Trouble at the Tills

SELINA NWULU

My fellow writers have raised concerns about the trials of supermarket shopping, but I actually find the weekly food shop quite enjoyable. The key is to go at a quiet hour (otherwise it just gets nasty) and enjoy swooping from aisle to aisle, looking at all the foods and their potential glorious concoctions. I do have to avoid the confectionery aisle, though; it infects my otherwise fairly healthy shopping basket in a way I have no control over. But otherwise, the supermarket and I are firm friends.

With its perfectly controlled room temperature and fancy deli section, it’s rarely a place I want to hurry from ... unless, you know, I actual have real things to be doing. And that first meal post-foodshop: what a treat! No missing ingredients, all fresh stuff and even a choice of desserts if I’m feeling crazy. What happy (if admittedly sad) times!

Despite my slightly sad affinity with food shopping, however, there is one aspect that ruins the whole experience for me: the checkout. I seem to have a most miraculous gift of being at the back of every queue, and my few attempts at strategic queue-dodging - leaving one queue for another seemingly faster one - more often than not backfires. The longer queue that logic tells me to avoid always seems to move quicker due to some over-zealous newbie on the checkout, while the shorter queue contains the kind of person who tries to claim 10p off a packet of crackers and who has to fill out a complicated form to do so. Of course said person has left their reading glasses/pen/the actual voucher/common sense at home, so I am left with the overwhelming urge to give the dude 10p from my own purse.

All this fury quickly dissolves any zen-like feelings I may have had in the first leg of my shopping trip, and so, by the time I get to the checkout, I’m irritated. When it gets to my turn, the checkout assistant seems to be on some sort of performance-enhancing drug and speeds through my stuff, leaving me having to pack my bags in a frantic, uncoordinated fashion. The others behind me huff and puff and look at me in the impatient manner that I probably had with the 10p man. (Hmm, there might be a lesson in there somewhere.) I, burning from their looks of hatred, hurriedly pack my bags, pay and limp off with one bag ridiculously heavier than the other.

Then there are the people who pack your bags for you. I find this all a bit unnerving. Am I supposed to just stand and watch while someone packs away my cereal? Too weird. I understand it for those who can’t physically do it themselves, but for me? I always feel really lazy, as though I’ll get so used to it that I’ll get carried away and give them a list of other chores of mine that they can be getting on with.

I also take issue with the ‘novelty’ packers. I have on more than one occasion met Brownies and Scouts who offer to pack bags in order to raise money for some camping trip to Bognor Regis. It’s always one of those moments where I have to decide whether or not to be that grumpy cow who refuses, thus breaking the hearts and dreams of an innocent seven-year-old missing a front tooth, or to play the game and let them pack the bags. So, obviously I do what any person attempting to feign normality would and begrudgingly say yes. But much like The Times payroll, if I’m paying for a service that was previously free, I expect excellence, and putting canned tomatoes on top of my bananas is not the way to go, kiddo.

Of course, I grit my teeth, remind myself that it’s a gummy pre-pubescent who knows no better and I pay the mite for the privilege of having my fruit bruised. But this ridiculous charade, plus the longer than necessary wait in the queue, always threatens to ruin the harmonious start to the trip.

To combat this, I’m thinking of seeking refuge in alternatives such as the self-service checkout. As soon the machines stop breaking down every two minutes, that is. Read more by Selina.

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.

The 'F' word

SELINA NWULU

Way back when, before the likes MySpace and Twitter, If I’d referred to ‘the ‘F’ word’ we'd have all known that I was talking about the four-letter expletive. Now, in the digital age of blurbs, blogs and celebrity Twitter pages, it has taken on a different meaning. It’s grown. It’s got double the letters and a few more spikes. I’m talking about Facebook, and yes, this ‘F’ word is beginning to make me feel as dirty as the profane version.

(If I could just throw out an informal, backtracking-before-I’ve-even-begun disclaimer: I am on Facebook. Although I’m not on it very often, everything I say applies to me too.)

In the good old days, Facebook was only for uni students and you were safe in the knowledge that any mishaps would be kept between you and your fellow students. It was a comfy place - and then your mum, your nextdoor neighbour and his cat (literally) and your great, great aunt all jumped on the bandwagon.

Now we all have to tread so carefully. Suddenly we’re haunted by stories of people being fired after inappropriate status updates about skiving off work or entire relationships dissolving at the click of a button revealing: ‘it’s complicated.’

It uncovers the narcissistic nature in us all. Hours are wasted choosing the most fitting, attractive but cool yet nonchalant profile picture. Nights out become punctuated with cheesy Kodak moments and squeals of ‘Ooh I'm going to tag you in that!’

Unwittingly we’re engaging in an unspoken competition to see whose life turned out the best. We’ve all spent hours weeping at the wedding pictures of first loves before stalking the new spouse in question to discover faults - like that Rick Astley fan page on her profile.

We know better than to go on Facebook when feeling down. Your mopey self inevitably ends up reading status update after status update of vague acquaintances saying things like ‘Oh I’ve just got my dream job and I didn't even try!!’ Not to mention the sickening, ‘I have the best boyfriend in the whole wide world; he made me breakfast in bed’, or some do-gooder letting you know they’re ‘feeding Nepalese orphans after having built a school with my bare hands in India’. I’m drowning in everyone’s fancy, overachieving, loved-up, saving the world-spangled lives.

Think, when was the last time you actually wondered what someone you used to know was upto? Can’t remember? Well neither can I, because they are all on Facebook! These people could have been anybody in our imaginations. The troublemaker from school could have been the graphic designer his talent suggested he could be. Instead he turned out to be the waster everyone predicted, still knocking around the same haunts and spending too much time on Facebook.

It takes away the element of mystery and reminds us of the sheer banality of other people’s lives. I know what almost everyone from school became. Surely no good can come from such knowledge. Didn’t we learn from Friends Reunited?!

In the beginning it was so enticing. I was drunk on the power of knowing, of being reacquainted, but that interest dwindles. After the initial curiosity is sated and you soon realise that you are forever stuck with their inane comments about Home and Away, and you realise why you lost touch with them in the first place

More than just disappointment, there’s also the whole new level of malice: the delete button. ‘She upset me ... that’s it, I’m deleting her ass off Facebook. That’ll teach her!’ Sometimes it has to be done. Realistically you are never going to see the guy wearing the Guinness hat at that house party again. But what to do when you bump into someone you deleted on Facebook in real life?! Play nonchalant? Be coy? Feign indifference? Thinking about this brings me out in cold sweats.

Who knew there was an etiquette to it all? People get upset if they’re not included in a note. And if I personally take the time to write someone a long message, the last thing I want to see is them updating their status every two minutes about the growing levels of mould in their fridge instead of replying to me.

I decided a long time ago to distance myself from Facebook. I’m still there because we can’t deny it does have some brilliant uses. Yet I even find myself generally drawn to those who don't have a Facebook profile; they’ve become like the new elite cool set people I want to get to know. Conversation is a delight with those ignorant about pokes, fan pages and tags, and who know the forgotten joys of emailing. Brave new world!

I feel better for having got that off my chest. Now if you don't mind, I’m just off to post this link onto my page ... Read more by Selina.

Image: luigi diamanti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Why is it so hard for people and shops to accept tall women?

SHELLY BERRY: There’s a widely held assumption in our society that women enjoy shopping. Apparently we love trawling the shops looking for a bargain or the perfect outfit for a special night out. I admit I do enjoy the odd trip to the shops when I don’t need anything in particular, but fancy treating myself to something shiny.

Then there are the days when I realise that my everyday black pumps are on their last legs, or I need some dainty sandals for a friend’s wedding. Ah yes, I hear you cry, the trauma of finding the perfect footwear to complement the perfect outfit. But that isn’t my complaint. My complaint is my whopping size 9 feet.

Those of you with the same predicament will understand. For those of you with average size 6s, let me explain: most shoe shops only go up to a size 8. Which means those of us who have been blessed with clown feet are decidedly limited on where we can turn to in our hour of need.

There is a handful of retailers who have cottoned on to the big-footed woman’s need to have pretty shoes. Next have saved me from granny-fied, over-priced shoe hell on more than one occasion. This week I acquired a pair of funky black sequinned ballet pumps and am hankering after some rather fetching strawberry-print wellies. I just need to justify buying them.

But this is not where my shopping misery ends. You see, not only do I have huge feet, but I am also 5’11’’. Which means I take an inside leg measurement of about 34’’. Oh, poor you, the petite among you may mock. But you forget it is a lot easier to take up a pair of jeans than it is to lengthen them.

Luckily when I was a teenager I discovered Long Tall Sally and at the age of 15 was able to buy a pair of women’s trousers that actually covered my ankles for the first time since I was about 11. 15 years later the number of stores with a “Tall” section has increased. There are now at least five I can think of, anyway (again Next gets top marks).

So when I do need a new pair of bootlegs, at least I only have a handful of shops I have to traipse around, and just keep my fingers crossed that one of them has a pair that fit me on the waist AND around the bum – a problem I think all women are familiar with.

So, I have big feet and long legs. And I have managed to find satisfactory solutions to these shopping challenges. But, alas, it doesn’t end there.

Last weekend Him Indoors very kindly offered to buy me some new underwear for Valentine’s Day. Although touched by the romantic gesture, my heart sank at the thought. Ungrateful cow? Not exactly. The thing is, not only do my feet and legs offer me dilemmas on the high street, but so do my boobs. I have a broad back, but little tits. Hopeful that the former had miraculously shrunk and the latter filled out since my last underwear shopping trip, I headed over to M&S to get measured, fella in tow.

“So, what are you wearing now?” the slightly harassed bra lady asked me.

“38A.”

With a sharp nod she whipped out her tape measure and got down to business. I held my breath.

“Well, 38 is spot on ... but an A might be a bit big for you.”

Whaaaaat? Are you trying to tell me my boobs have shrunk to near non-existent? This is the equivalent to telling a man that his willy has dropped off. And what is worse, finding a 38A bra is near impossible. A 38AA ... it ain’t gonna happen. You see, according to the lingerie industry, women with broad backs don’t have little boobs. I am officially a freak of nature.

I emerged from the changing room with a brave smile plastered across my face. Him Indoors looked at his watch. He was clearly regretting his romantic gesture. 10 minutes later I returned with every bra I could find in a 38A, praying that my bambino baps would fill at least one of them. Luckily, they did. Just about. No chicken fillets needed.

An hour and a half after arriving, we finally left the shop, Him Indoors officially shopped out, me officially with smaller tits.

So ladies, there you have it. Struggle to find a pair of jeans that make your arse look great? Unconvinced by the shoes in season at the moment? Can’t choose between a balcony and a push up? Trust me, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Read more by Shelly.

SELINA NWULU: OK so here’s the deal: I am tall. And while memories of childhood taunts are long gone, I’m often left wondering why people seem to have such a problem with it.

I am a tall lady and, shock horror, along with that I have a brain. You wouldn’t think that such a combination would be cause for concern. Maybe it could even be a cause for celebration, but sometimes I feel like I'm treated like some Frankenstein freak from the wild west.

Picture the scene: hundreds of small villagers running haphazardly, screaming: “Who’s that! She’s tall and has something to say! She’s broken the stereotypical mould! She’s not dainty and precious! She can open the jam jar by herself! Ruuunnn!”

I’m exaggerating, I know. But believe it or not, on some level this is true. I’ve managed to get over the same old tired wisecracks from the condescending family friend (“What’s the weather like up there, chief?”) and childhood nicknames such as Daddy Longer Legs (I lied – I’m not over it). But I do have a problem with the frank male friends who say things like “Selina, you’e OK, you are still a little under 6 foot so you’re not that bad ... just so long as you are not over 6 foot ... A woman over 6 foot? Ha! Now, that’s just weird!” I spoke to someone who actually shuddered at the idea. It seems to be this deep irrational fear that people, men in particular, seem to have.

Sure, equality seems all very good on well on the packet. “Men and women are equal but different” is the line. Man is strong and heroic while the woman is weak, dainty and mild. A Polly Pocket sized shape of loveliness. Suddenly here comes the modern age and that same woman can look you in the eyes because she is the same height as you and doesn’t need your protection and suddenly man gets all panicky and insecure. It’s really ridiculous!

And heaven forbid that I would want to wear heels. People look at me like I’m insane: why would someone like me want to bother with something like that? What’s the point, right? Never mind that those shoes go well with my outfit. I should spend my whole life glued to Croc pumps, it would seem.

I remember at school a woman actually suggested that being over 5’7” was unladylike. Is there some kind of underground network of ladylike, pearl-wearing dames who are handing out charts and posters full of this ridiculous and nonsensical information? Perhaps there is some kind of chart similar to the ape-to-man chart about human evolution – but instead of the ape there’s a picture of a tall woman (in my head I’m picturing someone like Vicky Pollard), rough and unkempt, and then the woman gets progressively smaller until we reach the other end of the scale where there is a pocket-sized, Joan Collins-esque woman?! It’s almost as though this silly woman was telling me that because I’d skipped the obligatory elocution classes that of course every young lady should have, being tall is some kind of punishment with which I now have to contend.

When I was living in Italy – maybe this is my fault for choosing to live in a country renowned for its short people – I was mid salsa class, watching the instructor teach everyone a new move. My dance partner, who wasn’t nice so he shall be named Short Arse, stopped the whole class and said “Excuse me, but how am I supposed to dance with her?” while looking me up and down with disdain. Well, I’m sorry, Short Arse, but if you had a bit of rhythm and a back bone it wouldn’t be a problem! Don’t blame my height!

The icing on the cake was at a night out, not so long ago. I was, stop the press, wearing heels, and I was getting my groove on and cutting a few shapes on the dance floor. A man came up to me – he wasn’t very nice either and so shall be named Short Arse Two – and said: “I was going to ask you to dance with me but as you are wearing heels, I won’t. How many people approach you in those heels?”

I think my stunned rage couldn’t quite believe the presumptuous gall of Short Arse Two, but I turned and said something along the lines of “keep walking, Shorty. I like being tall and, heels on or off, I wouldn’t dance with someone who looks like the third Chuckle Brother” and then I casually walked back to join some friends at the bar.

You see, that’s the thing: never underestimate the power of a tall girl’s strut, especially when she is wearing heels. Read more by Selina.

Who let the dogs out?

SELINA NWULU

Apparently, back in the day, I used to quite like dogs. And so while my sister’s definitive scary childhood moment was being chased up the hill by the neighbourhood Rottweiler, I’ve been told that as a fearless 3/4/5-year-old (the age changes depending on who tells the story) I put my hand in the mouth of that brazen Rottweiler, much to my sister’s dismay and to my own childish glee. So maybe that 3/4/5-year-old would have been a bit more compassionate and understanding than the current 24-year-old. But these days I resent being around people who see no need to control their dogs.

The usual scene takes place at someone’s house – generally an acquaintance, elderly person or neighbour, basically anyone that you can’t really be honest with. So when their dog is clawing on your favourite jeans and gnawing at your new shoes, all you can do is politely cough, screaming expletives on the inside, but having to put up the usual awkward “oh, it’s fine!” bravado, hoping that said owner will react accordingly.

Most of the time it’s OK because they do, but for the extreme dog lovers it’s apparently all fun and games. Just because they love their dogs this way, it apparently means that it’s all gravy for the poor visitor, caught in the cross fire. I’m not a dog hater; I’m just irritated by those who tell me their dogs are harmless or “having a giggle” when they are staring me down and aggressively baring their teeth at me. Of course the dog’s going to be all sweetness and light to the owner, who whispers sweet nothings to it in its sleep and feeds it. I signify the bolshy intruder who is sitting in their favourite chair and eating food that would otherwise be theirs.

I don’t have any problem with the ordinary pet owner. It’s the extreme dog lovers I take issue with – those who try to humanise their dogs by putting them in an array of matching knitted jumpers, woollen slippers and a diamanté encrusted feeding bowl. Those who give their dog its own four-poster bed and who think that it’s appropriate to writhe around in its drool-soaked jowls until their face is wet. We are talking about animals that can actually lick their nether regions here; can we think about the germs if nothing else?!

If dog lovers want to be this way: fair dos. What ever gets you through the day; who am I to (openly) judge? However, if they do insist on balancing obsessive dog life with human interaction, there need to be few ground rules. I’ve taken the liberty of creating a little list. Follow me, if you will:

1. No talking about Rover’s new abscess over my shepherd’s pie.

2. No allowing him to eat off my plate especially when I’m not finished. Anyone close to me will know of my reluctance to share food off my plate (this could be a whole other rant) so what gives you the impression that I would want to share my glorious food with a panting four-footed fiend who smells of mud and damp?

3. No leaving me alone and trapped in the living room with the over-zealous puppy who won’t take no for an answer.

4. On that same note, when it charges at me and brings me down to the ground, do not give a hearty chortle, cooing “ooh you cheeky little mite” while I scrabble around on the floor looking for cover.

5. I don’t care if your dog is a “good lickle boy”. I will not join you and talk to your dog in baby language.

6. When you know Skippy’s bowel movements off by heart and talk about them in public, something has gone awry. Sense the ill-concealed disgust and move on to something conversationally safe like the weather.

7. If you insist on doing something like nose nuzzling or allowing him to lick food off your face, be prepared for my reaction.

8. Sorry, but it’s not a baby. It doesn’t eat Haribo, and it shouldn’t eat with a bib.

My guard feels defensively up because previous discussions on this topic have left me feeling like some kind of modern day Cruella de Vil just because I refuse to be that person who melts and coos at every doggy whimper. It’s precisely this brazen “he’s-so-cute-let-him-do-what-he-likes” attitude that allows these dogs to run wild and therefore isolate everyone else. I can exist in harmony with dogs. I just don’t want to live in a world where it is OK for them to hump my leg till the cows come home without so much as a glance and a tut from the owner. Is this too much to ask?! Read more by Selina.

Image: Maggie Smith / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

'The Three Rs': Reading, Writing and ... Recession?

SELINA NWULU

Is it nearly over yet? Sorry to be the whining kid in the back of the car here but, despite my A Level in Economics, my knowledge of the progress of our pitiful economy is – no thanks to conflicting opinions in the media – sadly limited. I left the country for a year in the thick of the recession, with my bags overflowing and a metaphorical “see you later, suckers” sticker attached to my forehead. I watched the Lehman Brothers collapse, the job losses and shop closures (RIP Woolworths, I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know) from a concerned but far distance, safe in the knowledge that this whole mess would be neatly concluded the moment my feet stepped back in Blighty.

So now on my reluctant return, I have grudgingly joined the lost graduates group: a sea of bewildered youngsters who’ve been promised the world but have ended up on a barren land of sparse opportunities. Jobs, if ever found, have been lost, graduate schemes cancelled and, after hearing “the world is your oyster, kiddo” pep talks for as long as we can remember, the majority of us are still unemployed and living at home. We’re a group of people overwhelmed with information but with actually very little personal guidance, a group with almost too many options but in reality not many open doors.

If you decide to be a doctor, lawyer or teacher: fair enough, it’s a well trodden path with directions at every junction. But if you want to mix it up a bit and try to go for something a little outside the box, you are well and truly on your own. For example, careers advice. Why does every career advisor want to turn me into an accountant?! Are they doing a deal on the sly with my parents? One career advisor actually told me to come back when I was less vague ... Thanks buddy, I’ll just do all the work myself and come back to you when it’s all neatly figured out, shall I? Wouldn’t want to make your job too tricky for you. And if I want this sterling careers advice as a graduate, it’ll cost me the bargainous price of £120. It’s almost as if an awkward graduation ceremony and a handshake suddenly makes me exempt from free advice, or do they assume that, despite my student loans, being a graduate now makes me well-off?

Oh, but where would I be without those generic graduate websites which, as if sensing my fundamental indecision, have crept, with added gusto, into my inbox with their emails about their soulless graduate fairs, “top notch jobs” in Coventry and their oh-so helpful daily graduate tips that tell me that despite all qualifications, personality is the be-all and end-all. Oh, great, so if I just shimmy my way into every interview, I’ll be laughing my way to my dream job then? I didn’t sign up for this, did I? Unless “post graduate confusion” was written in small print on my university prospectus.

The problem with further education is that we all leave with a sense of self entitlement. We feel like just because we rocked up to a few afternoon lectures, we’re owed a job worthy of respect and a middle class sized pay check.

So while older generations look on exasperated by us “young’uns” who’ve spent thousands on education to end up more confused than ever and mums mention that girl from down the road who was in your year at school and has got a good job/mortgage/steady boyfriend/dog (delete as applicable), we skirt around, bouncing from one idea to another, fighting tooth and nail for unpaid internships and reluctantly succumbing to the under-paid, over-worked 9-5 lifestyle. Did I mention I didn’t sign up for this?

It’s ok, it’ll all be ok. I just have to remember never to become an accountant. EVER. Read more by Selina.

A Miscellany of New Year Melancholia

SAM PECZEK: I still don’t get excited about the apparent glorython that is the rolling on into yet another year of pointless human chaos.

I’ve long accepted that my life is an unremitting cycle of redemption and despair, and at no other time is this little gem more evident than during these particularly festive days. For the past three days I’ve been blighted with a virus that has rendered my usually accommodating stomach into a hostile warzone in which no foodstuff can remain for more than a few precious minutes before being liquidised and evacuated with startling efficiency. The tricky thing is, I feel fine a few hours later, and so have no way of knowing whether it’s safe to nibble anything until those gloriously tense moments which follow. Yes, I could just grit my teeth and fast my way through it, but that’s a somewhat grim option after the first food-free day when your stomach is starting to eat itself and everyone around you is tucking in merrily to all manner of feastsome fodder. Every time I die a gruesome little death and every time I am born again.

I’m starting to feel sort of invincible, save for those agonising bathroom interludes when it’s all very touch and go. I’ve entered a philosophical phase where I have been able to see my bathroom-centred adventures as a distilled mini-version of life itself: pesky virus or not, how many December days have I felt that this time, this time I’ve gone beyond the point of no return, only to discover that, after the gluttonous storm, a week or so of humble living serves to wash over the damage until the next year. Or my birthday. Or a boring Tuesday afternoon.

Speaking of festivities, I still don’t get excited about the apparent glorython that is the rolling on into yet another year of pointless human chaos. People are telling me to make plans; in fact, they like to make me feel bad about not having any plans, or not having any that are sufficiently painful and hedonistic. But why all the fuss? Even if we overlook the fact that time is sort of fake and meaningless, it’s still just another year. It’s not like we haven’t all seen our fair share of ’em. We don’t get quite so excited about the end of every week ... oh. So if every Friday is reason enough to drink ourselves into a bleak yet reassuringly familiar oblivion I suppose it makes sense that seeing another year to its grisly end is sufficient excuse for a blowout on a larger scale. The futility of our feeble existence endures, even as the world decays around us with growing determination.

Tis true that numerous self-obsessed bastards (ie. pretty much everyone) deem this a prime time to reflect and refocus. Beyond the vapid and the personal, there’s always the world at large to look back on in a sort of “yay! We didn’t bomb our crumbling little ball of rock and waste this year (despite the best efforts of certain folk) so let’s wreak a touch more havoc on the very last night of this year, just to help nudge our collective obliteration along a bit further” way. Think of it as a head start for next year. We’ll nuke this fucker yet.

We humans are also suckers for the notion of starting again. This is because people are not only twats, but miserable ones. Nothing is good enough; it’s all creaking along and falling apart, often getting in the way of other hobbling atrocities and making our dark little days all the more tragic and toilsome. January is the darkest of many months, but also the most magical, for it is the month of when all those changes that we think about but never sort out supposedly gleam with new potential (they don’t really; like all hopeful things, it’s pure delusion).

Needless to say, I loathe resolutions. It’s like doing up your hypothetical house just before giving it to someone else. Why only get your shit together once a year? I demand constant regeneration! We should either sort it all out or let it all rot. Pick a side and stick to it.

Even though I’m not plotting any intentional must-dos, that doesn’t stop the world outside from intervening. Oh yes, at the dawn of our next year I have to find somewhere new to live, not because I want to, but because the landowning powers have decided this would be the most amusing time to chuck the rent children out of house and watch them scatter in the directions of ever more destitute abodes. No doubt I’ll grumble at length over this later, once new developments raise their ugly stumps.

In the meantime, I wish you all well. Not that it makes any difference, since we’re all screwed into our hopeless cycles. Like vermin trapped in our respective hamster wheels, we must trudge on, metaphorical boats braced against the current … These are indeed good times. Lap them up while they last. Read more by Sam.  

SELINA NWULU: Resolutions are made and forgotten within the month and life rolls on. Why does everyone think that the stroke of midnight will suddenly make their lives new and whole?

Ah yes, the shambles that is New Year’s Eve is upon us. Why don’t we all just fast forward to the communal self loathing and pity and save ourselves the big hassle already? The chances are, either you or a friend have had a bad year, so any way you look at it, you’ll either need or be a tipsy shoulder to cry on at the end of the night.

I just feel a bit weary with it. Does it have to be such a big deal? I just want to hide under my duvet and leave the over-zealous with their firework planning, champagne and extravagant plans to their own devices. Because it really isn’t a new year; it’s another day with problems and issues that overflow into the next morning. Resolutions are made and forgotten within the month and life rolls on exactly the same as it was. Why does everyone think that the stroke of midnight and a new calendar will suddenly make their lives new and whole?

Mind you, there are a few things New Year’s Eve has the amazing ability to achieve: bank balances deplete significantly, shabby middle of the road pubs get cocky and suddenly have to power to charge £15+ on entry, taxis become more expensive and people more foolish. Much like birthdays, everyone talks a big game but you depressingly feel exactly the same. Will we ever learn?

And it’s all this hype and big talk that makes you feel like a loser if you don’t participate. Someone asked me one year what I was going to do for New Year’s Eve, and when I said “nothing special” she looked at me like a was some kind of abandoned stray dog – lost, alone and spat out by society. No, love, I just couldn’t be bothered to pay bucketloads to have a mediocre time; isn’t that what The X Factor tour is for? And I’m guessing I’ll have the rest of the year to look forward to that particular gem.

Do we have some kind of deficiency that enables us to forget previous crappy New Year’s nights? Friends who’ve had the worst night out on previous years spring back and go to the same places and do the exact same things the next year. I don’t know how many post-New Year stories I hear that are exactly the same, all of which being of the “I drank too much/spent too much/have a suspicious roadwork sign/cowboy hat/feather boa in my room” variety. And most commonly: “I had a rubbish time.”

This year I, too, have been sucked in, and I have remembered why I hate it: the pressure of planning, the hassle dealing with plans that go awry, that are cancelled and rearranged at the last minute. The panic, as we get nearer to the night, of not having everything completely planned and having nothing to wear. The ironic thing is that throughout all this kerfuffel and stress, I actually don’t care, not really. So why bother?!

Despite my “New Year’s Eve house parties are key” mantra, I have reluctantly paid a ridiculous price to go clubbing and so I will be making sure I have the best time possible by practising my killer (because they are so bad) moves on the dance floor. However I have a feeling that it will all seem (even more) ludicrous and excessive in the cold light of day.

So, all said and done, a very Happy New Year to you all. May your night (and year) be genuinely joyful ... However, if it is more blue than new take consolation in the fact that misery is the nation’s best friend and it always loves a bit of company. Read more by Selina.

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS: We all must celebrate the fact that the earth is continuing its journey around the sun, and that requires spending time in ridiculously painful shoes.

There is at least one benefit to living one’s teenage years in a somewhat debauched manner: I learnt exactly how bad New Year celebrations can really be. If it’s bad when you’re 18 years old, it certainly isn’t going to get any better when you’re rapidly approaching 30.

I don’t know about you but, as I get older, I find myself less inclined to do the things that I did when I was younger. Teenage Me had boundless energy – she was fearless and nonsensical. Now, though, all the hassle it takes to organise even a minor celebration proves exhausting – and that is before actually leaving the house. Everything has to be sorted out well in advance and plans made in accordance with what friends and family are doing.

Do I really want to go out in freezing temperatures wearing less than I would normally go to bed in? Of course not! I want to wear clothes that can comfortably accommodate thermal underwear, but that’s unacceptable because the celebration demands that an effort be made. We all must celebrate the fact that the earth is continuing its journey around the sun, and that requires spending time getting ready, getting your hair done, wearing skimpy clothes and ridiculously painful shoes.

And despite all the strategies created with military precision, one (if not several) of the group will invariably get stuck in traffic or on public transport, prompting a flurry of texts and calls, many of which don’t get through, leading only to further confusion. Teenage Me would think nothing of spending much of the freezing night standing in a queue to get into a club that is already filled to capacity, only to pay for the privilege of storing my coat on a hanger as my brand new hairstyle flops from the sudden temperature change. Present Me isn’t so easily swayed by the promise of a good time.

Yes, there may well be a great DJ, but who cares about that when you don’t have enough room to dance? Who wants to be in a club where a fight breaks out on the packed dance floor because children have managed to find their way into the club? Struggling to move is not my idea of fun.

One year, the icing on the cake was having a drink thrown over me at the stroke of midnight as some over-excited reveller jumped up and took their drink with them. After that anti-climax, all that was left was to fight for a cab home and pay over the odds for it.

It all served a purpose, though: I learnt early on that bigger doesn’t necessarily mean better when it comes to New Year celebrations. I don’t care what other people are doing and don’t feel obliged to follow their lead, even if bacchanal is the order of the day. No, I’ll do my own thing, thank you – sans frostbite, bunions and alcohol-soaked clothes. Read more by Shermaine.

Happy New Year, everyone,
from the bottom of our grumpy hearts
XXX

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Peace on earth? Err ...

SELINA NWULU

How the blummin heck did it get to Christmas time already? Since right after Halloween we have been drowning in images of snow, baubles and rosy-cheeked children sitting on the knee of that bloke in red who calls himself Santa, all in the hope of becoming warm and fuzzy. Ah yes, peace on earth! Merry Christmas! Good will to all men ...? Did the people who came up with these phrases ever go Christmas shopping?

As a newcomer to London, I naively decided to meander casually down to Oxford Circus for what I assumed would be a quick dash of Christmas shopping. What I discovered was essentially pure pandemonium. Imagine a plague of rats haphazardly running towards a tiny block of cheese ...except, in reality, we were the rats and the block of cheese was Selfridges. There were queues, seemingly at a standstill, in every direction, frantic elbows shoving everything aside in a fight for survival, along with hysterical yells from adults and children alike.

Where was the good will when a crazy woman barged past my shoulder with her bulging Harrods bag without so much as a glance behind her? Or the festive cheer when a woman drove through a red light and then shouted at me for getting in her way? Sure, we all want a peace, love and happiness-filled Christmas but to what lengths will we go to get it?

This whole jovial “on the twelfth day of Christmas my true love said to me” vibe is juxtaposed with this ruthless must-buy-at-all-costs consumerist mentality and it’s as though we all suddenly turn into shadows of our reasonably sane selves. Although I’m admittedly fairly grumpy, I’d like to think that I’m a good person who actually begrudgingly cares about people ...you know, in an abstract, don’t-make-too-much-physical-contact-with-me kind of way.

But as I stood in a queue, with an OAP counting out £5.99 in coppers on the counter to my left and to my right an exasperated mum who thought it was a good idea to take her four young kids Christmas shopping during peak time, I actually thought to myself without any reservation: “I hate people. I actually hate every single person in this shop.” Well, Santa, what do you make of that?! Hardly the “ding dong merrily on high” thing we were going for, right?

Throughout all this havoc all I could think was: “Can we all just chill the hell out?!” If we did then maybe I’d be able to appreciate the jolliness, the Christmas carols and the “good will” speil – and isn’t that a large part of what Christmas is supposed to be about? Last time I checked, a cat fight over the latest iPhone wasn’t a key feature in the nativity scene.

Shocked by my own Hyde-like transformation, I removed myself from the situation, called it a day and embarked on the slow and overcrowded journey home.

My next stop? Internet shopping – it’s a beautiful thing. Read more by Selina.

Image: graur razvan ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Fashion is a bitch

SELINA NWULU

I like fashion; I really do. I’m obliged to make this clear before I plunge into this rant and seem to completely contradict myself. But is it just me or do all clothes look the same these days?! I left the country for a year and have come back only to find millions of people looking like Adam Ant doused in glitter and spandex. All the high street shops seem to have turned into elitist havens designed for small-chested, small-hipped clones.

Take Topshop, with Ms Kate “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” Moss as their patron. Whenever I walk into the shop I almost feel as though sirens will go off and fashionable trilby-wearing daleks will come out, arms a-flailing, screaming: “OVER A SIZE 12! OVER A SIZE 12! DIRECT TO MATERNITY WEAR OR EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!” I mean, just look at the front window on Oxford Street. It’s actually ridiculous! Is the average Topshop buyer an extra member of The Darkness or are you really suggesting that I should wear a sequinned mini anorak to Tesco’s?

“It’s come to the point where we are being told exactly how to customise ... so now we’re all changing and ‘individualising’
our clothes in the same way. Marvellous.”

Now, before you start imagining me sitting here in a shapeless Bon Marché fleece and slacks, let me say again I do quite like fashion but all I am asking for is a bit of diversity. Just because the fashion elite, drunk on high quality champagne and (fat-free) caviar, click their fingers and say we should be following 80s trends, doesn’t mean we should all end up looking like Chaka Khan. I simply don’t want to be spoonfed clothes that make me look like a drunken 80s rock star.

We have all become one massive wishy-washy brand and, in this age where everyone supposedly strives for independent buying and individuality, we’ve never looked more similar. It’s come to the point where we are being told exactly how to customise ... so now we are all changing and ‘individualising’ our clothes in the same way. Marvellous.

I blame, in part, shows of the 10 years Younger/Extreme Makeover variety that chastise women who’ve dared to devote themselves to something other than the rise and fall of the shoulder pad. After these poor women have gone through the initial soul-destroying humiliation – something like standing naked in front of a magnifying mirror and counting their pores, etc etc – these ‘fashion rejects’, regardless of size, shape and personality, are then scraped, peeled, sucked and shoved into a pair of skinny jeans and the obligatory belt around the waist, and then somehow deemed ‘whole and acceptable’.

All these women want to hear is that they are enough the way they are. So, to see these fashion fiends standing on their Gucci soapboxes, pushing women down the fashionable factory line and prescribing Botox as the cure is incredibly irritating. And of course the average woman that goes on these shows presumably cannot afford to maintain the rat-poison-in-forehead and chemical peel lifestyle, so it’s only a matter of time before the shine begins to fade. Where will all the fashion gurus of the world be then? Already moved on to another victim with low esteem and shouting at her for using the wrong kind of conditioner, no doubt.

That’s why I do kind of (note my reluctance) like How to Look Good Naked, because at least Gok recognises that everyone should look the best they can but within their own means. And, although interspersed with outlandish bra fondling, the most important aspect of the whole thing is to show that we need to change our self-perception more than anything else.

Wow. I think I just praised Gok Wan. Does this officially make me a Gokette?! Disturbingly enough, I am not totally against this – minus the prancing down catwalks in underwear part. You do, however, have full permission to slap me if I start saying “You go girlfriend” without any irony. Read more by Selina.