Grumpy Young Women: every bit as grumpy as the old girls

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 breakfast-from-hell experience.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Rosie.

Time at the bar: how not to treat the regulars

2011-08-12T16:46:00.000+01:00

NAOMI SAFFERY

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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?

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.

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.

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:

“Well, I don’t want to be responsible for anything.”

“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”,

“Right because I’m not going to sign up for anything.”

“I am not asking you to.”

“Because I don’t want to be responsible for anything...”

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....

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. Read more by Naomi.

And finally, news broadcasts get even more frivolous

2011-08-04T18:18:00.002+01:00

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.

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.

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!’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Shermaine.

Beware the temptations of the internet

2011-08-01T12:25:00.000+01:00

Image (woman shopping: digitalart, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...Read more by Shelly.

Fight or flight

2011-06-21T18:03:00.001+01:00

LAURA DEMETRIOU

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).

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.

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.

THE CHAIR IN FRONT

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.

CHILDREN

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.

ARM RESTS

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.

SMELLS

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:

Cheese and Onion crisps

Egg sandwiches

Sushi

Any citrus fruit that has the possibility of spraying acidic juice into someone’s eye

NOISE

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!

So what annoys you about in-flight travel? Leave a comment and let us know. Read more by Laura.

Oh, it's awfully taxing

2011-05-31T12:01:00.000+01:00

JUDY JOHNSON

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.

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 easy 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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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 actually I do not owe you any money so please can you stop sending me hate mail. 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.

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. Read more by Judy.

My name's Shelly and - achoo! - I have a summer cold...

2011-04-25T16:36:00.003+01:00

SHELLY BERRY

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Dawn of the Dead 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.

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.

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… Read more by Shelly.

"Hello, can I help you at all; would you like a basket?"

2011-04-15T13:46:00.005+01:00

MARTHA CASEY

This is the story of how a simple shoe-buying mission became a rage-inducing heap of customer service fail.

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.

We entered the shop and were immediately pounced upon by a trendy-haired, chunky-trainered sales assistant with the general demeanour of a Blue Peter 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.

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?

(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.)

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.

“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!!”

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).

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.

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.

“But there’s a sign in the window,” my companion pointed out.

“NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!!” came the answer.

“But... the sign in the window?”

“NO WE ACTUALLY DON’T DO A STUDENT DISCOUNT SORRY WE CAN’T DO A DISCOUNT WE NEVER DO STUDENT DISCOUNTS!!?!”

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

At least the shoes are nice, anyway. Read more by Martha.

Image (green shoes): nuttakit, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A plea to the man in the street: keep your opinions to yourself

2011-04-11T13:00:00.001+01:00

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.

I’m not talking about greetings, pleasantries and other totally innocuous comments in the vein of "good morning" or "beautiful weather we’re having". 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.

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 ‘Run Forest, Run!’ to the epically unfunny ‘your shoe lace is undone’, I cannot for the life of me understand what these grade A idiots are actually trying to achieve.

Then came the cake decorating class, 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.

I can just about deal with the caricature of seedy looking man at the bus stop wearing regulation dirty Mac who called out: "gis us a slice" 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.

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: “got a knife?” 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.

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.

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, “Woah! Big bag!” 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’?

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. Read more by Rosie.

Stuffing your face on the bus? DON’T!

2011-04-10T13:16:00.000+01:00

NAOMI SAFFERY

I have already written about my issue with bus drivers. 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.

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.

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).

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. Don’t discriminate against those who have to use the bus as a drive-thru vehicle, I said to myself. I tried to get back into my book.

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.

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.

So, I’m back in the car. Purely for health reasons, you understand. Read more by Naomi

Don't judge a woman by her dress size

2011-04-08T12:16:00.002+01:00

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

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 ‘real women’ 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 ‘real women’ to appear on the catwalks and in magazines and I’ve reached the stage where I am offended on behalf of women everywhere.

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?

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.

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 ‘real women’ 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.

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.

Women are beautiful, women are flawed and women are women size 0 to size 36 and beyond. Read more by Alice.

There’s more to Essex than vajazzles

2011-04-02T16:31:00.001+01:00

LAURA DEMETRIOU

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 The Only Way is Essex.

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.

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.

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’.

“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.”

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!’

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).

Here’s a newsflash. Brace yourself: the average girl from Essex is not like that.

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.

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?

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.

So if/when you watch the show, take it with a pinch of salt. We’re not all like that, babes. Read more by Laura.

Leisurely lunches: the enemy of customer service?

2011-03-22T13:40:00.000Z

ROSIE MCGEE

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If only the Royal Mail’s super helpful website had told me under the section entitled ‘Opening Hours’ 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.

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.

Then it came to arguably the most irritating act of life admin: booking a doctor’s appointment. We’ve complained about it before- 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.

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 simultaneously to have their lunch break simultaneously 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, life-and-death-in-the-palm-of-the-hand 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.

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.

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. Read more by Rosie.

Fat facism in the workplace

2011-03-18T19:47:00.000Z

SHELLY BERRY

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.

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.

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.

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?

This might be the case. But it isn’t in my office.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Shelly.

What do you call someone subjected to bad jokes at inappropriate moments? Shermaine...

2011-03-15T14:02:00.000Z

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

According to Shakespeare, all the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players. It’s a fantastic line that I completely agree with. But where does it say that it’s a stage in a comedy club?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Driving licence and passport presented, sans bag, sans belt, sans dignity—not the time for laughter. I would’ve thought that was a given.

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?

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.

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. Read more by Shermaine.

Telesales: the worst way to start the day

2011-03-12T11:41:00.003Z

LAURA DEMETRIOU

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.

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?!

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.

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.

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.

So anyway, I tumble out of bed (literally) and rush to the phone.

‘Hello?!’ I say, a slight tinge of panic to my voice. What if it was a real emergency?

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.

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.

But call me at 8am in the morning AND get the wrong number and that’s another story.

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.

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.

I did something I’ve never done (without prior warning). I hung up on him. And I don’t even care.

I’m just really not a morning person.

Read more by Laura

The customer is always right- at least when allowed an opinion.

2011-03-10T19:14:00.000Z

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

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 -*gasp*- 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Alice.

The office: a small-minded space

2011-02-28T08:00:00.011Z

MARTHA CASEY

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

Once the form was located, I would tear off the top two copies, paperclip (NOT STAPLE) 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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Martha.

Feeling unwell? Medical staff can have that effect

2011-02-26T11:34:00.004Z

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Back out in the hallway main reception was once again unattended. Probably some more interesting gossip being relayed by the kettle.

“Hellloooo” I called again.

“Um- I’m here to see the midwife” I repeated to the same woman I had seen a matter of minutes earlier.

“No midwife in this building” she replied.

“But you just sent me down the that room”

“No midwife in this building”

“We spoke a few moments ago and you told me-”

“No midwife in this building.”

The official medical equivalent of ‘computer says no’.

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.

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.

Stammering I set about asking questions to ascertain what the problem was.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Rosie.

Ready, steady, competitive cook!

2011-02-23T14:46:00.001Z

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.

However, I have noticed how competitiveness has drifted into areas of my life where I thought it never would. Or could.

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!

Anyway, you get the idea.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…? Read more by Shelly.

Service with a scowl

2011-02-20T16:40:00.003Z

MADDIE YORK

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 my disagreement on the P4 bus). 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.

I was standing in the queue with my basket – weekend supplies: gin, lime x 2, tonic x 1, Saturday Times, 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.

“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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Maddie.

Weight comments soon wear thin...

2011-02-19T18:32:00.012Z

LAURA DEMETRIOU

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.

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.

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?

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:

‘Do you starve yourself?’

‘Cor, don’t get any thinner love, we won’t be able to see you!’

‘Ouch! Can you get off my lap? Your bum is really boney!’

‘Do you even eat? I bet you throw it up afterwards, don’t you!’

‘You need a few meals down your neck!’

Charming.

It’s not that I don’t eat much. Far from it. Those who follow me on Twitter 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.)

But for some reason it’s never enough.

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?’

Take a typical conversation with a family member:

FM: Have you finished your meal?

Me: Yes thanks, it was lovely!

FM: Would you like seconds?

Me: No thanks, I’m fine.

FM: Come on, have more, you could do with fattening up!

Me: I’m full.

FM: But you’re skin and bone!

Me: I’m pretty sure I’m made of more than skin and bone. Quite sure actually.

FM: I’ll get you some more.

Me: No, really, I’m not hungry. [Get up to take plate out to kitchen]

FM: [Shout from the other room] YOU’RE NOT PUKING IT ALL BACK UP, ARE YOU?

Me: [Bang head on nearest hard surface. Repeat.]

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.

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.

14th Feb: just another day.

2011-02-14T11:00:00.006Z

JUDY JOHNSON

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Read more by Judy.

What if you're just not in the mood?

2011-02-13T23:46:00.002Z

NAOMI SAFFERY

When it comes to real life, I am as unromantic as they come. I like the idea of romance. I like the thought of a handsome prince riding up to my turret and whisking me away to a far-off land filled with roses, wine and kittens. But, the reality of being romantic is one of effort and hard work.

After the prince has whisked, and it all becomes routine, it is too much effort to think up those sickeningly cute gestures and it is too much effort to be on one’s best behaviour in the hope of a romantic treat being showered upon you. I actually can’t be arsed. I would rather run myself a bubble bath, pour myself a glass of something fruity and light my own candles than have someone else do it for me.

It is even more effort and hard work to be romantic on a fixed day of the year when you might be riddled with spots, bloated and generally feeling like crap. Singles, the obligatory ‘love’ day is just as bad if you are in a relationship: the pressure of actually having to get on with each other is immense. What if it is one of those days where you just can’t stand the sight of one another? You know, those days when you consider whether going to prison for life would really be such a bad thing if it means you have that momentary pleasure of bashing his head in with his games console.

As the years go by, Valentine’s Day is frankly a drain on my time, patience and finances. I realise that referring to it as being a drain on my finances implies that I am some kind of Valentine’s whore, sending out hundreds of cards. But no, what I mean is: I buy ONE card. Just the one, and every year it seems to get more and more extortionate. Yesterday, I went into the usual shop and feeling totally uninspired by all the red and, oddly, gold, I went to the ‘blank’ cards section and found something plain and simple.£2.75 it cost me. £2.75! And that is cheaper than the actual ‘branded’ Valentine’s Day cards. This is the tenth one that I have bought him, so that’s a mighty good bottle of wine I could have had, but instead it’s all gone into the recycling.

And then there is the onerous task of thinking of something to write. Yes, I love you. Yes, let’s stay together (even if it is for the sake of the cat). Yes, be my valentine. I mean, after 10 years, it’s all been said! What more could I possibly say? I can hardly write the truth; “Dear Valentine, please sort your dirty washing and stop leaving teabags in the sink or else you are going to die,” can I?

Some of you may shout at me, saying “at least you have someone who gets you a card”, as many people have indeed already shouted at me. Well, gee whiz, so I get a card from someone who has to get me a card because it’s what one does, and neither of us is willing to make a stand and not get a card and face the wrath of the other. One year, it would be nice to get a card from someone else (and not my mother).

We gave up on presents a long time ago, we gave up on going out soon after and then, after that, we stopped bothering to even mark it in any way at home. So, he sits hunched in front of his games console and I relax in my bubble bath – dreaming about the prince who will come and be my house slave whilst I am out and about crusading against Valentine’s Day. Read more by Naomi.

No date for the 14th: what are the loveless to do?

2011-02-13T12:04:00.003Z

KATE COLES

A girl aged 23 extracts only the pinks and reds from her neatly organised pencil case. It can mean only one thing: Valentine’s Day. But who is it who requires such attention to detail, such effort ascribed only to the warmer hues of the fine berols? Her betrothed? Her secret lover?

Of course not; this is London and the girl is a 20-something. She is, of course, striving just to keep her head straight and battle up the rickety career ladder. The attention of a permanent boy figure would only complicate things and make doing what she wanted an exception rather than the rule.

A day dedicated to being lovely and mutual respect I could abide – nay, welcome. However Valentine’s Day works to separate the ‘haves’ from the ‘have nots’. (Such a stark division in life chances should have Labour vying at the Tories’ necks. Alas, not so; all the MPs are out buying flowers for their neglected spouses.) Around the 10th, the questions start: “what are you doing on the night?”; “where is he taking you?”; “is it a surprise?”

Like Medusa’s snakes, the questioners swirl around, address the issue head on, looking her in the eye. Admit to her lack of love and she unveils herself as the lonely single, without a lover who feels propelled to glue a crepe paper heart onto a piece of crimped card. This has a disarming effect, simultaneously cutting through vast swathes of confidence and accelerating the level of self-questioning which can only be executed over red wine and lashings of chocolate – not something which requires much encouragement in the 20-something on the aforementioned rickety ladder.

Having a ‘break up anniversary’ on the 14th February serves to compound the morbid thoughts which come from an overwrought need to impress everyone but oneself. The polarising effect of this day, perfectly positioned at an empty period in the greeting card industry calendar between Christmas and Easter, is irksome. If a level of self respect and a head for fun stops them from sitting home doing nothing, the loveless are left with the matter of how to spend the evening. If masquerading as a girl-guy combo as fag and hag seems a something of a counterintuitive pretence, the loveless girl is left with her own girlfriends.

No doubt, the fortunate femmes will all be in relationships being showered with rainbows and feathers. If there is someone in the same situation, you can decide to do the ‘anti Valentine’s Day’: either get incredibly drunk and go clubbing – highly unlikely as this year it falls on a Monday (always be aware that the rungs on that ladder will be slippery when one is hungover). It would seem that unless you want to go out to dinner and be fluffed all over by awkward expressions of commitment and sincerity, there is very little for the young woman to do. Being without a long-term lover does not qualify me for ‘love is evil’ lectures or propel me to go on a tour of the poisonous plants at the natural history museum, thank you very much London.

As a singleton on the 14th, rather than indulge in contrived notions of introspection and ego inflation, show some love by genuinely thanking the barista for your coffee, smiling at someone on the tube or giving away something you value. I would suggest we need to grow our empathetic side rather than our selfish love side.

And the cards? Send them to all the women in your life who make it fabulous, of course.

On second thoughts, maybe the red wine isn’t such a bad idea.

Love, actually, is all-year-round

2011-02-12T14:10:00.003Z

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

It’s not that I hate people being in love, and I’m not a bitter old spinster, but Valentine’s Day really gets on my wick. Quite apart from the shops going overboard with utter tat and radio stations filling endless airplay with sick-making ‘Snufflepuss loves Bunnywun’ messages, it’s the ungrateful and OTT nature of it all that makes me want to kill myself.

Expectations go through the roof and the greetings card companies rub their hands together in glee as they peddle crap to the masses, all under the banner of ‘being in love’. Of course it’s not just the blatant commercialism that does it for me; it’s the competitiveness of it all. If I have to hear another person – and let’s face it, it’s normally a woman – complaining about getting a crap present, I’ll scream and batter them to death with a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

I don’t understand why some women feel it’s acceptable to judge their boyfriend/husband/rent-a-willy on how he behaves on one day out of 365. I think some women set their boyfriends up to for a fall by heaping so much expectation on them, and woe betide him if he doesn’t do as much to declare his Valentine love as her best friend’s boyfriend did...

I just don’t consider Valentine’s Day to be the be all and end all of a romantic year. I’d much rather my (non-existent) boyfriend did little things all year round like de-ice my windscreen on a frosty morning or make dinner after I’ve had a hard day, than spank a load of his wages on overpriced roses come the 14th Feb.

I realise I might be alone in the feeling that it’s just a normal day, but I know I can’t be alone in wishing that the squeaky little women who bitch and moan about their deficient boyfriends would shut the funk up. I once had a friend who was heard complaining loudly about her boyfriend having bought her a very expensive designer watch – because she’d actually wanted a handbag. She was one step away from stomping about screeching “Daddy! I want a golden goose!”

I thought this behaviour might make her boyfriend think twice about ever buying her anything again. Sadly, though, he capitulated, and not only did she get an expensive designer handbag, it matched the expensive designer watch she also kept. She used to recount the story with a roll of the eyes as if she expected people to chuckle along with her about her silly boyfriend and his pathetic idea of a present!

Perhaps I have much lower expectations of it because I’ve never received a Valentine’s Day card or present other than the card my Mum would shove through the catflap each year. Maybe that’s why I look for love in the little things rather than expecting a man to abseil down the side of my house and swing into my bedroom armed with diamonds, flowers, chocolates and a big fluffy teddy.

This Valentine’s Day, I’m not expecting any romantic gestures of love, but don’t worry about me, I hear Morrison’s are doing ‘buy one get one free’ on cards so I’m going to send myself two this year and really push the boat out. Read more by Alice.

Tapping at your last nerve: two perspectives on the pitfalls of office typing

2011-02-09T15:07:00.003Z

NAOMI SAFFERY

There are many, many reasons why working in an office – any office – can be a challenge for those among us who would rather be lounging by a pool, with a cocktail in hand and generally enjoying a life of decadent debauchery.

One reason why working in an office is so challenging is the furious – nay, frenzied – speed at which people type. Is it just me or are there people in offices who genuinely feel that waving their administrative schlong around via typing at warp speed, will land them in the boss’s lap, complete with promotion, bonus and an all-round pat on back?

Well, I have news for such ‘highfliers’. Typing ridiculously fast does not actually prove that you are the employee of the month; rather it just means that you have a very close relationship with the delete key as you frantically bash it to remove all the typing errors that you have made in your pointless haste.

Just the sound of typing drives me mad – I mean, what are these people doing? Emailing their mothers? On Facebook messenger? Writing a PhD thesis? I cannot believe that anyone can fire off emails without even a nanosecond of pause between each one. If they really are working solidly, then I have to conclude that they are the most long-winded people that ever walked the earth. I am just glad that I am not the recipient of all these mind boggling and dull paragraphs – surely the whole ethos of administration is to be clear, succinct and precise?!

Don’t get me wrong, I can keep up with the best of them. My fingers are the most toned part of my body – but, I take my time as I don’t feel that I have anything to prove via my keyboard. Ever heard of the Tortoise? Well, that’s me – even if it does mean that the delete key is left feeling a bit neglected. Read more by Naomi.

I have many failings, including the fact that I am that irritating person sitting near you in the office who types in frenzied, noisy bursts. I’ve long suspected it might annoy others but now I know for certain. Sorry, Naomi. As a bonafide keyboard basher, I can honestly say that’s not my intention, merely an unfortunate side effect.

You see, I’m an excitable sort. It makes me shout involuntarily when discussing anything I feel even remotely passionate about, causing my now-almost-deaf spouse to plead repeatedly, “I’m sitting right next to you. Stop yelling!” But I can’t. I’m in the throes of what I’m saying. And it doesn’t stop there. When typing it’s the exactly same principle: I’m talking loudly – just with my fingers.

So that’s my excuse. But what about how the world looks form my well-worn keyboard? Amongst the quick typers, you have two distinct breeds. There are those like me who haven’t trained as a secretary or worked for some form of qualification in the art of pressing buttons, but through many hours of angsty teenage typing, dubious creative writing, heart pouring via MSN Messenger (in the days pre-Facebook) your digits have spent so long hitting familiar keys that, almost without noticing it, they have memorised the position of each and every one.

Then there is the other group: those who learnt properly, those to whom precise and fast typing is their skill, their pliable trade and even their raison d’être. And nothing irks them more than upstarts who undermine them by simply picking it up by accident.

In the face of such madness, to keep some sort of order in the chaos, they must continually point out that you have not been properly taught, that you cannot actually, truly touch type (in its strictest definition) and endless other insinuations that you are an interloper, fraud and general force of malevolence within the office environment.

The part of me which reads self-help books wants to reach out to these anxious and alienated souls and tell them not to be threatened by me. I don’t want their job, honestly.

However, at the times when they lurk over my shoulder asking pointless questions in eager anticipation that I will make a mistake so that they can strike up the well-practised refrain of “You’re not actually a trained typist” then I want to swivel around and snap: “Piss off back to your menial tasks.” Read more by Rosie.

Is a sense of entitlement killing off our manners?

2011-02-07T18:17:00.002Z

As a Grumpy Young Woman, it would be so easy for me to complain about the distinct lack of manners that society seems to have suffered. When it comes to examples, I’m so spoilt for choice that I’d be here from now until Dooms Day. And I don’t have that kind of time.

Instead, I would have thought that considering the cause of the bad manners would be prudent and might, somehow, make it easier to beat it out of the ill-mannered offenders—er—I mean, nip the problem in the bud. Yes, that was it, nip it in the bud.

Through some painstaking, scientific research (what do you mean the School of Hard Knocks isn’t a recognised institution? Besides, it was confirmed by the University of Life!) I have discovered one of the reasons. Ready? The misguided notion that the culprits are entitled to be rude as whatever gracious act that came their way is owed to them. That’s right, they don’t have to be grateful for what they have a right to. And this distinct sense of self-importance seems to be spreading.

Imagine being asked for directions:

“Excuse me, can you please tell me where X is?”

“Sure. Follow this road to the junction, take a left and then the first right/Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“Great, thanks for your help/no problem.”

Sounds like a familiar process? Ah, but that is when you’re approached by a sane and lucid person. If this has always been your experience, count yourself lucky. Now imagine not getting a request for directions, but a demand. Aggressive voice, aggressive expression, no please or thank you before they storm off on getting a reply.

Even if my purpose in life was to give people directions, I would still expect some manners. How naive I am. My response? “Los siento, no comprendo Ingles.” Find it your damn self. These morons are often too ignorant to even be able to speak their native English, let alone any other language.

Words are wonderful things—allowing us to convey all sorts of information. For example, 'do not smoke in my home'. Should be a simple enough instruction. Not for the asinine few. The asinine will ask for permission, not get it and smoke anyway.

As a volunteer, I suspect that I have inadvertently become part of fated ‘Big Society’ (though you can’t hear me, rest assured that my voice is dripping with contempt when I utter the phrase) which our esteemed leader (more contempt) so loves to promote. For the most part, the people I help are lovely and full of gratitude.

But then there are those that act like you’re working for them rather than simply assisting, they point to a PC and stare at you blankly, expecting your telepathy to kick in. They expect assistance that isn’t even offered and, yet, fail to reply with a tiny word of thanks when you do go out of your way to help.

I’m a pedestrian yet even I’m aggravated by those who seem to slow down when crossing in front of a car that has stopped for them. What is that about? Are people really that absurd? Save your evil look for when it’s absolutely necessary- like when someone tries to mug you or a cashier gives you the wrong change.

Bless my mum for teaching me my Ps and Qs, but I wonder whether her work was wasted. The way things are going, I may as well join the crowd. I reckon I’d make a great diva—where’s my mineral water and basket of puppies? Read more by Shermaine.

Job hunting isn't half hard work

2011-02-03T13:22:00.000Z

A few weeks ago, I watched the last ever episode of Ugly Betty. And cried. I admit I was touched by my little Mexican friend’s optimism about life, and was genuinely happy to see her succeed. It gave me hope that one day my labours of love will become fruitful, and I too will have my dream job. Then reality kicked in.

You see, like a lot of people who work in the public sector, I might be facing redundancy. Bummer, I know. So, along with everyone else in my department, I am frantically applying for one of the few jobs that will be left come April and keeping my fingers crossed that I will be one of The Chosen Ones. But, let’s face it, I can’t rely on a position in my current place of work for much longer. So, I must look elsewhere.

The problem is that looking for a job has suddenly become a lot more complicated. Gone are the days when you bought the paper, kept your eyes open for notices in the window of local businesses and popped down the job centre. Oh, no. Things have got a bit tricky.

Whereas in the past I used to buy The Guardian on a Wednesday and forget about my endeavour to find employment for the rest of the week, I now feel obliged to check their website at least every three days. Their search options mean that if I leave it longer than that I have to search every single job on the entire website, which can be an awful lot when you are searching as broadly and desperately as I.

Then there is the plethora of other job websites which I dare not ignore just in case something well paid and lovely comes up. By the time I have searched Indeed.com, lgjobs.co.uk and a handful of other sites that promise me the world, it is half-past midnight and the closest I have got to a new career is stacking shelves at Aldi.

It doesn’t stop there. Next on the list of tasks one must do to get ahead is social networking. And no, I am not talking poking your friends on Facebook or following Stephen Fry on Twitter. I am talking grown-up networking. As in, professionally. This is not the time to be posting photos of yourself at NYE with a glass of Cava in one hand and a Harvey Wallbanger in the other. In my opinion, this makes the likes of LinkedIn not only dull but a little bit confusing. What on earth am I supposed to put as my status update if I don’t slag off the office bitch and moan about Him Indoors leaving the toilet seat up?

So, those of you in steady employment or lucky enough to be a student before a degree costs the same as a small fleet of Ferraris, think of me as you snuggle up in front of the telly with a glossy and the SATC box set as I trawl the net looking for my lucky break. As for the rest of you? I wish you luck. But please, whatever your circumstances, don’t tell me about any other websites, forums or networks that I need to join to secure my future happiness. I don’t think my Favourites can take it. Read more by Shelly.

For the consideration of others, please turn off your phone!

2011-01-30T11:59:00.000Z

ROSIE DAVIES

Mobile phones. They have become so ingrained in everyday life that we would most likely not know what to do without them; holding them has become second nature, almost as if they’re an extended part of our hands.

Fiddling with their buttons absent-mindedly, or attempting to crack the various levels of games offers one way to pass time when waiting for a train, a bus, or friends. Issues with dodgy signal, the expense, the inevitable radioactive brain freeze and the weird deep-vein thrombosis feeling in your arm after using them for a decent length of time aside, they are extremely useful and in some instances life-saving.

But let’s all agree for a moment. At times, isn’t it easy to think that they’re the bane of modern life?

They manage to creep into every single facet of life, including places where they are categorically not invited. The theatre and the cinema are two that spring to mind. We’re all familiar with the ‘don’t let your mobile phone ruin the movie’ trailers, but as I’ve experienced so far, they don’t really work. I recently saw Harry Potter in one of those huge Odeon cinemas. Ten minutes into the film a girl four rows down got out her phone to browse Facebook. For crying out loud.

Aside from the fact that the light from her phone was terrifically distracting, who the hell starts social networking when they’re at the cinema? Who is that much of a slave to their cyber social life? And who has the attention span of a gnat to give up on a film so quickly? I personally managed forty minutes of The Wedding Crashers, a film so bad I have had constant nightmares about Owen Wilson’s nose ever since, before walking out. Even then I didn’t resort to my phone for comfort.

Then there’s the theatre. It’s more of a treat to go to the theatre, a little more cultured. Most of the audience will be of your parents’ or grandparents’ generation, so you’re lulled into the assumption that the majority have the decency and manners to turn off their phones, if they even own one.

Not a bit of it. Last night, whilst at the glorious Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn, a woman at the back let her phone ring three times before the eventually the actors intervened and gave her a good mouthful. Luckily, the play itself involved mobile phone sounds, so the cast could be fairly good-humoured about it. despite the outraged huffing and puffing from the audience. Unfortunately, the offender didn’t do much to help her fast-growing reputation as public enemy number one by calling out ‘I don’t know how to turn it off!’ Who has a mobile phone they can’t operate? I hope she thanked her lucky stars it wasn’t Shakespeare.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not 100% chaste. I’ve definitely heard mine whirring away in my bag on unsuitable occasions, trying desperately to cough loudly enough to cover the noise up. But I am bemused at the situations in which people think it is perfectly acceptable to use their phone, forcing everyone else to join in on the experience, whether they wish to or not.

We’ve all been next to the guy on the train forcing everyone within the radius of three carriages to know that he was ‘TOTALLY FUCKING WASTED LAST NIGHT’, and the vacuous girl who manages to have a conversation that doesn’t actually involve any real information. ‘I know, I was like totally…yah, I know, I just said to him like, it’s…really?! Yah, I know…I was like…oh my God, I KNOW!’ Why don’t the socially inept and those with little or no manners realise they are just being a plain sodding nuisance?

And then there’s dating. Most definitely NOT the time to constantly fiddle with your phone. We’d all like the person we’re sat opposite to think we are at a least relatively interesting, or attractive. However, here’s a stark warning: there are people out there who, on a date, will not only make you feel invisible by regularly glancing down at their mobile, but who actually have the nerve to text someone else whilst you’re talking to them, as if you’re just an interruption to their evening. If you’re lucky, you’ll get the hat trick: they’ll wave their phone in your face at some point to let you know they’ve received a text message which they are powerless to ignore, and make up some wet excuse to leave. I think I’d even prefer the fake emergency phonecall to that.

So, what to do? We can hardly get rid of them. But, just in case you do come face to face with those who ignore basic etiquette and manners from time to time, make sure you order enough surplus popcorn to throw at tossers in the cinema, and thoroughly enjoy the self-righteous moan you can have in the theatre when the perfect moment of poignant silence is broken. If in doubt, practise your best angry glare, and, if you can, move seats on the train. Better still, keep it in your bag once in a while, to savour the messages when you do finally have a quick peek at work. And most importantly of all? Sometimes, just sometimes – turn it off. Read more by Rosie.

The icing on the cake? Common sense, apparently...

2011-01-27T11:28:00.000Z

With Christmas thankfully dispatched for another year and many more weeks of long winter evenings, what better time to take up a new hobby? Combining my love of food and talents more usually associated with your Gran (please see my efforts at mastering knitting), I signed up for class named ‘Cake Decorating for Beginners’ and thus began my first foray into the weird and wonderful world of local authority-subsidised adult learning.

The weekly classes, held in an old, grand Victorian school building complete with the antiquated signs marking boys’ and girls’ separate entrances, began with the inevitable getting-to-know-you ice breakers, the prospect of which makes most civilised people want to groan out loud in sheer dread.

Once the teacher had furnished us all with her life story, the students were encouraged to do the same. As this is all about buzz words like ‘inclusivity’, ‘diversity’ and never, ever, on pain of death, discriminating against anyone at any time, for any reason, we didn’t go round the group à la corporate training courses and most other situations where people have to introduce themselves. Instead we were invited to chip in only when we felt ready to. Nothing so draconian as having to take turns. How wonderfully liberal yet senselessly time consuming, as throats were cleared and everyone looked awkward and shuffled.

The only man of the group began. No surprises there. Sorry chaps, but it’s a known fact that you love to steam roller ahead in such situations. Twenty minutes crawled past as we went through employment history (recently took early retirement from middle management in the Post Office), marital status (was engaged a few years ago but now single) and other interests (learning to cook and gardening). I suddenly felt as if I’d spent more time with him recently than my nearest and dearest.

Next up was a lady who talked at length about a bereavement she’d suffered. Now, I would never gripe about someone needing to talk about their loss as a part of their own grieving process. Unless it had all happened more than 20 years prior and had nothing whatsoever to do with learning to cake decorate. After two such lengthy and personal disclosures an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. No one wanted to be the next person to go. What could you say? How much delicate detail would you have to go into to top that?

It was mild despair that made me suddenly blurt out, a little too loudly: “I’m Rosie. I can bake but I’m not very good at decorating cakes and would like to learn how to do that”. Silence was maintained for a full minute; the clock ticked, possibly even the only bit of tumbleweed in South London blew past outside. Even the teacher didn’t quite know how to respond to my direct, yet highly relevant statement.

The following week, as we practised applying icing to a dummy cake (yes, such things exist), more personal information was traded. The very nice woman at the workstation next to me confided all her medical history and details of the time spent in hospital after being sectioned by Dr Raj off the telly. I didn’t have the heart to ask what her name was again.

Two latecomers joined the class: one heavily pregnant teenager and another woman so obese she couldn’t stand unaided. Should she really be learning how to add more calories to a cake?

All these people from different walks of life had one major thing in common: they were totally incapable of baking. Anything. When asked to bring a cake in to work on the following week panic erupted. The teacher, in a bid to quell the mounting hysteria, recommended buying one from the supermarket. But it didn’t calm the mood in the classroom.

I suggested looking online for an easy recipe but they were too far gone down the route of out-and-out terror. Only the soothing maternal reassurances from the teacher that she would personally bake them one each and bring it in next week (at a cost) took them from a near-frenzied mob back to a group of adult learning students.

And that was when I cracked. My desire to be an epic smartarse overcame my manners and I had to sarcastically ask what were my fellow students planning on embellishing with their icing sugar and egg white mix on if the act of combining butter, sugar, eggs and flour and then heating was so anathema? Even more peculiarly the same centre ran a course called ‘An Introduction to Cake Baking’ and suggested students consider taking it in conjunction. Of course none of these bake-o-phobes had taken up the offer.

As the only person who had made the logical progression from mastering baking tasty, ugly cakes to wanting to create something prettier, I was genuinely mystified as to why all the other students were there. There is no conceivable reason for learning such complex sugar techniques if your eventual plan is stand poised with a piping bag ready to ice onto a nice eight square inches of nothing at all.

However, it’s slowly becoming clear to me that what I have in fact signed up for is a big, bizarre weekly group counselling session. But, at £90 for a 10-week course, it’s far cheaper than proper therapy and you get the added benefit of learning a few new skills too. Read more by Rosie.

One is certainly not on work experience!

2011-01-22T16:53:00.000Z

MARTHA CASEY

Like many people, I have a job. I’ve had a job for several years, and before that I had a different job, and another one before that, all the way back to the shelf-stacking I did in Marks and Spencer’s when I was 16. (And there are years of pent-up rage in that one, but for the moment, let’s move on.)

Having a job is something that many people do, and as people go, I think I do fairly well at it. For instance, I arrive at work on time. I sit at a desk and drink cups of coffee and own a stapler. I have an extension number and a professional email address that is based on my real name. I do the tasks I’m paid to do (and sometimes, when I’m in a really good mood, I do things I’m not paid to do, because I’m just that nice).

I don’t insist on turning up to work wearing my pyjamas or a Spider-Man costume or a t-shirt with jam down the front of it - and if I did want to wear any of these items, I would simply do so, and not throw myself on the floor and scream until I threw up to ensure that I was allowed to. (And, to be perfectly frank, I work at a university, so given the presence of hippy students and slightly mad academics I probably wouldn’t look especially out of place. I digress, however.) I even go to meetings, although I confess I’m still not entirely sure what they’re for.

The point is, at the age of 28, I appear to be doing a fairly good job of masquerading as a responsible adult. So why have I noticed certain older colleagues treating me, and talking to me, as if I’m somewhere between six and 16 years old? Put simply, why does everyone seem to think I’m here on work experience?

This annoying phenomenon manifests itself in mainly subtle ways that I suspect go unnoticed by others, even by the people doing it. The tone of voice that people take when they ask me to do something comes laced with the tiniest hint of condescension. The tasks I end up with, more often than not, are closer to “alphabetise these three items” or “break down this box” than to “use your gigantic brain to build a robot”. When my closest colleague (older, and a parent, and a driver, and other things associated with being an adult) goes above and beyond the call of duty, the grateful recipient might bring him a bottle of wine as a thank-you; when I do the same, I’m more likely to get biscuits. (I mean, they tend to be nice biscuits; we’re not talking Rusks here, but still.)

Sometimes it’s even more explicit: a few months ago I greeted an older colleague as I passed him in the corridor, as one does. He stopped, and turned, and looked at me while half-smiling and frowning a little, as if trying to place me, then snapped his fingers and said: “Of course! You’re Alan’s daughter, aren’t you? How’s the work experience going?” It’s not as if I was still new at that point, either - I had been doing my job for at least a year.

It happened at my last job too; in particular, I noticed that colleagues who were employed to do the same thing as me, sometimes who had started later than me and had less knowledge of the environment, would feel justified in talking down to me and passing on to me the most brain-meltingly tedious work, simply because they were older and therefore “in charge”. Never mind that in many cases I had more experience, better qualifications, and a more thorough understanding of practice.

I’m not the only person I know to have experienced such a phenomenon, either. Take my friend Lisa: she is 28, and a university graduate, and has been in employment for over a decade. She currently works in administration for a research centre specialising in cancer patients. Recently, a new colleague, a middle-aged woman, started working there too. On her first day, she turned to Lisa and with a beaming smile, asked her: “Is this your first job, dear?”

Like Rosie, I’ve been told that I look younger than I am (also like Rosie, I am regularly told I can’t buy that bottle of Fair Trade red wine, despite the fact that no self-respecting underage drinker would choose to drink anything other than White Lightning and nail varnish remover - although I suspect I may be veering off my point). So maybe it’s a simple misunderstanding and these people genuinely believe I need babysitting. Or perhaps it’s some bizarre biological instinct that makes these people talk to me this way; if I’m young enough to be someone’s daughter, then my presence provokes some dormant evolutionary urge, and if I wait long enough then they’ll start regurgitating food at me or something.

But, deep down, I can’t help worrying that this happens because they’re seeing through me, because I don’t actually feel like a grown-up at all, and maybe they can tell that. Maybe they know that while I sit there and nod and say things like “I’m not sure that’s workable” and appear to take notes during meetings, I’m actually doodling crudely-rendered male genitalia in the margins of the agenda and wondering if it really matters that the name of the committee was changed but not everyone was consulted. And one of these days I’ll be discovered, and I won’t be allowed to have a job any more, and I’ll have to spend all day watching children’s TV and wearing Spider-Man pyjamas.

... What was the problem, again?

The Train Commandments

2011-01-20T12:58:00.000Z

JUDY JOHNSON

I am on a train for around 90 minutes in total each day. God, that’s depressing. It’s not the best part of my day. It’s a space in which getting a seat is a highlight, and something you feel a bit smug about even if it’s only for five minutes – so, hardly something to shout about.

But, after yet another journey of suffering people who either have no manners, no sense or just no awareness of anything around them other than their nose, I thought it was worth blogging about. And so, without further ado: The Train Commandments. Please try to remember at least one of the points when you next board a train. Or, indeed, any form of transport where other human beings are present.

1. Thou shalt allow air into the train

I like air. Don’t you? Nice fresh air that wakes you up a little, helps you breathe, you know the stuff. So why, oh dear commuter, must you sit there idly, in your privileged window seat, as we all roast in this cabin of heated hell? If the windows are steamy, it’s not for drawing in – it’s sweat and breath and goodness knows what else, so open a window. It won’t bite. If there is not a single window open on your carriage, despite it being full of people sitting and standing in every space available, open a window. I don’t care if it’s raining. I don’t care if it’s snowing. You’re probably wearing a coat. Man up and open it so that we don’t all have to sweat and smell each other’s breath – there’s just no need to do that with strangers.

2. Thou shalt not sit next to your invisible friend

Are you sitting on the aisle side? Look at the seat next to you. Is it empty? Now look around the carriage. Is the train getting full? Are people standing? Are you approaching a station with a platform full of people? Here’s a thought: don’t keep an empty seat next to you for no reason. Someone will see it and they will climb over you to get to it. That will be awkward, they might even touch you a bit with their boot, and given that you like sitting next to empty seats, that can’t be good. Shuffle over to the window side (or the middle if you’re in a row of three, there you go) and let someone sit down without having to negotiate the space between your feet and bags. Oh, and bags on a seat? Don’t you dare.

3. Thou shalt remember your table manners, or find some

There’s a reason kids are told to chew with their mouths closed: it’s in the hope that they will remember it as they grow older and learn to eat like civilised human beings. None of us wants to see that mashed up Maccy Ds in your mouth. More importantly, none of us wants to hear you as you munch it, followed by a slurp of your drink, followed by more munching and loud exhaling through your nose. We don’t want to see crumbs falling all over the seat. If you must eat food while travelling (we’ve all been there), at least get something that doesn’t stink, doesn’t make too much noise and that isn’t messy. A Twitter friend had to sit on a train with a woman standing up, eating a Wasabi noodle soup. One can only imagine how sickening that carriage was, with its lack of windows open, full of people standing because the seats were filled by imaginary friends, while she slurped on soup.

4. Thou shalt bend with thy knees

When you’re standing on a train and need to pick up your suitcase/briefcase/Maccy Ds wrapper, remember: trains are quite small. People sitting down are at about waist height. If you then bend over, from your waist, to pick up said item, you are quite possibly going to thrust your backside into someone’s face a little. This is bad etiquette. It is unnecessary. Simply bend at the knees and away you go, with no awkward encounters and probably no back problems because you really should lift with your knees, not your back. Those wrappers can be heavy.

5. Thou shalt not infect the Metro

We all hate having coughs and colds and flu because we’re British and we still have to go to work and make sure we infect everyone else. But when you’re on a train, on your not-so-merry way to work, and that little tickle comes along, don’t sneeze into your Metro. Don’t cough into it. That is not a substitute for being polite. Use your elbow or hands to catch your grimy germs or, even better, use a tissue. Or even better than that, stay at home. No one wants to touch your germy dribble while reading about the royal wedding.

6. Thou shalt limit yourself to your assigned amount of space

Train seats aren’t luxurious, or wide, or particularly comfy, but they are a certain size. They are all the same size. Which means even if you are reading a newspaper next to someone who isn’t, that does not give you the right to elbow them in the ribs as you do so. Nor does it give you the right to spread your paper across into their space. And if you do, you cannot then get mad that they begin to read it. In fact, they should probably be allowed to turn the page.

7. Thou shalt not try to get on the train before everyone is off it

Remember Funhouse? Well, in the final part of the game they had to wait for their team mate to come out of the funhouse before they could go in. Like a relay. Apply this logic to trains. Not only do you look like an impatient child when you shove your way past an old lady who is being slow at stepping off the train, but you are actually being stupid. The more people who get off the train, the more space there will be on the train. Let them get off, considering it’s their stop after all, and when you step on there will be more seats to choose from. See?

8. Thou shalt at least pretend to understand how annoying your voice is

It’s fine to have a phone conversation on a train. Really it is. But do you have to be so LOUD? We don’t actually need to know that your best friend has annoyed you, or that you didn’t get a pay rise. We’re not going to sympathise as we are busy trying to breathe in this airless carriage while not slapping the guy digging his elbows into our ribs. At least try to talk a little quieter or keep it short – we’ll know you tried, and we’ll hate you less.

9. Thou shalt not suffocate those who are seated

It is unfair that you have to stand for part or all of your journey. We get that, we have been there. But We, the Seated, do not deserve to be suffocated by your coat. Or your bag. Or your scarf. Or your dreadlocks (seriously, this happened this morning, I felt quite pukey). Remember that the aisle, like the seats, is a certain size, and while those people sitting down may look comfy, it doesn’t mean they can handle having all the air, even the recycled air, taken away because you need to lean. This is no place for leaning.

10. Thou shalt offer your seat to those who need it

A slightly more serious one to finish, but one that shouldn’t even need to be said. No seats left and a pregnant woman gets on? Get up. No seats and some elderly people get on? Get up. No seats and a disabled person gets on? Get up. Just be nice – it’s not hard. No one will think less of you, even in London. You might even get a smile out of someone – and that is something to shout about...

The Train Commandments were originally published on Judy’s website, here.

Upselling: how upsetting!

2011-01-18T16:51:00.001Z

MADDIE YORK

I’m terribly pleased to see that customer service is on people’s minds at the moment; with Michel Roux’s Service underway on the BBC, and Mary Portas: Secret Shopper starting on Channel 4 this week, it’s clear that we’re finally squaring up to Britain’s abysmal service culture and saying “now look here, this isn’t good enough”.

We have put up for far too long with the “there you go” waiter and the “if it’s not on the shop floor, we don’t have it” gum-chewing shop assistant, and we’ve somehow come to accept that on most occasions the person paid to help customers doesn’t see any particular need to stop talking to her colleague to speak to us, or even make eye contact.

And at the other end of the scale, we’ve allowed obnoxiously over-familiar techniques to become standard: the ‘server’ who bounds up to your table and says “hey guys!” as though he’s known you all his life; the shouty and impatient baristas barking “next, please!” and “eat in or take away?”, trained to get city lunchers out of the way as soon as possible; and the aggressive and manipulative practice of flogging you more things than you ordered, that crude and hateful sales technique known as ‘upselling’.

“Any coffee for you?” asks the barista, breezily, as you stand ready to pay for the sandwich you’ve selected from the chiller and brought up to the counter. “Err, no, thank you, just the sandwich, please,” you reply, aggrieved, wondering why she couldn’t have just waited for you to order the coffee if you wanted it. “Any cookies or crisps with that?” Pause, while you sigh, yet more aggrieved. “No, as I said, it’ll just be the sandwich today. Thank you.” And it feels as though you’re holding up a shield to deflect all the gratuitous muffins, crisps and chocolatey extras being shoved in your face and heaped on top of your order. And you pay and leave with the uncomfortable feeling of having been brazenly manipulated, wondering when on earth it became acceptable to be so openly money-grabbing.

“It irks me because it’s just so insultingly obvious. Do they think they’re Derren Brown all of a sudden?”

The waiter’s once-simple task of listening to a table of customers make their order has turned into an elaborate upselling opportunity. “Any side salads with that? Fries? More drinks?” No, no, and no. I have no problem with a waiter asking a broader, polite question to round off the order, such as “will that be all?” A question of that ilk is useful; it lets the customer know that there’s no rush, there’s still an opportunity to add something else before the order is closed. It’s the offering of specific extras that irks me: salads, fries, muffins. It’s rude because it’s presumptuous; the waiter or barista shouldn’t presume that a muffin is the ideal side order to accompany your sandwich. What if you’re allergic, or simply cake-averse? Gently asking “is there anything else you’d like?” is entirely appropriate, but wading in with suggested bonus items – and let’s get real; it’s so that you’ll spend more, not because they care about creating the perfect meal for you – is intrusive and rude.

It irks me also because it’s just so insultingly obvious. Restaurants and cafes must have a very low regard for their customers if they think we’re going to be taken in by such a blatantly manipulative sales technique. Do they think they’re Derren Brown all of a sudden? That we’ll hear “any muffins with that?” and mysteriously not be able to control our urge to buy a muffin we didn’t know we wanted?

I’d have thought that the first rule of retail and customer service would be to presume a certain level of intelligence in your customer. It’s charm, flattery and politeness that do the work in encouraging a customer to spend more, not crude retail techniques that she can see straight through. Sadly, customer service in Britain is largely utterly charmless, rude and insulting, and upselling is one of the worst features. It’s got to the point where I’m considering pre-empting it as soon as I get to the counter, sticking my hand up and saying “hold the muffins! I just want this sandwich! This. Sandwich. Alone!” Read more by Maddie.

Best wishes to Michel Roux Jr. and to Mary Portas, both of whom are flying the flag for better customer service – and we’re right behind their missions.

Image: Paul, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Starter for ten: how old are you?

2011-01-15T14:47:00.002Z

I have a question: since when has it become acceptable to ask a woman her age? Is it just me or is everyone else suffering from this unpleasant change in manners rules? For all your sakes, I hope it’s not universal; that I’m the only one undergoing this new form of intrusive rudeness.

Either way I have personally been suffering greatly. Let me explain. I must look younger than I am. That’s not me being big-headed; it’s based on the fact that the whole world can’t stop asking me for ID. The same supermarket I’ve frequented at least once a week for last half a decade won’t sell me a drop of the hard stuff without first seeing my driving licence.

It doesn’t matter if I’m buying a bottle of vodka and a jumbo packet of condoms or a hundred quid’s worth of tinned tuna, loo roll, satsumas and one small bottle of beer: I’ll be asked either way. Whether in a work suit or super casual in tracky bums and one of those body warmer thingies that fashionistas attempt to justify by calling a ‘gillet’, I don't seem to be able to pass for 18.

I firmly believe that height has a bearing on this misconception. At 5’4”, I’m two inches shorter than the average British woman and, even though not tiny by any stretch of the imagination, a bit littler than many others. A friend of mine who is 5’11” bitterly complains about never being asked to prove her age.

“Come to the pub with me,” I promised. “You’ll be asked then.” And so we were, by a very young person only just old enough to work there. My friend beamed with pride as she handed her ID over for inspection. “What a compliment!” she gushed. Teenage barmaid then thoroughly ruined the moment for all concerned by letting slip the damning remark: “Oh my god, you’re old!” We were 24 at the time.

“They’ll say something along the lines of: ‘You really do look younger!’ Thanks, but I still think you’re a tool.”

That particularly soul-crushing incident aside, now I find the thing about looking younger than one’s years is that your conversation sounds odd to others. People can’t understand why I’m banging on about spending my Saturday nights on the sofa under a blanket handmade by aunt, sipping wine and watching Jonathan Creek on DVD (I have the complete box set) instead of talking about the wild and crazy parties I go to. And this confusion manifests itself in a question to clarify my exact age.

Of course I smile, in a gentle yet patronising way, and reply: “It’s rude to ask a woman her age.” Once upon a time that would have been the end of the matter, but not any more. Now the blighters invariably come back with things like “but seriously, how old are you?” Which forces me to snap back with “but seriously, it’s rude to ask.”

However, I often give in and reveal the much discussed number for no other reason than I want to conversation to move on and it’s clear that it’s not going to without some form of personal revelation on my part. At times like this I feel like defiantly asking: “Is there anything else you’d like to know? My bra size, maybe? Or my income last year as per my tax return?”

Last time I checked with my etiquette guru, the rule was that a lady never mentions figures explicitly. It’s fine to say dinner was expensive, but not exactly how much you paid. Similarly there’s nothing wrong with saying you’ve dropped a dress size but it’s less tasteful to specify which one you now wear. References and allusions are permissible but tricky to get quite right. If you find yourself ending a sentence with ‘if you know what I mean” then you can be confident you’ve got it wrong.

Coming out and demanding an actual number is never, ever acceptable. Furthermore, then refusing to let the matter drop until you’ve got it, is nothing short of conversational bullying. Most of the time the social nemesis is gracious enough to be a good winner once they’ve wrestled me into age disclosure submission.

They’ll say something along the lines of: “You really do look younger!” Thanks, but I still think you’re a tool. Before you berate me for being ungrateful, I do accept it’s a compliment – of sorts. Maybe only because I’ve been brainwashed by countless Sainsbury’s cashiers into believing that and now blindly accept it as fact.

Don’t worry, I’m not smug about it. My lifestyle of hard drinking and worrying will soon make deep inroads into youthful appearance and I can then enjoy watching people awkwardly trying not to tell me I look older than I am. Read more by Rosie.

Need to see the doctor, do you? Receptionist says no.

2011-01-13T12:54:00.000Z

Visiting your GP is never a good thing. It’s either because you have some strange disease that hours trawling the internet have failed to diagnose, or a bleak reminder of what might go wrong.

Routine blood tests which could one day reveal a whole heap of nasties; the lecture on the risk of diabetes and heart disease if our BMI or blood pressure goes on the rampage. Not to mention the review of contraception and that dreaded, three-yearly ordeal, the smear test, enough to send me scurrying off to bed with a hot water bottle and a cup of cocoa.

All the above are necessary evils which, like everyone else, I grin and bear in the faith that it will do me good to get my ailments diagnosed and my various bodily bits tried and tested. Yet, there is one more thing that puts me off picking up the phone and making that all-too-important appointment: The Receptionist.

She really scares me.

Not in a big, henchman kind of way, but in the way that I know that I am not going to get what I want whenever she picks up the phone. I recognise her voice straight away. Her hardened monotonous tone makes my heart sink as I realise that Lovely Other Receptionist is clearly not answering the phone that day.

The conversation usually starts like this:

Her: Medical Centre.

Me: Hello, can I make an appointment to see Dr X, please.

Her: (pause) Dr X does not have an appointment until two weeks on Tuesday. 11.15.

Me: Err, does she not have anything sooner, and first or last thing? I work, you see...

Her: (pause, huff, keyboard clatter) I can do two weeks today at 2.45.

Me: Does she have anything after five o’clock anytime?

Her: (tutting, pause) She has an appointment at 4.30 three weeks on Wednesday.

And so it goes on. The thing is, I know my GP will have an appointment sooner and at a more convenient time, because whenever I talk to Lovely Other Receptionist, the whole rigmarole tends to go a lot more smoothly.

Then, of course, last month I made a fatal error. I ran out of the pill and needed to see the nurse to get another prescription. Like, urgently.

I called the surgery.

Her: You will have to come to the walk-in clinic at 9.30 tomorrow.

Me: (stammering) Can I not see someone at the early morning clinic?

Her: No. Not for the pill.

Me: (humbled) I know this is all my fault, but is it not possible to see someone before 9 or after 5?

Her: (pause) You can see Dr Y next Friday at 5.15

Me: But I really need to see someone before then.

Her: Then you will have to come to the clinic tomorrow at 9.30. (Pregnant pause.) I need to answer other calls. Goodbye.

Needless to say, I ended up late for college after camping outside the Medical Centre from 8.30am the following morning in my quest to be seen first. Luckily Lovely Other Receptionist was on duty and took pity on me, assuring me that I would be seen first and giving me permission to get myself a coffee and bacon butty in the cafe next door before I froze to death.

Today, I had the joy of speaking to her again. I needed a repeat prescription.

Her: We don’t do repeat prescriptions over the phone.

Me: So what do I need to do?

Her: Come into the surgery to fill out a form.

With a sigh I hung up, and, five hours later, rocked up on my way to the gym. She was still there. With a chipper smile, I gave her my request and my details. She printed out a prescription and asked me to tick what it was I required. I obeyed. She looked at me. Coldly.

Her: It will be ready in two days.

Me: Is that it?

Her: (smirking) Yes.

So, I had to go into the surgery to tick a piece of paper. She couldn’t do that over the phone. She needed me to physically mark that piece of paper. Myself.

I know what you are going to say: I need to be more organised and make my appointments in advance and just get over the fact that I need to go into the surgery in person to get a repeat prescription. Twice. And I accept this. But does she really have to be so difficult? Does getting a medical appointment have to be such an arduous task? Must I fear The Receptionist more than the woman who is going to stick some cold bit of metal up my nether regions once I get past her interrogation?

I just pray to God that the slight tickle at the back of my throat doesn’t turn out to be tonsillitis. Being ill I can cope with. But The Receptionist? She might just be too much for me to take. Read more by Shelly.

Image: Michal Marcol / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Please drink responsibly? Many of us already do, thank you very much!

2011-01-11T11:01:00.000Z

Ah, the New Year. The calm after the storm, or should that be the slump after the storm? Storm, at least, is the right word, as there always seems to be a certain amount of recovery required. Well, it is assumed that recovery is required, with the finger steadily aimed at us, the young.

It is a special time of year, bringing a sense of hope with the newness of it all, as well as an excuse to celebrate to incapacity. I say excuse; it’s almost a requirement as anything else will simply not do.

I have to make an admission, which may seem like a strange one for a woman my age, so brace yourself but, I barely drink. I can’t say that I’m teetotal, but I’m much closer to that than to the habits of those I hear screaming incoherently as they stagger along my street at three in the morning. I do drink, but not to excess and not that regularly.

If that is the way you choose to celebrate, more power to you. However, that shouldn’t result in the assumption that all of us will do the same. I resent it. In the week before Christmas, at an event I attend regularly, I was told that I didn’t have to come in the following week. Not because the facility was closed, but because it was assumed that I would be the worse for wear. The phrase “on the sauce” was actually used.

I did briefly wonder whether there was something else about me that gives the impression that I’m an irresponsible lush – maybe people just think that I need a drink – but I quickly rubbished that idea. It’s just what’s expected from the young during the festive period. It starts at Christmas and lasts until well into the New Year. We’re all supposed to be drinking on a constant basis in a period when asking for a soft drink earns you a look usually reserved for recently crash-landed aliens.

Alcohol makes me talk nonsense and feel sleepy. I recall a particular occasion in my younger days when I was involved in a full-blown, alcohol-inspired debate about the type of fabrics that shrink and/or stretch in the washing machine – no use, or interest, to anyone.

Of course, the effects wear off, but that just leaves me feeling as though I have spent the night swallowing rocks and stuffing cotton wool into every orifice in my head. So forgive me if I want to avoid it, but I’m perfectly capable of having a good time with little or no alcohol.

This is especially handy when you recognise that the world continues to turn and things still need to be done; things that are infinitely easier when you don’t have to hold your head for fear of it floating away or falling off, or praying to the porcelain Gods.

The tradition of New Year’s resolutions seems to me to be rooted in the need to detox after all the revelry. I can’t help thinking life would be so much easier if people didn’t assume that we are all in the same position of needing hangover cures and calling in sick. And, from what I can see, this tendency is certainly not confined to the young – whether grumpy or not. Read more by Shermaine.

Give up my elasticated waistbands? Pull the other one!

2011-01-04T18:27:00.001Z

MADDIE YORK

I start this new year with an admission, which I hope you might applaud in the manner of a group therapy session: I’m Maddie, and I wear trousers with elasticated waistbands. I’ve simply never managed to be comfortable in actual trousers. Leggings, yes; tracksuit bottoms, natch. But actual fitted, designed trousers with buttons, a zip and proper seams? Definitely not.

I have a very bad history with trousers. I hate them; they seem to hate me in return. Shopping for them brings me out in a rage that ain’t pretty. And if I do actually buy any and get as far as wearing them, I become so uncomfortable I end up crying ginfully and ripping them off my poor compressed torso which sports the red marks left by buttons and bands that have dug into it all day.

Yes, I’m only 25 and I am already showing a preference for the elasticated waistband. And this is not some sort of ironic ‘young fogey’, geek-chic fashion statement – I don’t live in Shoreditch, you know – but rather a strategy that has come about by necessity and concern for my health: I physically can’t get through a day wearing any of the trousers that are on offer in shops these days. I can’t breathe properly in them, and I can’t sit down without them digging into my reproductive regions. I don’t care enough about fashion (I don’t actually care at all about fashion, truth be told) to give up my right to get through my life being able to breathe, eat, sit down, and one day bear children.

Modern trouser design shows a flagrant disregard for women’s real shapes, persisting in pushing the infuriating notion of the ‘hipster’ waistline, which fits and flatters precisely no woman who ever existed. The anger I experience as I shop for trousers – trying on pair after pair and going up and up and up the sizes, still not managing to get the blighters to go over my hips and actually do up without gaping at the back – is not caused by feeling bad about my own body, but by the outrage that the poxy shops are getting away with flogging us their stupid, unfeasible designs season after season.

I’ve given up attempting to align myself with any sort of retail-friendly dress size, because they’re all bollocks – especially with trousers and skirts and any item that has anything to do with the bottom area. I’m a completely different size from one idiotic shop to the next. Standing in front of a mirror in my birthday suit, I’m not unhappy with what I see; I’ve got some curvy bits and some bulgy bits, quite thin legs and a bit more going on in the upstairs area, but generally I don’t wince or weep or start thinking of drastic diet plans. All in all, I’d say I’m quite slender. This translates, ridiculously, as an 8 or an unfathomably vague ‘small’ in some shops, and a 12 or a ‘medium’ elsewhere. And that’s for the tops and shirts. For trousers, I’ve tried on anything from an 8 to a 14 and still not worked out what the hell my size is supposed to be and, no matter how many sizes I try, I still leave the changing room almost in tears and clawing about for the nearest cocktail.

When are shops, or designers, or buyers, or whoever is responsible for these matters, going to change the sodding record and try something new for us – something that allows for the fact that a woman has an actual stomach, some hips and a reasonable desire not to reveal her underwear every time she sits down? Until that happens, I’m left with no option, if I want to preserve my dignity, my ability to breathe, and my fertility potential, other than schlumping around in leggings with elasticated waistbands. Here’s another admission for 2011: I’m Maddie, and I think modern trouser design for women is a load of tosh. Read more by Maddie.

Tidings of discomfort and nausea

2010-12-24T19:45:00.001Z

Not content with the trauma of getting married this year, I decided to do the double and go ahead and start breeding. Initially shocked at my own fertility and the fact that all those naff Sex Ed videos they showed you at school weren’t lying, I’m now slowly managing come to terms with it and accepting that it is actually a wondrous thing.

While I am definitely enjoying looking limply at heavy shopping bags waiting for someone else to offer to carry them, my new condition still comes with some well-publicised pitfalls made even worse by the business of Christmas.

For starters, I can’t drink. Aside from not wanting to cause my unborn child brain damage, the smell of anything alcoholic turns my stomach with such uncharacteristic violence I have to look in the mirror to check it is actually me and that no Quantum Leap-style body swap has taken place.

This does mean I can forgo standing around on cold train platforms or shivering outside bars waiting for taxis as now, for the foreseeable future, I am the designated driver. Yes, I get the heady pleasure of watching everyone else get tight, red in the face, generally bellicose and/or licentious while I sip on enough sugary soft drinks to ensure I’m toothless by the New Year.

I’ll never understand those weirdoes who make disturbing statements like: “Oh I love not drinking; you’re the only person who can remember it the next day.” Why, out of interest, would I want to remember and an evening of other people breathing their foul booze stench breath on me and confiding in me about the affair they’re having/the fact that they’re looking for a new job/filing for bankruptcy? Delete as appropriate.

It gives me no sense of power and lofty superiority knowing they’ll be feeling bad the following morning, worrying about what they let slip. For one thing, the chances are I’ll be just as sick and the secrets they imparted really weren’t up to much anyway.

Then comes the day itself. I’m counting down to it with a building sense of dread. The moment I discovered I was with child, I instantly developed a nasty aversion to chicken of any sort. At the moment the thought of being within six feet of a roasting one brings me out in a cold sweat. And what, may we ask, is going to be on the menu come 25th December? A huge, poultry-stinking, cousin of the chicken, turkey, most likely cooked for double the time necessary and another hour just to be on the safe side giving it the texture of cardboard. Delicious.

So as you’re all sitting down to your Christmas feast wearing new trendy jumpers and tucking into a glass of Champers, think of me in clothes which are rapidly getting too small, sipping on an Appletise, or maybe even a Shloer if I’m lucky, waiting for the contents of my stomach to begin a riotous surge up my oesophagus the second I see the centrepiece of a traditional Christmas lunch emerge from the kitchen and head my way.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I’ll still get presents ... right? What’s the betting that instead of something that might actually cheer me up through the next few months of hormonal insanity I’ll get gifts for when the baby comes. Great. And what’s the betting that the nice sparkly something the husband might once have bought seems a bit too decadent as now all spare money should be saved for, you guessed it, when the baby comes. Oversized 100% acrylic cardigan from Primark it is for me then.

From now on I’m going to have years of Christmases that are not about me, that begin at 5am with little voices shrieking, that see me in Mothercare buying creepy children’s Christmas outfits or in drafty churches watching terrible nativity plays complete with inadvisable live donkey. And while I’m sure a part of me will love every moment of it and say afterwards that I wouldn’t have changed it for the world, is it too much to ask to want one last one for myself? Read more by Rosie.

Packed trains, bulging bags; it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

2010-12-22T21:36:00.000Z

SHELLY BERRY

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

So, Christmas. The season of goodwill. To be jolly. Merry, even. Maybe; if being ridiculously hungover, three stone heavier and five grand in debt makes you feel particularly chirpy. Bah, humbug.

To be fair, though, Christmas can be good fun. Yes, so we spend too much money and over indulge, but, all in all, it is a time to catch up with your friends, see your family and switch off from reality for a while. I mean, it’s hard to worry about job losses and the rise in tuition fees when you are glued to the EastEnders Christmas special whilst shovelling another fistful of dry-roasted in your mouth and gulping down mulled wine, isn’t it?

Christmas has its place. Only problem is, its place is at least three train journeys, two suitcases and one great big headache away. You see, Him Indoors and I live in London whilst our folks live in Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire respectively. And as for our friends? Every corner of the UK, baby.

The first dilemma is where to spend the day in question. Usually that depends on where we spent the previous year, but you can guarantee that something or other will come along to complicate things. This year, it's a get-together with my aunt and uncle arranged for the 28th that has thrown a holly-covered spanner in the works.

Particularly problematic as we have arranged to spend New Year with friends in Peterborough, which has made our travel up and down National Express’s East Coast train line resemble a hyperactive yo-yo if, indeed, we stick to our usual formula.

So, with trepidation, I broached the possibility of spending the 25th with the “in-laws” with my parents, who, in fairness, accepted my argument that it didn’t matter when we saw them, as long as we saw them at some point. And brought presents.

This, of course, introduces the added problem of luggage. Christmas does not allow light packing. Oh, no, siree. We need a large suitcase for the presents alone, plus another for a week’s worth of clothes for the two of us. This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if we were travelling at any other time of year, but, of course, at Christmas, about half of London’s population is escaping to the sticks, and 50 percent of them are headed up North. On the same train as us. Oh, what fun.

Needless to say, this means that the possibility of getting a cheap ticket became obsolete about six months ago when the more organised amongst us got online and snaffled them all up whilst the rest of us were still sweating it out at the gym in an attempt to lose last year’s Yuletide muffin-top.

So, why not just spend Christmas at home? About 11 and a half months ago I swore to myself that this year would be the year we stay in London, cook our own bird and mong in front of the telly with nothing more than a glass of Cava and a tub of Celebrations for company. Ah, what bliss.

As the date came closer, this dream seemed to fade into the distance behind a pile of wrapping paper and Seasons Greetings. Why? Well, I’m not sure exactly. But part of me thinks that, despite all my moaning, huffing and puffing, Christmas just wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t for the chaotic train journeys, the mad rush to see everyone you’re related to within the space of one week, and that moment of relief when you finally get back home and realise you don’t have to do it again for another year.

Merry Christmas? Happy New Year? Oh, go on then. Just don’t expect me to do it more than once every 365 days. Read more by Shelly.

The right hand doesn't know what the left hand's doing...

2010-12-21T13:21:00.001Z

If there’s one thing bound to get any woman, of any age, grumpy, it’s getting married. For all the joy and newly-wedded bliss of being joined in a legally-binding union to the object of your affections, it is an ordeal.

Whether you go for the full-blown circus of horse-drawn carriages, a dress the size of a small car and sit-down seven-course banquet for two hundred, or a do with the least possible amount of fuss, it still ends up causing no end of stress. I know this first hand, as this summer I went through it. Twice. Thankfully both times with the same man or else this would then be a slightly uncomfortable tale of modern bigamy.

Somehow, I survived, and once it was finally over started to look forward to that magical moment when all the gifts from generous friends and family arrived. Along with the predictable plates and spoons, I also picked out a few items that were less practical but much more fun. Or so I thought. Of these the one I eagerly anticipated the most was a large punchbowl.

Once upon a time a classic wedding gift, the punchbowl has fallen out of favour as punch itself has, inexplicably, become very unfashionable. Armed with glass punchbowl (complete with ladle and eight cups) I could begin a one-woman revival bringing a delicious drink concept back to the masses. And what better excuse than Christmas to start that?

My plan hit an early stumbling block when I discovered that some nefarious product designers had created a ladle impossible to pour from if you are left-handed. Left-handed like me. In a flash it set me off on a tirade against the years of unfair leftie discrimination I’d suffered. The pain of being told constantly as a child that your handwriting isn’t neat enough – hardly my fault when pens are made to be held in the right hand – came flooding back.

Followed by the bitter memories of an agony that endured all through my teens, nearly thwarting my attempts at learning to drive due to my inability to tell left from right. At a point in my formative years, some prize twonk had helped me learn it by explaining that my right hand was the same as my writing hand. My infant brain accepted this and it was years, via the odd fit of hysterical crying and wearing different coloured bracelets on either wrist, and even my driving test, until the damage was undone.

Indignant at yet more unfair favouritism towards you eight-out-of-nine people who are so boringly right-handed, I contemplated a sternly-worded letter to the department store from which the now offensive item came, followed possibly by a further missive to my local MP, and then finally some legal advice on whether this contravened my human rights in any way or was in breach of one of the numerous pieces of anti-discrimination legislation.

The sad fact is that we’re not a trendy minority and making too much hue and cry about having to buy special scissors or use normal ones looking special only opens us to the sort of ridicule directed at Ned Flanders and his Leftorium.

But we’re used to the pain of verbal taunts, the subtle thorns embedded into the English language waiting to rip our sensitive, left-handed flesh. We’re accused of general clumsiness and branded “cack-handed”. And, out of interest, who decided that a bad dancer had “two left feet”? To all these cruel and insensitive accusations, I would like to say one thing: how do you reckon all you smug righties would manage in a world where everything was the wrong way around?

But it goes a lot deeper, a lot more subliminal. Aside from all the mild slurs, we’ve also been branded diabolic. For those of you not bang-up-to-date on your ancient languages, the word ‘sinister’ comes from the Latin sinistra originally meaning ‘left’ but then - and I’d love to know how - it then went on to also mean ‘evil’. It’s really heart-warming to know that, because I hold my pen in a certain hand, I’m seen as being in cahoots with Beelzebub himself.

However, it’s not all doom and gloom of the underworld. Such glassware design bigotry does mean that this festive season I do not have to worry about staying sufficiently sober to pour the punch without dropping the ladle, smashing the bowl and causing litres of boozy liquid to cascade onto the frocks and chinos of guests as they gape in horror. Instead I can waft around, as gracefully as my plastered state allows, insisting someone else mans the bowl and keeps the drink coming. Because I cannot physically do it myself. Read more by Rosie.

Deck the halls with ob-li-ga-tions, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaa

2010-12-15T14:47:00.000Z

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

Ah, that season is upon us. Winter? Yes, that’s arrived. Like every news programme has already confirmed, it’s cold, snow is falling and we can’t handle it. We know. But that’s not the only thing lurking around the corner, waiting to make our lives more difficult.

I’m talking about the ‘holiday’ season. Whisper it quietly...Christmas. I almost forgot all about it until I was kindly reminded by my efficient borough council who hung Christmas lights in the middle of November. How I love paying my council tax. They seem to be of the same mind as television executives. It started with issuing reminders early, insisting on adding jingling bells to perfectly serviceable theme tunes and boasting about their imminent festive programme schedule. All the same old movies as last year, then? Can’t wait.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure why it’s called a holiday as the whole concept of ‘time off work’seems redundant. There is always more than enough work to replace that undertaken as part of the normal day job. And you’re not getting paid for all the extra toil.

The reason why it is so problematic: it’s the season of obligations. From cards to gifts to food, they all bring their own duties and tasks. Of course, you have to send a card to everyone that sends you one – trees, be damned! First class Christmas stamps must be purchased, even if the service is actually rather third class.
Technology minded types have worked hard to make sure we have the wonders of telephones and email, lets not waste their gifts. Besides, ‘charity’ Christmas card makers often only give a pathetic fraction of their profits to good causes. You’re better off giving the money directly to a homeless shelter yourself.

We must all buy excessive amounts of food, especially all those that are disliked by many and end up getting thrown away. Well, a bin overflowing with sprouts is traditional, isn’t it? Though the stomach doesn’t suddenly develop a larger capacity, eating to excess is now requirement. Possibly because it makes it easy to choose ‘go to the gym’ as a new year’s resolution.

Recession? What recession? Spend, dammit, spend! Christ’s birth? Who? It’s all about consumerism, which means having to work out what to get people and, for some, taking into account what they got you last year. Of course, the wonders of the Internet mean you don’t have to trudge the cold streets, but then you have to concern yourself with an inept postal service. All for the sake of those essential gifts.

You’re duty-bound to see every member of your extended family- whether you like or get on with them regardless. That can never be good. I’m sure the pressure to have a fantastic time is how all the traditional Christmas arguments begin; exhausted and stressed that infernal goodwill to all ends up working against you.

The problem of feeling obliged is so widespread that even pop stars are suffering. They are obliged to record (bad) cover versions of Christmas songs to inflict them on the world when the season of giving rolls around. Well, they have to make a few bob somehow – they need those royalties to pay for multiple cars, houses, boob jobs, divorces etc.

There is an easy way to improve Christmas...only do what is necessary. Decrease the pressure, increase the pleasure. Easy to say, but imagine how stress free it could all be if you only adopted the attitude: it doesn’t have to be done and I’m not doing any more than needed. Partial bah humbug! Read more by Shermaine

Are season's greetings too much to ask for?

2010-12-13T16:42:00.000Z

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

Am I the only person under 40 who still bothers with Christmas cards? A great deal of time and energy goes into choosing the right one, often starting months in advance. Not only is care and attention paid to the card itself but then I faithfully write a personal message in each one. None of this sign-the-name-shove-it-in-the-envelope business. I’ve decided if you value someone enough to send them a Christmas card then you should at least be bothered to write a personal sentence to them inside it.

I’m definitely in the minority with this philosophy. Without specifically shaming anyone in particular, I’ve even received cards that don’t contain my name at the top, merely on the envelope. Such aloof bits of paper conjure up either a minor celebrity signing away as if it’s the latest kiss-and-tell autobiography or the world’s most stressed woman ploughing through 3,256 cards before knocking out 912 mince pies. Surely no one who sends me a card is that famous, or that harassed?

Totally impersonal cards are like a blank email. Yes, it’s nice to know you dedicated a second and half to thinking of me, but really I’m a little offended you couldn’t spare me the full minute. However, I would take any of these over nothing at all, or worse: Christmas card criticism. The season of joy on earth and good will to all men means I socialise to the point of exhaustion and near nervous collapse. To each occasion I always take cards – for my hosts and for other friends I might see there. Why? Over-zealous card compulsion? Irrational desire to keep writing my own name? No, because it’s polite.

At least, I think it’s polite. As a child I remember people thanking my mother when she handed these envelopes over, smiling and making appreciative noises. Sadly that’s not my experience. I’m often greeted with a look of definite irritation and statements like “Oh, I’m not doing cards this year”. Suddenly my gesture of good will is four inches square of unwanted paper making all around it distinctly uncomfortable. Longing for the courage gleaned from a third glass of mulled wine, I imagine saying “Well, maybe you should. It is tradition, good manners and stops you feeling so awkward in situations like these.”

Instead I nod and look sympathetic as the excuses start. It’s either “work’s been manic”, or “as we’re away for Christmas we didn’t the see the point” or, increasingly, “it’s not very environmentally friendly”.

With the word ‘RECYCLE’ ready to burst out of my mouth at volume, I find it safer to stick to a non-committal “Mmm” while wondering when the whole world became so lazy that writing out a Christmas card was too much effort.

This maddening trend is symptomatic of society losing sight of the little thoughtful actions which make it a more pleasant place to be. I’m so sick of hearing that everyone’s so incredibly busy it’s a miracle they even have time to go to the bathroom. And yet these are often the same people updating their status every five minutes on Facebook announcing what they’re watching on the telly or having for dinner that night.

No one’s suggesting you make the damn thing from scratch in a frenzy of gold pen and glitter – just spend a few minutes, once a year, to remind people why they’re important to you.

However, if that’s still beyond you due to a job as rocket scientist, on-call brain surgeon or self-appointed television critic, then at least have the good grace to thank someone who has taken the time.

At Christmas it’s common to put differences aside, so is it really too much to ask for a little good will towards a well-intentioned friend proffering a few kind words lurking behind a picture of Santa getting stuck down a chimney? Read more by Rosie.

When is an anniversary just an irritation?

2010-12-02T13:50:00.000Z

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

Happy Birthday, Grumpy Young Women! As one of the resident grumps I’m impressed but not surprised that we’ve managed an entire year recording our rattiness, while slowly but surely putting the world to rights. All that self congratulation aside, I can’t help but wonder whether this should be celebrated as a birthday or actually as an anniversary. And if the latter is the case I suspect we might we heading toward one of my real pet hates: the celebration of anniversaries that aren’t really anniversaries.

Before I really get going I would just like to state for the record: I’m not exactly a fan of birthdays either. They’re a bit like the Devil’s heroin luring you in with those addictive early hits packed with sugary cake and the heady pleasure of being a year older and therefore able to do more. But before you know it, it’s stopped being fun and you’re locked into a totally toxic relationship with this one day of the year which taunts you for months beforehand and then causes you to act like a borderline psychotic, culminating in a week-long hangover/shame cycle. Or maybe that’s just me.

Still, however bonechillingly dreadful the birthday is, at least there is no ambiguity about it. The date is there, in black and white on your driving licence and in your diary circled in furious red pen with ‘AGGHHHHH’ scrawled across the page. It could be worse, though: unless you’re a reigning monarch, there is no possibility whatsoever of going through that merry hell more than once each calendar year.

Then there are anniversaries, and even though it’s none of my business, and even though technically it does affect me, I’m so often intensely irritated by how other people choose to celebrate them – sorry, not people, couples – and how they choose to mark the ‘birthday of the relationship’. I can already feel a shudder coming on.

In my rather disapproving mind, you are you are only permitted to celebrate your wedding anniversary and that is it. At this point, I expect many of you to heartily disagree to the point of removing a shoe and hurling at your computer screen. Hold fire for a just a second. If you still disagree after hearing my reasons, please feel free to leave a comment.

My problem starts with the date itself. What is it actually anniversary of? The first time you met? Romantic in a way but also a bit creepy. I imagine on these celebratory evenings the lucky twosome play vomit-inducing music like Savage Garden’s I Loved You Before I Met You and other cringy numbers from their Top Ten Tunes for Stalkers CD.

So, how about a first date? A bit more sensible but sadly we’re not Americans and the majority of Brits didn’t have an official first date with their significant others until they’d already exchanged saliva along with a string of donor kebab meat on the walk home from some salubrious nightspot.

So that conveniently brings me to the first kiss. Again, in theory a reasonable idea if you were lucky enough to have your first kiss in a Hollywood movie. Personally I can think of nothing less romantic than an annual reminder of misread signals, jerky head movements and the taste of someone else’s beer breath mixed with nerves. Yuck. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any classier, there’s always the possibility of celebrating the consummation of your relationship. Best of luck telling your mum that your wonderful partner is taking you away for the weekend to commemorate the fact however many years ago he, or she, got to shag you.

A more sensible solution lies in celebrating the date when you ‘got serious’. But that all so wishy-washy, so unspecific. At least there's no ambiguity with a wedding day. It is the ultimate act of getting serious with someone, requires no awkward explanation and even has the added benefit of coming with its own annual gift guide.

I accept that people do celebrate other ‘unofficial’ anniversaries as the general trend is to marry later or possibly even not at all. And I do understand that couples wish to honour the period of time they have spent together in a committed relationship. It is an impressive achievement.

For those of you determined to never walk down the aisle, I can begrudgingly accept it. However, what happens when a couple does marry after many years together? Cast aside the original anniversary? Or go through the whole rigmarole twice a year? By the time you’ve also added in Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, two lots of birthdays, the year quickly becomes a bonkers merry-go-round of cards, naff novelty gifts and so-called special occasions on which you feel compelled to have an amazingly extra special, totally exhausting great time. Read more by Rosie.

Timing can be everything when it comes to birthdays

2010-11-27T17:50:00.000Z

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

The first thing I have to make clear is that I don’t mind getting old. Yes, I’m a woman; yes, I’ve reached my thirties, but it still doesn’t bother me. Not all stereotypes are true, you know! I can’t see the problem with growing older; I like the idea of automatically gaining wisdom (at least being seen that way) and demanding respect (because I apparently earned it). I fully intend to grow old disgracefully, making use of all the perks (hmm, bus pass?) and making up for the sober years of my youth ... What are you laughing at?

Anyway, the passing of time is not the problem because, much like taxes (for some of us), it cannot be avoided. Besides, I can’t think of anything worse than living longer than necessary. It makes me picture some type of horrible Death Becomes Her nightmare with endless maintenance being necessary after bits start falling off. No, my issue lies with the manner in which the annual event is marked. Or, more specifically and selfishly, my annual event.

I’m convinced that things would be so different if I had been born in the middle of summer or even with the arrival of spring – doesn’t everything look better when trees are blooming and daffodils sprout? I can’t enjoy this benefit – I was born in the dead of winter. Those who know me will be aware that I hate winter. The sun and I are great friends. What use do I have for cold, wind, rain and snow? What delight can be found in leaving home in the darkness and coming home in the darkness? Apart from the benefits to muggers, burglars and similar members of the criminal fraternity, that is.

This is the backdrop to my birthday, the deepest darkest depths of winter when frigid misery is the order of the day – everyday – until the clocks change again. No one wants to celebrate in these conditions. Not only is the most basic journey a hassle, you certainly don’t want to go somewhere that makes you queue outside to get in.

Not only does the season make for a hateful birthday, but it is also right after New Year and, hence, very close to Christmas. This creates the phenomenon that many December- and January-born people will be aware of: the two-in-one present. What is that? We get the privilege of buying them separate gifts while they get to buy just one? This aint Nike; don’t do it! I know everyone’s broke after Christmas and New Year and, yet, I don’t care. I have to make the effort, so should everyone else.

I have a reason to be extra grumpy because I share my birthday with a sibling. No, not a twin, but exactly six years apart. My mum, bless her, always made an effort when we were children, even after all the hassle of Christmas and New Year, which included a cake that comprised half blue and half pink icing. I suspect that has something to do with my hatred of pink. I had only six years of being special, now I only get half the amount of birthday greetings.

Positive spin is an effort; right after the festive season, shared with my brother, a wondrous winter wonderland *sigh*. Yes, it's all so special. Gimme my two presents, dammit! And a whole cake. Read more by Shermaine.

Birthdays are not always a piece of cake

2010-11-26T14:03:00.000Z

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Christmas. Every year, they come around, and every year, they fill us with expectation. Excitement. Hope. Panic. Fear. Dread, even. Not necessarily in that order, but each of these emotions is sure to creep into our consciousness, despite our best attempts to drink ourselves into oblivion and numb the pain by eating our way through the huge box of chocolates our aunty sent us.

First there is the expectation. You WILL have a good time. And everyone else who shares your birthday celebration with you must have a good time too. No pressure. This Saturday was no exception. A matter of days after the first birthday where I felt compelled to lie about my age, I had arranged a night out in Angel for curry, beer and music. A relatively quiet affair, deliberately designed to be as little hassle as possible for me. It was easier enough to organise but there is still that niggling need to have a really good time. And not just yourself. Everyone else has to have a wonderful evening too. Otherwise you are a social failure.

Almost as devastating as flat conversation over your Korma is a poor turnout. Silently dreading the last minute ‘can’t make it’ text messages that make you feel like a Billy no-mates you sit in the middle of a crowded restaurant with your mum and the office geek. Then, just when you were starting to relax, there is always the fear that your chums from work will irritate your uni mates, your boyfriend will say something totally un-PC to your socialist vegetarian friend and your best mate will end up telling your boss how much you hate them before throwing up all over their Prada handbag. Then someone will get food poisoning. Another person will hate the music in the pub. And your sister from the sticks will get mugged outside whilst having a fag. My God, my hand is trembling at the thought of it as I shove another chunk of birthday cake into my mouth.

Then there’s the morning after. You have a hangover. You’re a year older. You feel pretty crappy. The fact that your chum from Manchester has just bought a new house, your old roommate from uni has just had their first novel published and everyone else has a baby/cat/Mini convertible doesn’t help. You start to question yourself. Where has the last year gone? What exactly have I achieved? Why haven’t I got where I want to be yet? When am I actually going to grow up and get my act together? WHERE IS MY LIFE GOING?

Today is the morning after the night before. Amazingly, I have emerged relatively unscathed. Admittedly it was a relatively tame night, but everyone seemed to have a good time. It did take us half an hour to sort out the bill and the pub was a bit noisy and crowded for some people, but only one person didn’t show up (flu is an acceptable excuse) and no-body got arrested- despite some attempts from the boys to con a free beer out of our waiter.

As for my self analysis? Well, the last year hasn’t been too bad. No, I don’t like my job and am still devoid of any real status symbol (unless my new fandangled digital camera counts – thank you Mum, Dad and Him Indoors), but I have three quarters of a novel and a new qualification under my belt, have nearly paid off my student loan and managed to save almost enough money to pay for a deposit on that oh-so desirable first flat. And, you know what? I have survived another year in this crazy world. And that is something worth drinking to. Read more by Shelly.

Mind your backs! Shermaine coming through

2010-11-16T14:58:00.000Z

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

In those hazy, crazy days when I was a teenager, many moons ago, I was in a mad rush to pass my driving test. Like many other teenagers, I thought a driving licence was some type of badge of honour. Like an ASBO is nowadays.

Despite driving with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the gear stick, taking my eyes off the road to check my pager (it was a long time ago) and speeding through a roundabout in third gear, I passed and got my licence but suspect the examiner fell asleep. The precious little laminated card remains nestled in my purse, though I couldn’t tell you where the paper counterpart is. And don't ask me what I do with it.

Does it act as proof of my legal right to operate a vehicle on the highway, I hear you ask. Of course it doesn’t. It is a means of identification when I need it. Like a few years ago when I was asked for it when buying a bottle of Baileys – ah, that was a good day. Anyway, it will remain as mere ID for the time being because I’m a pedestrian. The past truly is a foreign country as I have no desire to be a driver; I like being a pedestrian, walking is part of my exercise routine (blast those calves – or quads, or whatever they are.)

As much as I love it, it’s not always that easy. There are a great many hazards that you need to contend with when opting for a power-walk. For some reason, many of the pavements around where I live seem narrower than most, made worse by the addition of shop boards and furniture, bushes and trees, and on-going construction. It gets even worse when you live on a thoroughfare for drunkards and animals – they really are messy buggers. While one leaves behind broken glass bottles, the other leaves ripped open rubbish bags. Both also like to display their meals, and not always before it’s been eaten. Generous to a fault.

Another recycling box has just arrived adding to those that are already left strewn along the pavement to turn it into a slalom. I’ve heard some people complain that all the clutter from recycling boxes reduces property values – really? – I’m not concerned about that, more about tripping over them and doing myself a mischief.

Apparently, the roads aren’t sufficient for car drivers – they need to park on the pavements. How kind of them to turn a simple walk into an obstacle course that involves squeezing past a car or dodging them when walking in the road.

At least the stationary hazards are easier to avoid: movement causes all manner of problems. Skaters, scooter riders and cyclists have been joined by mini-motorbikes (what on earth is the point?) and moped riders (seriously!) forcing the need to dodge them like a character in a computer game. Isn’t every vehicle on wheels supposed to be in the road?

That solution would also deal with the pushchair, especially with those that like to offer an optical illusion – such as those that you still can’t see after squinting at it for several long minutes. See how they make you think they’re standing behind it, when in fact they are pushing it while standing to one side. See how they block anyone from passing by. It doesn’t get much better when the rugrats start walking as they seem to have no sense of direction; no matter what you do to avoid them when they run along the pavement, they seem to follow you like you’re a target.

Aww, a loved up couple holding hands...how lovely. Must they stand as far away from each other as their arms will allow? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of holding hands? More importantly, stop blocking the pavement and get out of my way! Then they have the audacity to tut when a polite “excuse me” is offered by those in a hurry. Clearly, pushing past is much more effective. The trouble you have to go through for a bit of exercise – maybe I’d be better off in a car after all. Read more by Shermaine.

Exploding the myth: not all women are obsessed with shoes

2010-11-12T10:46:00.000Z

ROSIE MCGEE

Despite the vicious rumour perpetuated by Carrie Bradshaw, Imelda Marcos and the like, not all women love shoes. Many, including myself, are markedly indifferent to them and endure with a grimace the effects of this popular misconception.

For starters there’s the commonly held erroneous belief that a man can get any woman into bed by complimenting her shoes. I have visions of this new gospel being whispered from one wide-eyed gullible Romeo to the next. Whoever started this falsehood must have brainwashed his disciples with the following logic: praising a woman’s footwear must mean that a) you’re in tune with what’s important to her and b) you’re the sort of bloke who notices the little things and, supposedly, girlies love that.

Well, yes, we do like it when you pick up on small details. However, any headway made is then negated when the best you can offer is: “I like your shoes”. Please, not that old chestnut. When men have made a big fuss over my footwear I have assumed they either had terrible taste or were plain lying; my shoes are routinely the worst part of my outfit.

Chaps, listen, there’s no such thing as a fits-all compliment or holy grail of the chat-up line. Getting it wrong actually makes you look worse than saying nothing, as then we only suspected you were a moron.

But what I really dislike about current shoe mania in popular culture is the tacit subliminal suggestion that any old frump with no knowledge of the matters of style can suddenly become a trendy fashionista by saying “Oh I love shoes, I can’t resist a pair of gorgeous shoes.” Oh, so wrong.

If you don’t believe me, I’ll defer to higher authority. Coco Chanel nicely put it by saying: “Elegance does not consist in putting on a new dress.” Just as sex appeal and instant femininity cannot be achieved by suddenly cooing over the latest creation of Manolo Blanhnik.

Not only that, it’s also becoming the most god awful cliché. We’ve seen it on the TV shows and now accept it as an unwritten lore. Rather than stressing how individual you are it has quite the opposite effect, announcing loud and clear to the world that someone else has to make these decisions for you on what you’re supposedly passionate about.

Call me a fat fascist if you want but I can’t help noticing that this phenomenon is more common amongst larger ladies. I understand that feeling - to some extent. When you’ve gained weight, nothing fits and the shops are full of gamine size six assistants glowering at you, the solace found from a non-judgemental sling-back can be very comforting indeed. But it’s a sticking plaster on a broken limb.

Hiding behind shoes that bolster your confidence won’t give you the impetus to lose a few pounds, which will undoubtedly make you happier when you look in the mirror. It’s fine for Sarah Jessica Parker to prance about drawing attention to her feet as the rest of her body is pretty much perfect. She’s not using them as some sort of diversion. And if that is your goal, think about how realistic it is. Large body, small feet. It’s going to have to be some pair to disguise your entire frame.

So can we, please, all drop the pretence that irrational behaviour around impractical footwear is an essential characteristic of being a stylish woman? I don’t care if this makes me sound like my mother: killer heels, narrow toes and other instruments of podiatry torture aren’t very good for you. They damage your back and in some cases have a most unfortunate effect on posture. Who hasn’t seen that girl walking down the street in incredibly painful looking shoes leaning so far forward it looks like she’s running away from her own bottom? There’s no way that can be beneficial to her long term health.

You only have to open a celeb magazine to see grotesque pictures of Victoria Beckham’s bunions caused by years of wearing shoes which deformed her feet to the point where she needs major surgery to have them removed. While we all wish Mrs B the best when she goes under the knife for the first time, ah-herm, we should remember that this injury is self-inflicted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not suggesting we should all bin our stilettos in favour of a sensible lace-up pair from Clarks to be worn exclusively for the next 20 years of our lives. Statement shoes can be awesome, and glamorous as hell. Worn with a simple outfit, like any eye-catching accessory, they’ll look stunning. But this is the little secret no one tells you, they don’t have the power to miraculously halve your BMI or turn you into someone totally different. Read more by Rosie.

Wrap up warm: there's a nasty bout of underdressing going around

2010-11-10T22:22:00.000Z

ROSIE DAVIES

You can just imagine the scene. The sky is a clear ice blue; the trees are stark and bare; your breath leaves your body in a little cloud when you go outside. The first leaf you step on when you leave your house crunches under your heavy boot, rigid with frost. You inhale fresh, icy air and think, with a wistful sigh, ‘at last, winter has arrived.’

At least, you think winter has arrived. You have become quite excited over the past few weeks, thinking about the upcoming annual celebrations, like Halloween and Bonfire Night, and the official start to the mulled wine and firework season (short though it is). Pulling out musty winter clothing from the attic fills you with - well, joy - and you can’t help emitting a little squeal of delight at the thought of ditching your summer clothing and climbing into a new wardrobe altogether. Out come the boots, and the gloves, and the many, many scarves. The possibilities are simply endless.

And then you go for a little walk, or you meet some friends at the pub for a drink. Or, to get the weekly shop, you nip down to Sainsbury’s, dreaming of the delicious winter soups you’ll be making. Hmm, root vegetables. A glance in the wrong direction rudely interrupts these scrumptious thoughts. You screech to a halt in your tracks. A person, around your age, has just walked past you. You quickly glance down at yourself, checking to see that you really have donned thermal leggings, tights, woollen socks and boots (amongst other things), and that you haven’t jumped the seasonal gun. You look up and crane your neck to see the said person walking off in the distance, just to get a second look. No, you weren’t mistaken. They were indeed wearing FLIP FLOPS.

What is it with people who wear summer clothing, and, might I say, the most extreme summer clothing, in the depths of winter? What, I ask you, goes through their minds as they are getting dressed to leave the house? Can’t they see the frost on the pavement outside, or the icicles hanging from the drainpipe?!

I first came across this phenomenon at university, where I witnessed fellow (mainly male) students lolling about the campus in late November dressed in t-shirts, joggers and Havianas. Despite the fact that joggers are hardly the most flattering items for a man to wear at the best of times (can I apply the words ‘swinging about’ here?), it was even more ludicrous for them to have barely anything on their feet. Didn’t they get cold? Didn’t they get wet? Did wearing a selection of coloured Brazilian flip-flops really make them that cool? It’s tempting to think that the reasoning behind all of this is comfort and convenience.

I can understand the need to pop to the corner shop and back for a pint of milk in your pyjama bottoms and sandals, simply because you can’t be bothered to change and they’re the easiest things to slip on. I’ve even owned a few pairs of jogging bottoms in my life, and if they didn’t make me feel like a small, walking bin-liner with a saggy behind, I’d wear them outside all the time. They’re probably much warmer than a pair of jeans. But flip-flops, hot pants and vest tops? Ho-ho, you must be kidding.

It is precisely the thought, rather than the lack of it, that goes into all this that really rattles me. I appreciate the need to look attractive on a night out, but when I’m standing in a queue for a nightclub surrounded by girls in flannel-sized skirts, skin-tight vest tops and absurd heels, I’m torn between shouting at them and running home to grab my duvet in order to cover them up. It’s almost worst when the ridiculously inappropriate summer clothing is teamed with winter favourites; last weekend, on the way to watch a fireworks display, I spotted a girl wearing a t-shirt and a pair of flowery, cotton culottes, which just reached past her bottom. She was also wearing Ugg boots (shudder) and a very over-the-top faux-fur hat, with bobbles. This wasn’t comfort. It was called freezing your knackers off for the sake of fashion. A good combination it was not.

Perhaps my feelings over this issue stem from long-given advice on the part of my dear mother, who, when I was growing up and looking with mild envy at much cooler girls with miniature jackets, assured me that wearing the winter version of a crop-top would inevitably lead to a ‘chill on my kidneys’ and other assorted illnesses. I have occasionally dabbled in risky clothing decisions in the winter just to rebel, look nicer, or be a bit more original, but I’ve always come to the same conclusion. Blue lips, goose pimples, and chattering teeth? No, thank you. I’d rather have my circulation, and feel my toes at the end of the night. Read more by Rosie.

No exit: hell is public transport

2010-11-05T14:36:00.000Z

SAM PECZEK

I try not to get all snippy about public transport, since, deep down, I deem it a noble endeavour. Sadly, and with increasing frequency, my happy thoughts are being kicked around by newer, meaner, and altogether angrier ones. Why, you ask, could this be? Let’s break it down:

First of all, whilst in transit, you’re pretty much being held hostage (albeit in a mostly voluntary way). Younger people often capitalise on this by sharing their atrocious ‘musical’ choices with the captive commuters. Their motives must be sadistic, since surely they can glean no genuine pleasure from the pitifully tinny echoes of their current top 10. Even the vaguely considerate pod people (the ones who utilise headphones) sometimes turn their mind music up to a level that must hurt them even more than it does us.

Then there are the compulsive phone freaks. There are two camps: the texters and the talkers. I’m not sure which are more irksome. Sure, the chatters are more invasive, but there is something distinctly wrong about people staring at a little screen for the duration of their journey. Clearly, they are so unsettled by the bus and the other people (hideous as we are) that their only escape is to chain-text vapid missives to everyone in their phone book. Lack of imagination is a sorrowful thing to behold.

Let’s not gloss over the talkers. For some unfathomable reason they cannot spend a single moment alone (especially bus moments) without being hooked up to some idiotic acquaintance. I’m not sure if the recipients of these calls even speak; all you can hear is the desperate dialler wittering on about their various woes: their job (but of course), assorted offspring, boring health issues. On and on and on. This is how they prepare for their day.

I was recently privy to a delightful girl who bemoaned her sore throat to a friend for a solid 15 minutes (I shouldn’t be going to work but they won’t let me have time off…). One can only assume she was scheming to hasten her illness in order to better her chances of bussing it back home before 9:30, no doubt treating a fresh batch of commuters to a new joy-laden monologue. And then there are those who engage in fully animated gesticulation, even though the listener (or silenced screamer) is not around to appreciate the performance. This can be especially irksome if you happen to be perched within striking distance of flailing arms.

It’s not just the passengers – oh no. The bus itself comes with certain trappings. Like the omnipotent woman’s voice telling us where we’re going and – repeatedly – not to stand on the upper deck or stairs. Sometimes the drivers get bored with pressing the voice woman button and give the intercom a whirl; these are often special moments where, granted, the distance is still there, but the driver is at least trying to reach out to us, telling one of our number to come back down and pay their fare. If I had access to the mic, I’d use it to inform the other passengers that no, there are not any seats upstairs – if I’m standing on the stairs it’s because my mission to sit down has failed, leaving me stranded. Absurd as it may sound, some people really do seem to think I’m standing there for the hell of it.

Other messages are silent, like when the writing near the front of the bus informs us that we are now on diversion, and that our destination has changed, without ever getting around to letting us know where this mysterious place is. Other bits of communication – the best kind – are usually screamed. Like when the driver needs to override the Voice: one is telling us that the bus Terminates Here, the other tells us, ‘No, she’s lying! It’s okay; I’m going to Tottenham Court Road – please don’t get off the bus!’ But it’s too late. The trust has already been broken; we have been wronged too many times before.

The bus is hard on us all, pushing us towards a special type of madness. I recall one gentleman who didn’t have a phone, but that didn’t stop him muttering into his hand for a long, long time. (To his credit, his use of the hand appeared to be a failed attempt to mask or even stop his outbursts). I discovered a delightful audio story that kept me occupied for a while. It was an open letter to a doctor who engages in an inappropriate phonecall whilst on the bus. I also have a nice recording of The Yellow Wallpaper for especially perilsome journeys.

So what are the rest of us to do? The tube? I think not; the atrocities that occur on the bus are all the more harrowing underground. Walking would involve waking up hours before daylight happens, which leaves cycling. I must admit I have become quite tempted – think of all those jaunty, joyful folk you often see, or perhaps just imagine, astride their bicycles. Sure, I’ll most likely end ending up mangled, perhaps beholding one of my beloved buses from a whole new angle – assuming, of course, that I actually see it coming.

Our lovely London buses are so very apt of dispensing with misguided cyclists – this much has been told. And yet it shall happen: I am crossing over. Today I cycled to work for the first time. Perhaps I got lost more than once, and perhaps my accidental detours meant it took almost as long as the bus, but – for now, at least – it is more fun. Albeit in a not-finding-the-right-roads-and-trying-not-to-get-broken sort of way. Read more by Sam.

Kindly spare me the details

2010-11-03T16:16:00.000Z

ROSIE MCGEE

Minutiae, oh how I hate it. I’ve never been one to get bogged down in the finer details or spend an especially long time dotting i’s or crossing t’s -much to the chagrin of my former employers. Instead I tell myself I’m a concept person, all about the big picture, the big idea and the bottom line. Of course there have got to be box tickers lurking around behind the scenes making sure all the various admin gets done, papers filed and so forth. But let’s be honest, who really wants to hear about that?

I doubt you’ll see a new glam TV show premiering soon chronicling the trials, tribulations and love trysts of a bunch of office assistants. Not exactly cliffhanger material; Joe Public is highly unlikely to tune in each week to discover if that stationery order did come in on time and whether in fact there were enough green biros in it. No, instead we want to know about life and death, courtroom dramas and what the thin, pretty, suntanned girls from somewhere wealthy in California have chosen as the theme for their next school prom.

So we’re agreed, life’s little tedious things exist and have to be done but people are not interested in knowing all about them. Or are they? I can only assume the answer to be yes, as everywhere I look, turn or listen someone is either banging on about their lives in mind-numbing detail or worse still, encouraging me to talk about it. There’s small talk which I’m fairly partial to. Life’s too short and too tiring for big talk all the time. A gentle bit of conversation about not very much, especially with someone you don’t know terribly well, is a civilised way of interacting. However, there’s got to be a line or at least a sliding scale. What I’m complaining about here is the minniest, teeny-tiniest of talk. Chatter that makes discussing the weather look positively highbrow.

I’m sure anyone who has ever had the misfortune to work in an office has encountered one of the worst culprits of this horrid phenomenon: one half of an overly communicative couple. This is the person who rings their co-conspirator at lunch time (which they spend sitting at their desk surfing the internet and always look noticeably awkward when you invite them to the pub). The conversation, which is held in a whispery voice (you may well be ashamed of yourself), goes along the following lines: “What are you having?” Pause. “A sandwich.” Pause. “Tuna.” Pause. “Cucumber.” Pause. “Chocolate bar.” Pause. “Kit Kat. What are you having after yours?” Kill me, kill me now, or at least tie my arms so I can’t seize the telephone receiver and batter them to death with it before explaining down the line what I’ve done, blow by blood-spattering blow.

Since when did true love mean recounting the finer points of every morsel of food you’ve eaten that day? Or in fact ever? If that’s not bad enough then there is the person who questions you about the downright mundane, forcing you to come up with something to say about which there is nothing. “How was the supermarket?” this person will ask as you march back in with a carrier bag in your hand. It was a supermarket: irritating in its own right but also handy as it sells food. Then it moves onto: “Did you get anything nice?” Before you know it, you’re going through the plan for tonight’s dinner as if it were a military operation. 19.12: turn oven on to 180˚C, and so on.

And the whole time I’m thinking to myself that the other person cannot possibly be genuinely interested in my responses to these questions and is therefore either buttering me up for some truly horrible favour or having a bet with someone over how long they can keep me gibbering away. Either way, my gut instinct is to get the hell out of there and run for the hills.

If, by some miracle, you’ve survived the whole day of such torment, then it continues on the way home. Get people on a train armed with a mobile phone and they love to ring home (the place they will be in about half an hour) and go through every single tedious, uninteresting thing that happened to them. The outcome of the marketing meeting, how someone double booked a meeting room and what Jo from Accounts thinks of their new hairstyle ... and so it incessantly continues. In short: verbal torture against the eardrums of other hardworking, tired people who do not give a damn about your day.

Small talkers extraordinaire, please, stop invading the commutes of others with information you can easily discuss when in the privacy of your own home instead of instinctively turning the TV on and proceeding to ignore each other all evening. Or, maybe spend your journey reading a newspaper or a book so you’ve actually got something of interest to discuss. Or even better, meditate for a little while on why you’re so empty and needy you have to fill every waking moment with stream of babble about nothing very much. Read more by Rosie.

Kids say the darnedest, most inappropriate things...

2010-10-28T15:31:00.000+01:00