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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Stuffing your face on the bus? DON’T!

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.

There’s more to Essex than vajazzles

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.

Weight comments soon wear thin...

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?

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

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 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

Starter for ten: how old are you?

ROSIE MCGEE

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.

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.

Kids say the darnedest, most inappropriate things...

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

I like to think of myself as a fan of music, happy to listen to a range of genres from Billie Holiday to Buju Banton (“Who? Who?” That’s jazz and Dancehall for the uninitiated). However, at the moment, I couldn’t even tell you who is currently filling the charts. Not because I have suddenly gone off music, but something a touch more sinister.

On the occasions when I do hear the strains of some song or other from the charts, whether from a passing car’s sub-woofer (is that the name for one of those powerful speakers that only seem to play bass?) or some neon-tainted television programme, I don’t like what I hear. There seems to be concerted effort on the part of music executives (I believe the blame can be laid at Simon Cowell’s door) to fill the charts with younger and younger people.

I’m not sure that it would be so bad if they were actually singing about something that concerned them (puberty and acne anyone?). But there is something distinctly creepy about a youngster crooning about adult themes. Children should not know about love (unless it’s the type of love that they use to refer to their feelings about pizza or a particular sports brand), or heartbreak, or seduction, or sex. The idea that they do and feel the need to sing about it is a touch cringe-worthy.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that in general children seem to think that they are more grown up than they actually are. However, I really don’t think that it is a situation that should be encouraged: nothing good can come of it. All that happens is that weirdness reigns – from the sublime to the ridiculous. From the moronic teenagers who attack strangers without provocation to a young girl I spied – who could not have been more than about 10 years old – wearing heels larger than my own three inches.

Equally strange are the children’s beauty pageants that are so prevalent in the US and becoming more popular here. There’s nothing quite like seeing a pre-teen with a fake tan fretting about her false hair and make-up. In this country, we are already known for high levels of underage pregnancy; do we really want to make it worse? From ridiculous heels for a baby to a thong bikini for an eight-year-old, there seems to be no chance for children just to be children.

I’m sure there might be some people out there who are only to happy for the opportunity to buy a stripper’s pole for their little girl but, do me a favour, don’t let them sing about it. Read more by Shermaine.

Never mind flat hunting; join us in our hunt for good manners

ROSIE DAVIES

I’ve just started the delightful task of flat hunting in London and, after just a few hours of it, I’m ready to give up. It’s easy to become disillusioned by London; it’s monstrously expensive, very over-crowded, and full of extremely rude people. I thought I’d dealt with my fair share of ill-mannered people, until this morning. When I started ringing estate agents.

I know these people have a reputation that precedes them, and it’s probably something they can never really escape or, indeed, do anything about. Much like tax inspectors and traffic wardens, estate agents must enter their respective worlds knowing they’re not going to fill the most popular of shoes. But, unfortunately, like their loathed counterparts, they are very much a necessity. Which is probably why some of them think they can get away with it.

My wrath was excited this morning by my very first call, so you can understand why I was at boiling point by lunchtime. The woman at the other end of the phone was practically sniggering before I’d barely opened my mouth; when I told her my budget she emitted a loud snort, then tried to cover her tracks by quickly rattling on about a ‘suitable property’. She made me feel like a complete waste of her time, and, to add insult to injury, corrected my pronunciation of my own name when I told her what it was. When I went on, with gritted teeth, to explain why I had pronounced it so, she laughed and actually said the words, “yeah, whatever”. The NERVE.

Unfortunately, any estate agent I spoke to after that didn’t really stand a chance, even if they were nice in a snivelling kind of way. Most of them seemed to be irked that I’d phoned them at all, broaching the rather worrying question of what they thought their office phones were for if not for speaking to customers. I realised very quickly that as a young female with a small budget, I carry very little weight in the property world. If the London housing market were the Masai Mara, I’d be the tiny insect eaten by the oxpecker which sits on the elephant’s back. ‘Insignificant’ doesn’t even cover it.

The crux of the matter, particularly when it comes to people like that ghastly woman from this morning, is that they know they’ve got you in a bit of a bind. Without them, flat hunting is a damn sight harder, and people who can’t stomach their condescending tones have to resort to using word of mouth or Gumtree. Believe me, I’ve tried both, and neither have been fruitful. The latter, when I last checked responses to my ad, was rather terrifying. Note to all ladies: steer clear of Gumtree users who use the words ‘nice lady’ and ‘willing to’ in the same sentence. Yuck.

My main point of frustration in all this is the complete lack of manners exhibited by people who are there, and who are getting paid, to help you. Quite what they think they’ll get out of such bad customer service is beyond me; they won’t get customers, for sure. But perhaps this is a minor glitch, and just beginner’s bad luck. Perhaps there is a glorious estate agent waiting for me around the corner, with a plethora of properties all snugly within my budget. And with lovely manners to match. Read more by Rosie.

How many plumbers does it take to fix a leaky sink?

MADDIE YORK

Oh, how I wish I were simply about to tell you a lame joke. Sadly, frustratingly, all I have for you is yet another story of my being caught up in a customer service farce. And this time we’re talking plumbers. Several of them.

I’ve got a leaky sink, see. Nothing particularly unusual about that, is there? Nothing you’d think would be beyond the capabilities of a man who basically did a NVQ in Sink Studies (that might actually exist, for all I know), a man whose sole aim in his daily working life is the fixing of things that leak. Mending stuff wot spurts water out of the wrong bit. Master of leaky pipes and whatnot. Leaky McLeakerson.

Yet, somehow, this elementary task has proved too arduous for not one but three plumbers who have been called out on my behalf by my letting agency. Two plumbers have been, botched and buggered off, while the third is yet to bother turning up; perhaps he took the Distance NVQ in Sink Studies and presumed he’d never actually have to turn up in person, even once qualified.

Two men have knocked on my door, had a cuppa in my flat, messed about with ‘parts’, tightened various pipes, stuck bits of tissue and glue in places under the sink, and then sauntered off, assuring me that their work here is done, only for the dripping to resume its slow and steady erosion of my sanity as soon as I do anything that requires the use of my water supply.

Yes, it’s all very marvellous and mended for a short time after each plumber has had his fun; the leaked water having been mopped up, and a pipe vaguely tightened, things look jolly good on the surface. The First Plumber even had the gumption to say to me on his way out, “I wish all my jobs were as simple as this one!” Ho ho ho, we chuckled, feeling all glowy and satisfied. Then, an hour later, I thought I’d like to make a pot of tea; I’ll run the tap to fill the kettle. Oh. Wonderful. Even more dripping. Absolutely nothing has been fixed after all.

The Second Plumber was rather less talkative and chirpy than The First Plumber. Apart from a request for a glass of water, and the sound of some tool or other, I heard nothing from The Second Plumber, despite my best efforts to engage him in small talk. I can’t bear making small talk with tradesmen (“Have you come far?” or “Been busy today?” or “The weather’s turned, hasn’t it?”), but it’s just what one does; it’s far less uncomfortable and rude than sitting there in silence as though he’s a servant who doesn’t deserve to be spoken to. This chap – think Michael ‘Lurch’ Armstrong from Hot Fuzz, but even less articulate – refused to indulge me even a few small comments. His legacy in my life was nothing more than a clump of white glue and kitchen roll stuffed down the pipes; a depressing, entirely useless mess that melted and flopped away onto the kitchen floor gradually that afternoon, allowing the leak to persist.

So, my hope now rests in the absent hands of The Third Plumber, who is already my least favourite, and the least effectual, of my Three Stooges, simply for failing to turn up. He was requested three days ago, and he called me yesterday to say he’d come round today. And now it’s today. And he hasn’t made his entrance. I called the letting agency and they’re chasing it up for me. Incidentally, isn’t it immensely annoying being a tenant rather than a home owner, and having to go through an agency for every tiny thing?

All I can do now is keep mopping the leak, keep pouring the gin to take the edge off my irritation, keep the earplugs in to block out the dripping sound, keep sighing, and keep hoping. I simply need a man who knows about sinks to come and fix my sink. It ought to be so easy, the most basic of customer service interactions, a short sketch with just two characters, me and The Plumber, and a very simple plot. Instead I’m locked into a seemingly endless, terribly unfunny joke. And nobody is getting any laughter from me when the punchline finally comes. Read more by Maddie.

The grumpy girl's guide to shouting out of windows

ROSIE MCGEE

I sometimes feel as I’ve just got to grips with how mind blowingly irritating life can be when something new comes along to irk me. The latest such annoyance is the growing, and totally unacceptable, phenomenon of shouting out of windows - especially at me. To ensure we’re all on the same page I’m going to start by laying down the rules on this matter.

The only thing ever acceptable to shout, yell or scream from an upstairs window is ‘fire’ or ‘help’. As far as I’m concerned there is no other word or phrase which justifies leaning out of a bedroom window and squawking into the street.

Downstairs windows are a slightly different matter and while leaning out of them there is a greater variety of phrases which can be safely used. What will determine whether or not it is appropriate is volume and content. For example, I have no problem with someone on the ground floor speaking at a conversational volume with another person, say in the front garden. An enquiry like: “Have you seen my glasses?”  and subsequent discussion about the whereabouts of said eyewear is perfectly fine provided it’s at speaking volume.

 I am also happy with same person poking their head out of same window and shouting, “telephone, it's for you!” or something equally short. Loudness isn’t a problem provided you’re not having a full blown chat. Basically, exercise some common sense. It wouldn’t be practical to have a drawn-out discussion about dialectic forms of government in Plato’s Republic through an open window; nor would it be polite.

You may feel that so much thought on a relatively small topic may be a tad over the top but for me it’s been an on-going issue for years. My dislike started as a child with my own mother. On the way to school most mornings she’d hang out of the bedroom window and shout “Goodbye! Have a good day!”  as I was half way down the driveway. Of course it’s a nice thing to say; yet it irritated me. Wasn’t this a conversation that could have been had inside the house? Why must it be shared with the neighbours? I never said this to her as I knew her intentions were good, but sorry mum, it’s just not very ladylike behaviour. This from same woman who’d routinely tell me off for screaming like a fishwife, especially when I was outdoors being overly noisy. Shouldn’t she obey her own rule?   

Even so I grew up with the notion that yelling in or onto the street was ostensibly forbidden. And I assumed that was a universal lesson. Clearly not in the case of the small, maddening children next door. Not content with hours of popping their oversized heads over the fence to pester my dog, they continue the barrage when inside. It was about six as some guests and I were enjoying a civilised drink in the garden basking in the still mild weather when a head leant out a bedroom window and garbled an incomprehensible sentence.

Children don’t always have the clearest speech but this utterance sounded like it had been heavily subjected to the Doppler effect. Us grown-ups, startled from pleasant chatter, didn’t know how to respond. What was worse was that this stream of babble was clearly a question as the little savage kept his head there waiting for an answer. Well how are you supposed to react to that? Ignore it? Acknowledge it? Say “awfully sorry old man, couldn’t say that again, could you?” Or go for broke and scream “get back inside you irritating little brute!”

Sadly it’s not only the minors who’re at it. A few days later while out on my morning dog walk, I was assaulted again.  The dog’s an inquisitive creature that strays a foot or two into front gardens sniffing shrubbery and grass. I try to stop him but most of the time he’s not doing any harm. Imagine my shock when as his little paws wandered about eight inches onto a paved driveway, some horrible creature popped her head out of the front bedroom window as if on a spring and screeched at ridiculously loud volume: “Get that dog of my driveway. Now!”

 In legal terms, she had every right; we were trespassing on what I presume is her property. Did she really need to scream that at me like some sort of banshee? I calculated that it would take an able bodied person a maximum of seven seconds to walk downstairs, open the front door before making the exact same statement. If she’d done that, calmly, I would have accepted her demand as totally reasonable, and would not be currently complaining about it.

 I don’t care if I sound like a snob but that behaviour is crass, and well, common. There I said it. It boils down to a question of class. Not in the old fashioned sense of higher and lower orders, but in terms of personal conduct. There’s no danger whatsoever that when people discuss her they’ll say, “Now that’s a classy lady.” Read more by Rosie.

Dating: what's the hurry?

SELINA NWULU

Who on earth came up with the idea of speed dating? I mean, actually think about it: a room full of insecure and slightly desperate singletons, all fuelled by varying levels of Dutch courage, trying to sell themselves in three minutes. Is this not your idea of a nightmare? How did I even find myself there? How did I get caught up in the supposed glitz of it? I'm not even looking for anyone! It was one of those arrangements you make without actually any intention of properly following it through, you know, like going to the gym or drinking two litres of water a day. “Why not?!” I said, when a friend casually mentioned it to me. Throwing caution to the wind, I exclaimed: “It’ll be a laugh, right?!”

So it was only when my friend actually booked it, and I got the confirmation email doused in glittery love hearts and cheap innuendo, that the wave of fear came over me.

My question is this: why would anyone put themselves in a situation where they can so openly be judged and scrutinised? You see, I come from the old school of denial so the idea of speed dating is all a bit too open and honest for my liking. Conversations and people are whittled down to a “yes” or a “no”. Or, of course, there is the ever-so-slightly patronising “friend” box which has an extra space for any additional comments. So, while my additional comments boxes were full of factual nudges such as “works in finance”, “a bit superstitious” and “mind in the gutter”, my friend filled hers with brazen comments such as “too small”, “has odd teeth” and the slightly snobbish “common”. While this was highly amusing to read, it filled me with terror to think that there was some male equivalent, writing equally disparaging comments about us.

The storyteller in me wanted the night either to be really bad or really good, but it was a beige shade of mediocre. I was left with oddly the same feeling you get after eating a stodgy pasta bake: bloated and indifferent. There were several kinds of conversationalist: the ones who pitched themselves as “zany”, asking questions such as “how many coppers could you get in your mouth?”, the clichés who, replete with an arched brow, asked questions like “if you could make three wishes, what would they be, babe?” and the last-resort wife-hunters, those who, having fallen out of favour with society’s “normal” (whatever that means) ways of finding a partner, resorted to asking questions soaked in desperation such as “so do you want kids and a mortgage?” or “where do you see yourself in 10 years time?”

The idea of meeting a Zach Braff type and laughing the night away was a tad unrealistic, I grant you, but still, just where do all the original, interesting people go? I was left surrounded by these vaguely nice people, all trying to rifle through the other cast offs in the room. Where do I fit in with these people? (Note: this is a strictly rhetorical question. No need for answers on a postcard here.)

And so while date number eight was telling me about his goldfish business, all I kept thinking was: are these supposed to be my glory years? Are these the rebellious youthful days of sunshine I’m going to tell my hypothetical grandkids about?

It made me think about society’s need for speed, for fast service, fast food, fast living and now fast romance? Is this the best I can hope for, three minutes of hurried conversation, a sleazy wink on exit and a choice of three boxes to record the occasion? Can we all just slow down a bit? Instead of diving into everything head first at manic speeds. My head is spinning.

I’m not saying speed dating doesn’t ever work, and I of course saw the ironic and fun side of it, but it’s all a bit random... which is equal to just getting out there, when and if you want to, right? It all amounts to the same socially awkward thing at some point.

I figure that by taking the slow way, I might at least be able to enjoy the view ... especially if Zach Braff comes walking around the corner... Read more by Selina.

Chess's Charming Neighbours

CHESS TAYLOR

I’ve got some really rather charming neighbours. They throw things like dirty nappies and KFC boxes into our garden. But only when we’re not watching.

It all started when we moved in; first the occasional Fruit Corner pot, graduating to beer bottles then full on bin bag missiles. Bin bags tend to create a lot of mess, particularly on a windy day when they’ve been speared by a tree. And, judging by the contents of said bags, I am frankly concerned for the health of the perpetrators whilst simultaneously pissed off by the risk they pose to my own. But it gets better.

I was woken one morning last week by scrabbling, screeching, something smacking against the window pane. Tired and a little hungover, I did my best to ignore it and go back to sleep but with only partial success. Once I had dragged my bones out of bed, showered and dressed, I opened the curtains to reveal a dead pigeon swinging by one foot from the wire surrounding the guttering. I screamed. I cried. I felt utterly disturbed and quite sick. My boyfriend rushed to shut the curtains and hide the dangling corpse from view while its pigeon friends congregated around it, for what reason we could not imagine. Some undiscovered form of avian grief? Cannibalism? No: the people in the flat above were feeding the dirty little specimens. Not only were they depositing human waste in our garden but they were beckoning filthy, disease-ridden creatures to our bedroom window.

I called the council as soon as I arrived at work that morning and they pledged to ‘address the situation as appropriate’, promising to call me when they’d cleaned the gutters out and presumably given someone a bollocking. For the next five days I was awoken by the same noise (thankfully minus the cadavers) and decided to call back and find out exactly what was going on:

‘Sorry, there’s no record of your call. And anyway, we don’t deal with pest control. You’ll have to phone this number instead.’

So I called the number the lady gave me, then they made me call someone else and then I was put on hold four 15 minutes then finally, finally I was granted the privilege of a conversation with a council worker. I explained the situation, my shock, my utter disgust; she was making the right noises and I really felt like I was getting somewhere.

‘So what are the options?’

‘Well, I’ll issue a letter saying we’ve had a complaint from your address and hopefully it will encourage them to stop.’

A letter? With my address on it? To compel the skanks upstairs to dream up something even more revolting to subject us to? Weeing over the side of the balcony, perhaps? I conveyed this to her in the politest possible terms and subsequently demanded that she dispatch somebody to clean the rice out of the gutters and pay them a visit and, after much umming and ahhing she eventually agreed.

The council are popping into our neighbours’ flat at the weekend and I am feeling a strange mixture of excitement and dread, anticipating either the first decent night’s sleep I’ve had in a while or a deluge of chicken bones and Pampers. But if all else fails we have a back-up plan: an arsenal of that 90s favourite, the SuperSoaker. Suggestions for what they should contain are most welcome. Read more by Chess.