yitFfpUYaURkF1D438NZcTdq6Mlq1hz7V0gtstGVsdSNdmGceT9y1CBzB8ylcUZ1ki_xrEMKhm6DrFKeOCkSRe42DuuAVvR0GzmkDFnFbWet0/s200/Shelly+B%2526W.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry"><span style="color: magenta;"><b>SHELLY BERRY</b></span></a></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I like a good bit of competition; don’t get me wrong. But competing to see who meets their targets at work or when it comes to Him Indoors (LADIES! BACK OFF! HE’S MINE!!) is not my idea of fun. What I’m talking about is healthy competition. You know, playing scrabble down the pub. A game of badminton with your dad. Trivial Pursuit over Christmas with the family. As long as it doesn’t get violent (which is why we no longer play Monopoly with Him Indoor's family) or just down right humiliating (I still have painful memories of PE at school), it is acceptable.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, I have noticed how competitiveness has drifted into areas of my life where I thought it never would. Or could.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take cooking, for example. I like cooking. So does Him Indoors. I like to rustle up a tasty, quick and easy Spag Bol in the week, bake birthday cakes for my friends and plan the occasional dinner party, whereas Him Indoors likes to research, meticulously plan and devise his own gourmet meals every night. Tomato pasta sauce? Well, he has it on the hob simmering away by three in the afternoon in order to “intensify the flavours”. Chicken fajitas with a quick salsa? The chicken needs marinating for at least several hours, and the peppers for the salsa need roasting first, don’t you know. Re-fried beans? Out of a can? Certainly not!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, you get the idea. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmTs2mfkUGFwuDF0Wv8QoIPwJoyvX5Zc8WhXcSWYRRR_KaDYEoetjjKRu9Va6MyQkSfpUEdMHml97OWWscE5XsGlz3VGTwP2sMJyyE0TWlBLPekj8-aukHxA08Y9ygTy0jyslZO0L_hM/s1600/saucepan2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmTs2mfkUGFwuDF0Wv8QoIPwJoyvX5Zc8WhXcSWYRRR_KaDYEoetjjKRu9Va6MyQkSfpUEdMHml97OWWscE5XsGlz3VGTwP2sMJyyE0TWlBLPekj8-aukHxA08Y9ygTy0jyslZO0L_hM/s400/saucepan2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">At first his amateur attempts at Cordon Bleu cooking didn’t bother me, other than the odd monitoring of oil and butter use (yes, olive oil is good for you, but if use half a litre every day I WILL GET FAT!) But then he started to try and muscle into my areas of expertise. For example, Chilli Con Carne. Now, I have been making this dish for years, first following my mum’s recipe taken from Good Housekeeping, and then adopting the version created by the Hairy Bikers. And, I have to say, I’ve always been quite proud of it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That is until Him Indoors found a new version, this one with coffee and Jack Daniels in it. I sucked my teeth but decided to let him give it ago. It was good. Very good. Needless to say, I don’t make the Chilli in our house anymore. Now he’s talking about having a go at Tagine. Computer says no. Tagine is MY dish and nobody else’s. So back off. And if he suggests making his own version of my Chocolate and Peppermint cake it might just be the end of a beautiful relationship.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But even at work, there’s no escape. My colleagues are forever exchanging recipes and comparing how they go about making the perfect Risotto, Thai fish cake, or Beef Wellington. Hell, I’ve even been out and bought Jamie’s 30 Minute Meals just to be able to keep up with their daily discussions. And, the more that I confess that Him Indoors has taken over the kitchen at home, the more I feel my culinary co-worker’s scorn. I am a failure unless I'm getting creative in the kitchen. I have lost.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3oYq8e8rpADiXf6g3NAJtro7sEzX2d1vK4ZOJ4oIYTX-yqS51plDcTAshqWSXdvzYvBoXlxIvnCdouolOit0r6NBsOpyRzlTyfcIvW3QrbuzaGh98APZ79jRA5mKexqWWkILzq8LnrQ/s1600/books_diningroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3oYq8e8rpADiXf6g3NAJtro7sEzX2d1vK4ZOJ4oIYTX-yqS51plDcTAshqWSXdvzYvBoXlxIvnCdouolOit0r6NBsOpyRzlTyfcIvW3QrbuzaGh98APZ79jRA5mKexqWWkILzq8LnrQ/s400/books_diningroom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">But the competition doesn’t stop there. The meals that I prepare and share not only have to be tasty, technical and terrific, they also have to be low fat, lot calorie, low GI, high in fibre and protein. Not to mention organic, fair trade, free range and responsibly sourced. It’s enough to make a girl reach for a Big Mac.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, as you tuck into your evening meal, spare a thought for me as I sit glued to Mr Oliver, watching his every move like my life depends on it. Because, you see, my success in the kitchen seems to have become key to my own self worth. It is serious business, and the competition is hotting up. Where did I put that spatula…? <strong><em><span style="color: magenta;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Shelly%20Berry">Read more by Shelly</a></span></em></strong>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-66712266881588690032011-02-20T16:40:00.003+00:002011-02-27T12:28:29.215+00:00Service with a scowl<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pJvm-9Gga_1JUC63HDSFPNxjGdoulhGctiKZZMYYhUJrZ_fcWQ9aPotOW1qTkhA7IkWbjg8SPFX2ojsP9EoewVnnVdzCOTsULJQr7lSlRB8STKzT4wrgkk5nYflKryEchpUHQnWmaew/s1600/IMGP3242+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pJvm-9Gga_1JUC63HDSFPNxjGdoulhGctiKZZMYYhUJrZ_fcWQ9aPotOW1qTkhA7IkWbjg8SPFX2ojsP9EoewVnnVdzCOTsULJQr7lSlRB8STKzT4wrgkk5nYflKryEchpUHQnWmaew/s200/IMGP3242+-+Copy.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><b><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Maddie%20York"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">MADDIE YORK</span></a></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">I seem to enjoy making social interaction uncomfortable for myself. If there’s an altercation to be had with a stranger, I’ll wade right in, all uppity and crusading (see <a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/2009/11/idiots-on-bus-go-round-and-round.html"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">my disagreement on the P4 bus</span></b></a>). Yes, where others keep their heads down, I put my foot down. And yesterday, in the supermarket – which I won’t name; they’re all much of a muchness – in the face of insurmountably appalling customer service, I did just that. And it was exhilaratingly awkward.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was standing in the queue with my basket – weekend supplies: gin, lime x 2, tonic x 1, <i>Saturday Times</i>, multi-pack of fun-size Dairy Milk – casually observing the customer being served ahead of me. The checkout girl was bungling items through the scanner, not making the vaguest hint of eye contact with the lady customer, and carrying on a conversation with her mate on the next checkout – “You gettin’ your hair dyed tomorrow, yeah? Wicked innit. You goin’ out tonight? Innit, though” etc. – and chuckling away as if we customers were in the way of her social life. This went on for a few minutes, the poor customer looking offended and uncomfortable. I saw red; I could not let this pass.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
“Don’t let your customer get in the way of your conversation, will you?” I said. Oh, dear. I realise this remark was rather more smug than it needed to be. But I had to get her attention. And boy, did I. She made one of those cheek-sucking noises and retorted with “I weren’t even serving you, was I?” “No,” I replied. “I’m just pointing out that you haven’t even said ‘hello’ to this lady, and it’s really rude to ignore a customer and carry on chatting to your friend like that.” She carried on the cheek-sucking thing, and was now rolling her eyes as well. The lady customer scuttled away as quickly as she could. Fair enough; not everyone wants to fight. I, however, had begun my mission, and there was no going back now. It was my turn at the checkout.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoO8VnUmoouvUN_V7SahEafravBTwBYtlZ2tkvkk5IIbf-z4gNqTFgGPwuDbF9QkXjhWTZ9mzH71xooFFj3MfLC47SftSUM0cmuRcYkq6QyS5QTmLaWY0ypKK8ulG8zyuRMhYrNC78Ces/s1600/SNF1208A-682_887201a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoO8VnUmoouvUN_V7SahEafravBTwBYtlZ2tkvkk5IIbf-z4gNqTFgGPwuDbF9QkXjhWTZ9mzH71xooFFj3MfLC47SftSUM0cmuRcYkq6QyS5QTmLaWY0ypKK8ulG8zyuRMhYrNC78Ces/s400/SNF1208A-682_887201a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’m sure you hate me,” I said, with slightly wobbly legs and bottom lip at this point, but forging ahead nonetheless, “but it’s important that you realise how rude that sort of thing is. We’re your customers, and all you need to do is show a bit of politeness.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“If you don’t like it, you can go somewhere else, innit,” replied the checkout girl, eyes practically falling out of her face now, they were rolling so much.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, YOU CAN GO SOMEWHERE ELSE, INNIT. That remark, friends, neatly sums up the nature of customer service across Britain. The attitude, in essence, is: f*** off, I get paid to sit here and don’t give a f*** whether you shop here or not. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s unbelievably rude, and I urge you to challenge it whenever and wherever you encounter it. I don’t care whether I’m spending 20p or £2000, and I don’t care if it’s the supermarket or Savile Row; I expect a basic level of politeness and recognition of the fact that I’m a customer, and that the entire reason for that person sitting there at that checkout is to make a customer feel good about spending money in that particular place.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, after that bombshell of a remark from Miss Surly Supermarket 2011, I clearly had to report the whole incident to the manager. And so I did, right in front of her, and I also went to the supermarket’s online feedback forum later in the day to file a full report. And I’m sure this particular supermarket will appreciate my forensically detailed comments; every little helps, as they say. <b><i><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Maddie%20York"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Maddie</span></a></i></b>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-11011047647675035432011-02-19T18:32:00.012+00:002011-02-27T12:27:23.025+00:00Weight comments soon wear thin...<div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzIuXQ6s-BCPHJb2xwP6KfIdppW4HFto2Si_GhP1Bn71wTcq-vKNMTWV9tg19_0O1E2i-u1OPfL2gGPKbfb6XI4By7IUmGLirIjXB16zDuDIcEbahb9Q6QzouuAgvMqxO90SR6b-7f_8/s1600/Laura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzIuXQ6s-BCPHJb2xwP6KfIdppW4HFto2Si_GhP1Bn71wTcq-vKNMTWV9tg19_0O1E2i-u1OPfL2gGPKbfb6XI4By7IUmGLirIjXB16zDuDIcEbahb9Q6QzouuAgvMqxO90SR6b-7f_8/s200/Laura.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Laura%20Demetriou">LAURA DEMETRIOU</a></span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Weight is an issue that graces the covers of magazines and papers quite often. If it’s not one celeb being criticised for piling on the pounds, it’s another being blasted for being too thin. And it’s the latter that really annoys me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let’s get something straight before I carry on. I’m at a healthy weight. I have a normal BMI. I eat my five fruit and veg a day. I eat breakfast (sometimes), lunch and dinner and I drink lots of water. I should really join a gym to keep the heart healthy but, aside from that, I’m all good. </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">As a naturally slim person I tend to get negative comments from friends and family, especially with regards to me putting on weight. Constantly. From grandmothers poking me and saying how skinny I am to friends joking about me puking after my meals. It’s a real hoot. Could you sense the sarcasm there?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, but it’s not just me who has to endure the rudeness. Here are some comments that a few friends have had thrown at them:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Do you starve yourself?’</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Cor, don’t get any thinner love, we won’t be able to see you!’</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Ouch! Can you get off my lap? Your bum is really boney!’</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Do you even eat? I bet you throw it up afterwards, don’t you!’</div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘You need a few meals down your neck!’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Charming.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s not that I don’t eat much. Far from it. Those who<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"> <a href="http://twitter.com/LJDemetriou"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">follow me on Twitter</span></a></span></b> will no doubt be aware of my love for sausage rolls, Crème Eggs and mum’s three-course meals, consisting of a huge bowl of pasta followed by chicken and salad and rounded off with homemade banoffee pie. Even as I’m writing this, I’m drinking a hot chocolate with whipped cream and Bailey’s and eating a buttery, jammy crumpet (or two.)<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGUiD_kT0-v7KRWoBu2GZ7YgAgpNXhs6nm8trJ_I-4iaAWpkqxdnZ0FQII0Mx_rgbbccUp6L4Tvhi9yDorXjAukQLduHVDH9Kub5wZqfe5_g_y0WhEyj3i4gl-8ePb3cHFtYRvFSh0R0/s1600/Crumpets%2526Jam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGUiD_kT0-v7KRWoBu2GZ7YgAgpNXhs6nm8trJ_I-4iaAWpkqxdnZ0FQII0Mx_rgbbccUp6L4Tvhi9yDorXjAukQLduHVDH9Kub5wZqfe5_g_y0WhEyj3i4gl-8ePb3cHFtYRvFSh0R0/s400/Crumpets%2526Jam.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But for some reason it’s never enough.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can’t imagine someone would go up to an overweight lady in a restaurant and tell her that she shouldn’t order dessert or that she’s eaten too much. Yet it’s somehow completely acceptable for a stranger to say to me ‘you’re so skinny! Are you ill?’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take a typical conversation with a family member:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FM: Have you finished your meal?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: Yes thanks, it was lovely!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FM: Would you like seconds?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: No thanks, I’m fine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FM: Come on, have more, you could do with fattening up!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: I’m full.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FM: But you’re skin and bone!</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: I’m pretty sure I’m made of more than skin and bone. Quite sure actually.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FM: I’ll get you some more.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: No, really, I’m not hungry. [Get up to take plate out to kitchen]</div><div style="text-align: justify;">FM: [Shout from the other room] YOU’RE NOT PUKING IT ALL BACK UP, ARE YOU? </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: [Bang head on nearest hard surface. Repeat.]<br />
<br />
Why am I slim? My parents, when they were my age, were both naturally thin people and I seem to have inherited the skinny gene. That’s all. There’s no hidden secret to it. No starving, no throwing up, no deals with fairies/genies/other mythical creatures.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, leave the rude comments and the poking at home. Remember your manners, and if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05841885066360613910noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8590027645643189310.post-37747774256947201622011-02-14T11:00:00.006+00:002011-02-27T12:27:55.309+00:0014th Feb: just another day.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmFc7f59TtcRWZC4eOukuJ_G6_3hYerF9zWG6Q0UBXwJHeQM5cCLHp4hgJwp9xY4LqNfvWk4PGhHZSaexEXFLVBfjALtoJchuNqKqem0XkebshHwlajs3XJ-o2QPfpoDbyEuIU3gxUnY/s1600/Judy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmFc7f59TtcRWZC4eOukuJ_G6_3hYerF9zWG6Q0UBXwJHeQM5cCLHp4hgJwp9xY4LqNfvWk4PGhHZSaexEXFLVBfjALtoJchuNqKqem0XkebshHwlajs3XJ-o2QPfpoDbyEuIU3gxUnY/s200/Judy.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Judy%20Johnson"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">JUDY JOHNSON</span></a></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpN32VgN5oLtcoTJEZWkzly8hKluKRwZG8etRacvgUoIxOWjY0P48131L1v8hBnae3hRuOGG2iqAo5w6j4WO-lBNqGZuiGMJPqmAszRlf9ZhTjYJyY1HTdPatUoWsNrhUkzqqICyrnQE/s1600/Valentine%2527s+Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpN32VgN5oLtcoTJEZWkzly8hKluKRwZG8etRacvgUoIxOWjY0P48131L1v8hBnae3hRuOGG2iqAo5w6j4WO-lBNqGZuiGMJPqmAszRlf9ZhTjYJyY1HTdPatUoWsNrhUkzqqICyrnQE/s1600/Valentine%2527s+Day.jpg" /></a>The 14th of February is the day of the year where couples (or those with dates lining up to take them out) get to feel sorry for singles and singles end up feeling sorry for themselves. For some reason not having a date on that particular night (a Monday, this year, for goodness’ sake), accompanied with something red, tacky and heart-shaped, means that you are missing out. Well, on what is about to be my third single Valentine’s Day in a row, I can’t say I’m too bothered. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was at school and girls started talking to boys, I felt left out. I didn’t talk to boys unless they talked to me and that was pretty rare. When other girls started kissing said boys and getting cards sent to them on Valentine’s Day, I hoped one day I’d be lucky enough to receive one too.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that I did. In fact, I had four whole years of them. Flowers, cards, dates, a bit of romance every year ... but from what I can remember, I could never see what all the fuss was about. For most of those years we were in a long-distance relationship, so time together was always short and sickly yet wonderfully sweet - but Valentine’s Day was always a bit of a disappointment. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For a start, the restaurants we went to were always a disaster; from the time I asked for no chilli and got ignored, ending up spending the duration of the meal running to the bathroom in case I was sick, to the time at TGI Friday (seriously, could we not do better?) where my steak was so pink I was convinced it was still alive. The presents usually bankrupted me, and I was already spending a fortune on National Rail to get me there in the first place. We were more romantic with each other for the rest of the year simply because we were soppy romantic types (yes, me! I really was!), but the minute it was necessary for us to be blissfully happy and movie-type-love-esque, something had to go wrong. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Being single on Cupid’s favourite day is a different matter. You get to arrange a night out with the girls, a night in with the girls – or just nothing at all (like I said, it is a Monday). It really doesn’t matter. No pressure, no expectation, just another night in or out. Of course, if you do happen to bag yourself a date – the chances are probably slightly increased at this time of year, not that I’d know from personal experience – it’s a little Brucie bonus and everyone’s happy. Until they forget to cook your steak, obviously. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So please, couples – don’t feel bad for us. We actually have it pretty good. And singles, stop judging your entire future love life on the basis that you don’t have a date on the 14th February. You probably didn’t have one on the 13th either, did you? It’s really no different from any Saturday night, other than the fact that it’ll be even harder to get a table and you’re more likely to pull someone purely for the sake of it. Didn’t you do that last weekend? Yes, exactly. Plus, more importantly, you don’t want a hangover at work on Tuesday. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, and note to self: next time, if there ever is one - have a romantic night in. In fact, avoid dinner altogether and head straight for dessert. That was always the best bit. <b><i><a href="http://thegrumpyyoung.blogspot.com/search/label/Judy%20Johnson"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Read more by Judy</span></a></i></b>.</div>Grumpy Young Women Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16274564077135373815noreply@blogger.com