Grumpy single gal WLTM: an age appropriate man

JUDY JOHNSON

Every girl likes to be approached by a man on a night out, don’t they? Even if you’re not single, it’s probably nice to know you’ve still got it. If you are single, it’s exciting to meet someone, right?

What if that man is pushing 50 (or 60 but tried Botox), has a big enough beer gut that he can’t remember what his toes look like and yet still thinks he’s God’s gift to women? Thought so.

This is what happens to me on a regular basis. I am only 25; I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope for men aged 30-ish and under to approach me instead of middle-aged balding ones who may or may not be having a mid life crisis. What’s even worse is that these ageing, leering, old-enough-to-be-a-granddad men are getting in the way of the good ones.

Time at the bar: how not to treat the regulars

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.

Fight or flight

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.

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

ROSIE MCGEE

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.

Don't judge a woman by her dress size

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?

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

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.

Telesales: the worst way to start the day

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.

Service with a scowl

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.

Is a sense of entitlement killing off our manners?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

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.

The Train Commandments

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!

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

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

SHELLY BERRY

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!

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

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.

Are season's greetings too much to ask for?

ROSIE MCGEE

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.

Mind your backs! Shermaine coming through

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.

No exit: hell is public transport

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

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.

Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It’s not me that has the identity crisis, you understand, I am perfectly aware of who I am. It’s other people who don’t seem to get it. The trouble started when a friend of my sister reliably informed her that she had befriended me on Facebook. Hmm, really? That must have been difficult seeing as I didn’t have a profile and I hate Facebook. Yes, I said it! And, no, I won’t be going to see the movie about its creation.

After some CSI type investigation, I found out that someone was posing as me on the website, albeit without any pictures and getting my date of birth wrong by several weeks. Clearly someone that knows me, but not actually me. Though I’m not entirely sure what this nameless moron was getting out of their endeavours, I still didn’t want them doing it, which forced me to become part of the hated ineffective waste of time that is ‘the F word’. 

In addition to my justified anger at the individual who has too much time on their hands, I do have to wonder how it was so easy for someone to create a profile impersonating me. To add insult to injury, I not only had to create an account to tell them that they had an imposter, but wait an age for them to do anything about it. To a certain extent I can understand when cretins do this sort of thing with celebrities. I don’t fall into that special category. So really what benefit do they get?

Not like the donkey that hacked into my eBay account in order to sell e-Gold – whatever the hell that is – and gained access to my credit card details. Oh, what fun to be told by eBay that I shouldn’t give out my password to anyone! Of course, I don’t give out my password to anyone; I know about phishing emails and the like yet somehow I’m still to blame. No wonder internet security firms are making massive profits.

I do have to be grateful that I got off lightly when compared to some horror stories about people who have had their identities’ stolen. I can’t imagine the nightmare of trying to prove that you are who you say you are all while battling some criminal waster for your own identity.   

Supposed advances have brought us Chip and Pin, which allows you to show your PIN number to a whole queue of people. Genius. Paranoia about people standing too close is no longer confined to concern about traditional pickpockets, no, they’ve gone high-tech.

How is it possible that barely a day passes without the arrival of some new mobile/gadget/thingimy-wotsit to waste money on, and yet, there seems to be no way to prevent fraudsters from taking other people’s money? There is something very wrong when criminals can outsmart those who design the apparently secure systems.

Even basic procedures that should be secure are far from it. I seem to get a new person delivering my post every few weeks and – shock horror – have had many instances of expected mail going missing. Maybe it's incompetence, maybe it's fraud, either way, I would love to know if all these people are vetted. An errant household bill may seem trivial, but it becomes much more significant when it is used as a proof of address to get credit. 

When criminals are able to steal the identities of dead children simply by requesting a copy of a birth certificate we are really making it too easy for them. Roll up, roll up! Come get your fake driving licence and passport! Get away with crimes, apply for a credit card, apply for benefit you’re not entitled to! We’ll give you the tools and won’t check a thing!     

Never mind Slim Shady, make sure no one else stands up when the question 'will the real [insert name here] please stand up' is applied to you. Read more by Shermaine.

Large Groups of Language Students. Discuss.

NAOMI SAFFERY

Now that summer is officially over, I can finally breathe a sigh of relief and go about my business without the tiresome chore of avoiding tourists. Whilst I may be fortunate enough to live in a charming city, I certainly pay the price.

During the warm and sunny months I hide away at home and only dash to the shops when in dire need of sustenance as hoards of marauding tourists swarm through the city ingesting it whole and leaving nothing but a shuck for the residents to pick at in their wake.

Every time I dared to leave my house, normally only when we were down to our last crumb, it didn’t go well. I would step out and take a deep breath of pure, picturesque city air and mount my bike. Then, before long, as I peddled forth, I would inevitably start to encroach upon a mob. The hoards ahead of me would swerve about on foot, dipping off the pavement at random times just to freak out the approaching cyclists. Turning into a side street, it’s normal to find a group standing in the middle taking photos. I repeat: in the middle of the road.

I’d ring my bell; no movement. Followed by stopping and glaring; no movement. Ah, so the ‘I’m-terribly-sorry-softly-softly-English’ approach doesn’t work. Time to throw my manners out of the window. So barging through, shouting expletives it is. And then they would all get out of my way.

On one particularly offensive occasion, I parked my bike and entered the shop feeling faint from hunger and thirst. As I tried to negotiate the aisles with my basket to find the teabags, I came across a large group of language summer school students. Nowhere is safe.

They are the absolute worst. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t say this but just the sight of their matching, branded, brightly coloured rucksacks drives me mad. Therefore, I have to make it known that I think they are all total dorks. I can’t help it – my inner prejudiced psycho rises up and I cannot contain my total loathing for matching, branded rucksacks. The children upon whose backs they reside are equally annoying but as they are human beings I cannot, apparently, loathe them as much. So I unleash my hatred onto the bags.

The bags hover around in clusters and do not move out of the way for anyone, least of all people trying to get to work. I sometimes wonder if a grenade would move them. But I am informed by several sources that this isn’t allowed. I see different groups of bags about – they are all as ill-behaved as each other, no matter the origin. For the life of me I cannot understand why it is so hilarious to sit on the pavement in multiple groups, eating McDonald’s and singing various pop songs, badly. I am obviously too stupid to understand the joke – maybe I should sit down and tuck in to a BigMac underneath a well-known tourist attraction and join in. Although, I don’t have a matching rucksack so am obviously never going to be part of the ‘cool gang’. And I can’t sing in French/Spanish/Italian/Portugese/American/German (delete as appropriate).

I am further disgusted by the hyper-excitement that all the rucksacks exude – being away from the bags from whose loins they sprung, being abroad where you can behave totally inappropriately because it is ‘abroad’. I never understand this (and this goes for the Brits abroad as well). Why do people behave so badly when they go to another country? Every rule of etiquette and social grace seems to fly right out of the window.

From mid-May until some time in September, the whole summer season is an operation in tactical tourist avoidance. I stupidly parked my bike somewhere central so I had to fight my way through a coach load of Americans to reach my poor set of wheels, and then try to scuttle through a group of Japanese tourists before mounting and riding off. At last I was cycling home – nope, screeching to a halt I waited and waited for the blue bloody rucksacks to move. Nothing. My blood started to boil as these children chatted each other up in the middle of the street. Seriously, you all have braces, spots and limbs more gangly than Inspector frigging Gadget, give it up. I decided to revert to being a teenager and started to rhythmically ring my bell. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

A bag turned round; she looked me up and down. Ding. Ding. Ding. I wheeled out the biggest weapon I could think of – I raised my right eyebrow. Slowly, sardonically, I challenged the bag to a bike-on-pedestrian fight. No matter that I was about 12 years older than her and really should have gone around her little group of pimply admirers. I had taken enough crap from the summer parasites getting in my way and, worst of all, dithering about with fast food and guidebooks.

Ding. Ding. Ding. I glared. She glared. Slowly, drop by reassuring drop, it started to rain, a sure sign that summer, and my ordeal, were coming to an end. The bags started to scurry around, panicking, they all ducked for cover. The city was momentarily saved as the streets cleared of all tourists, bags and all. Round 1 goes to the residents. Relieved, I cycled on and rejoiced in the purifying rain, washing the streets of unwanted baggage. Read more by Naomi.