Cut the crap; I just want to wash and go!

SHELLY BERRY

Hair. We all have it – some more than others, and not necessarily on our heads, but there’s no escaping it. Never mind shoes; hair is the first thing we notice about other people. And first impressions do count, which makes the fact that hair often has a mind of its own more than a little bit of an obstacle when it comes to making oneself presentable to the outside world.

I’m one of those people who have to wash their hair every day (anything less than squeaky clean locks triggers post traumatic flashbacks to my greasy teenage years). So for me it is essential to have hair that is easy to style – as in wash and go easy.

Beware the temptations of the internet

SHELLY BERRY

Ah, the internet. You have to love it, don’t you? How did we ever live without it? Communicate with our friends? Find out the name of that actor in that obscure film on the telly last night? Find a recipe that includes the random contents of our fridge at one in the morning? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I mean, you wouldn’t be able to read this when you’re supposed to be writing that important report or sorting out that account for your boss, would you? You might actually be doing some work. Perish the thought!

Having said that, the internet is not all good. Oh, no. It is a dangerous place indeed. And no, I am not talking about online stalkers, viruses and scams. I’m talking about its convenience. It makes life easy. Too easy. Especially when it comes to spending money. Let’s be honest here. Paypal is the shopping equivalent to the atomic bomb: just press one little button and the result can be catastrophic. It is even easier than a debit card. When you use that in a shop you have to physically hand over your form of payment to another person before you part with your hard earned cash.

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

SHELLY BERRY

So, my winter coat has retired for the next six months, daffodils are now widely available in most supermarkets for 99p, and I have felt the need to replace last year's sunglasses with a pair of oversized shades that I think even Victoria Beckham would envy. Hell, I have even got over my jetlag from the clocks going forward last month. All is well with the world.

Or… maybe NOT. You see, two weeks ago, I came down with a cold. And not even a little sniffle either. A full-blown head-bunging, limb-aching, mucus-infested blinder. The kind of cold with which a lot of people would call in sick, pleading swine/bird/man flu before cocooning themselves in their duvet and demanding Lemsip and chicken soup from their sceptical other halves.

Fat facism in the workplace

SHELLY BERRY

It is the Friday evening following an exceedingly long, arduous week. I have just gobbled down half a humongous bag of Doritos and some Minstrels, washed down with a bottle of Becks. Still on that sugary high, the guilt has yet to set in. But it will.

Unfortunately this week has been particularly wicked when it comes to the calorific delights that have passed my lips. Having attended a handful of networking events over the last five days, I have been tempted with a wide range of naughty nibbles, from mini sausage rolls to chocolate crispy cakes and scones. With jam. And clotted cream. High levels of stress have prevented my usual willpower from kicking in, and one slice of pork pie has lead to an iced bun, bag of crisps and an egg mayonnaise roll, all in one sitting. Oh dear.

Ready, steady, competitive cook!

SHELLY BERRY

I like a good bit of competition; don’t get me wrong. But competing to see who meets their targets at work or when it comes to Him Indoors (LADIES! BACK OFF! HE’S MINE!!) is not my idea of fun. What I’m talking about is healthy competition. You know, playing scrabble down the pub. A game of badminton with your dad. Trivial Pursuit over Christmas with the family. As long as it doesn’t get violent (which is why we no longer play Monopoly with Him Indoor's family) or just down right humiliating (I still have painful memories of PE at school), it is acceptable.

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

Job hunting isn't half hard work

SHELLY BERRY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SHELLY BERRY

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

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

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

She really scares me.

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

The conversation usually starts like this:

Her: Medical Centre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I called the surgery.

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

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

Her: No. Not for the pill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: So what do I need to do?

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

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

Her: It will be ready in two days.

Me: Is that it?

Her: (smirking) Yes.

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

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

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

Image: Michal Marcol / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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

SHELLY BERRY

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birthdays are not always a piece of cake

SHELLY BERRY

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve started, so I’ll finish...

SHELLY BERRY

This week I am on holiday. My annual leave runs until the end of this month, and as I have five days left to take, I am obliged to have a week away from the office. It’s a hardship, I know, but hey, I’m a trooper.

I haven't got any major plans for the week, other than a visit up North to catch up with my cousin at the weekend, but already my diary is filling up. I have been ordered by Him Indoors to make sure I give myself some “Shelly Time” with which I am in full agreement. But unfortunately I have a feeling my “Shelly Time” will be taken up doing something I don’t really want to do.

You see, my problem is I take the commonly used catchphrase “I’ve started so I’ll finish” a little bit too seriously. Take films, for example. Over the last couple of months I have sat through some pretty dire movies, but rather than switching off my DVD player and perusing the telly guide, I have sat and watched them to the end, even when Him Indoors has given up and gone to bed early in disgust. Why? Well, I tell myself it is because it might get better and I want to know how it ends. But I suspect there is more to it than that. I think I have a bit of an issue when it comes to sticking with something until it grinds to a painful, arthritic halt.

With films, it isn’t too much of an issue. Most of them are only a couple of hours long. But then there are books. Books tend to take a bit longer to get to the end of, and let’s face it, if you aren’t really into a book it can take twice as long to finally get to that blissful back cover than if it's a page turner. Earlier this year someone suggested I read a book of feminist existentialist philosophy. I was intrigued. 100 pages in I was just baffled. Yet I read it. All 750 pages of it. It took me about six months, on and off, and the sense of achievement was, well, there. But has my life significantly improved since I read it? Has by mind been noticeably expanded? My life enriched? Maybe not.

I guess perseverance is a good thing. If you need something finishing, I’m your girl. But it becomes a problem when I just can’t let go, even when the end result or product of my endeavour is no longer really relevant. Take that book for example. I started reading it for a book club, but had only managed a small portion of it when we met to discuss it. But I still insisted on reading it all- for no good reason.

My good intentions when it comes to making gifts for my friends and family also fall into this dangerous category. The pile of old clothes under the bed would fill my local Oxfam shop twice over, but I refuse to chuck anything out. They are all useful materials for the beautiful handmade toys, bags and household accessories I WILL make one day, you see. And, okay, so I might not get around to realising all my crafty ideas before December, but there’s always next year. And birthdays.

The problem even spreads into my work life. Once a task or job is on my “to do” list, that is it. I WILL do it. It might not get done for another three weeks, but once it is on that list, it has to be done. Or I have failed.

So, where does this small obsessive behaviour leave me? Well, it does make me ultra reliable, for sure. But it is very irritating for the people who are waiting for me to do more pressing tasks at work and for Him Indoors who just wants to watch something decent on the box.

It is also irritating for me. My life is taken up with doing meaningless things, watching meaningless movies and reading meaningless words, purely because I feel obliged to. So when you switch off that dire television programme or chuck that incomplete project in the bin, think of me as I pour over another exceedingly tiresome book as I attempt to make a lampshade out of some old newspapers and a faded t-shirt. But, whatever you do, don’t try and stop me. Like a tube of Pringles, once I pop, I just can’t stop...Read more by Shelly

Whatever happened to service with a smile?

SHELLY BERRY

OK, I admit it, in a lot of ways I am a proper snob.  If I go out for a coffee and cake I expect the cake to be made with the finest ingredients and my cappuccino to be topped with frothy milk, not squirty cream.  If I go to a pub I like sophisticated décor and a selection of premium beers, not a hole stinking of stale booze and urine whose idea of premium lager is Carlsberg Export.

I accept that other people aren’t as picky as me, and actually like Nescafe and McEwen’s. However, I pride myself in keeping my snobbery to myself when faced with such standards.What I can’t stand though, are people whose snobbery seeps out of every pore of their small-minded bodies.  People who think they are above others and aren’t afraid to show it.

On Sunday evening I was faced with such people.  I was in Brighton for a couple of days, and Him Indoors and I fancied some posh nosh.  Both dressed in jeans and Him Indoors sporting his prized C&A hoodie from Berlin (yes, they still have C&A’s in Germany), our waiter looked us up and down as we approached.

“Do you have a reservation?” he sneered, his lip curling.

“Nope.”

Suppressing an eye roll he checked his list and, with a sigh, showed us to a vacant table outside.  Less than impressed, I scanned the over-priced menu and opted for a simple plaice and chips.  After what seemed an age, the waiter returned.  I ordered my local blonde beer, mackerel pate and main before Him Indoors placed his order of oysters, seafood gnocchi and Pinot.  As he reeled off his choices, something changed in the waiter.  He realised that the street rat in front of him actually knew about seafood and, even more shockingly, wine.  He almost smiled with relief before disappearing into the restaurant.

Raising my eyebrows at Him Indoors, I went to find the loo.  Approaching the bar, I asked who appeared to be the manager where I could find the ladies.  He answered my enquiry wearily without even turning around to look at me.  Unimpressed with his apparent disdain for his paying customers I headed up the stairs to the restroom taking in the three floors of empty tables.

I returned to our spot outside and told Him Indoors of my less than satisfactory experience.  He gawked at me, amazed by the further lack of hospitality and intrigued by the empty tables.  He explained that the couple sat next to us had been told they had the last table.  Not the last table outside, but the last table free.  In the entire place.To me, these are all signs of a seriously snobby and sub-standard eatery.  What business in their right mind would make their paying customers feel unwelcome? 

Fine, the service improved once it became clear we knew what we were talking about, but should customer knowledge really matter?  And why would you pretend you are full to capacity when you blatantly aren’t?  Are we supposed to feel grateful to be allowed to eat there? 

The following night we ate at another seafood restaurant in the same square.  We were greeted as soon as we appeared and shown to our table as soon as possible.  The specials were reeled off courteously and our questions answered.  The waitress complimented me on my little portable handbag hook; the waiter chatted to us about his experience of moving out of London to Brighton.  At one point our table was tended to by three members of staff, pouring our wine (favoured by a local celebrity, allegedly), serving our food and lighting a candle as daylight faded.  The service was slow, but it was warm and welcoming.  And the food was better.

So if I go back to Brighton, which I surely will, I will be missing out our first choice and go straight to the second.  I shall also be sure to avoid the surf-wear shop where we received dirty looks (clearly not beach-bummed enough) but head back to the over-priced smellies store where we were served with a smile and product knowledge- even after admitting we would not be taking advantage of their free gift only redeemable by spending over £40.

The moral of this story?  Keep your snooty looks and disdain to yourself.  That way, you might gain a few new customers rather than scaring them away.  Because, my dears, I would rather take my well earned money to someone who wants it more than their pretences. As long as they serve their latte in a tall glass and pronounce “espresso” correctly, that is. Read more by Shelly.

No rest for the Grumpy

SHELLY BERRY

There is something seriously wrong going on here. Work has been busier than usual, which is OK, I can live with that. But it’s not just my paid employment. I’m overworked at home.

Don’t get me wrong, Him Indoors doesn’t have me scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees on a daily basis and starching his shirts with one hand and cooking a roast dinner with the other every Sunday. It’s everything else. And who is it who is pushing me to these limits? Well, me actually.

The thing is, in order to get anything done, I need to set myself little targets. For example, I make myself write for this blog once a fortnight and my fledgling Love to Hate London blog every week. Easy peasy, you might say. But then there is the “long piece”, which I have been chipping away at all year at the rate of 1,500 words a week. No problemo, I hear you cry.

Are you kidding me? OK, so I can fit that into my schedule around the full time job, the housework, the social life and three visits to the gym a week (at my peak anyway ... and no, I haven’t been this week ... yet). But then there are the distractions of the internet.

A-ha! Facebook addict! You may accuse. Well, not really. The thing is I am keen to promote my writing now I have got into the swing of it. And that takes time. Online. A friend of mine introduced me to Twitter. “It is a really good way to network, but you do have to devote a lot of time to fully utilise it,” she warned. I nodded obediently, wondering to myself what the big deal is. I just write a few random comments every now and then, right? Wrong! You need to seek out your followers, retweet them, direct message, reply and mention them in order to get their followers to see you too – and in the hope that they will return the favour of sharing the birdie love. It is not for the faint-hearted.

Then I asked the lovely Maddie York for advice on setting up a newsletter to send out to current (and potential) blog followers – or anyone else who is unfortunate enough to have their email address in my contacts list. She replied with a comprehensive email explaining in technophobe language how to go about it. Now I just need to find the time between visiting my sister up in Leeds and hosting a barbeque the weekend after to get my butt into gear and do it. Then the hostess with the mostest Blogger sent me a very useful email telling me how to fully utilise its promotional tools, linking my blog to Facebook, Twitter and even Amazon. Oh goody, I thought, something else I need to do but don’t know how the hell I am going to find the time to do it.

Then there are the other things I need to do. Like reading my book club book, going to see the osteopath, looking after the plants on the terrace (note to self: I must water them when I have finished being grumpy). Talking to my mum on the phone. Shaving my legs. All things that I need to do (and most of which I enjoy doing) but seem to be finding increasingly difficult to squeeze in at the moment. And yes, it is all self-inflicted. Put it down to over-ambition or plain craziness, I don’t know ... and I don’t even have time to figure out what to do about it. And I’m supposed to be starting a college course in September too ...

Last night I promised myself a night of chilling out in front of the telly with a glass of wine followed by a candle lit bath. I was in need of some R&R, and, what with meeting a friend today, going to the gym, the osteopath and meeting another friend for lunch on Friday before catching my train up north, it seemed like the best opportunity to allocate myself a little bit of “me time”. So, did I have the glass of wine? Oh yes. Did I watch some mindless telly? Indeed – whilst chatting to my sister and pratting on the internet. As for the candlelit bath ... well, that didn't happen. It got to 9.15 and I hadn’t even tweeted yet ...

Read more by Shelly on Grumpy Young Women
Visit her blog at lovetohatelondon.blogspot.com and follow her on Twitter.

The perils of sun cream

SHELLY BERRY

Summer is well and truly here. The shades are on, the layers are off, and everyone is in a decidedly better mood – or they were until England was knocked out of the World Cup anyway. The parks are packed and the beer gardens are bursting. Happy days.

But, yes, I’m afraid I have something to be grumpy about. No, I’m not going to complain that it’s too hot – if the sun were to suddenly disappear it would no doubt be all my fault. I’m not even going to moan about summer telly – even without the footie we now have Channel Four and its sister channels going Big Brother bonkers, thankfully for the last time.

What I truly hate about summer – or more specifically, sunny weather – is sun cream. I hate it. But I can’t live without it. You see, without a decent amount of SPF I would shrivel up like a rasher of streaky bacon that’s been left under the grill for too long. At this time of year, I truly envy those around me will lovely dark skin who can get away without protection, or at least get by with a light coating of factor 15. Not me. I’m slathering it on every morning before work, again in the middle of the day if I am out of the office, and topping it up before making my way home. So by the time I get home I resemble one of those triple-cooked chips. So sexy!

Then, being a resident of lovely London, I have to put up with the layer of grime that sticks to my tacky limbs whenever I step outdoors. So whenever I re-apply I am basically massaging dirt into my skin. Not any old triple-cooked chip, you see, but one liberally seasoned with muck. Lovely! And yes, I have seen the adverts for all these wonderful sunscreens that are invisible, non-sticky, non-greasy. And yes, I have tried some of them. The verdict? So far I have failed to see any difference. Maybe more of a roast potato than a chip, but still not quite the look I was after. I did try those one-application-a-day versions a couple of years ago too. All very well and good, but you still need to re-apply every six hours or so, and they are even thicker and gloopier than their counterparts. Yummy.

I’m sure someone reading this will tell me about a super brand that does exactly what it says on the tin. I’m also sure that the said product, if it actually does live up to its reputation, has a hefty price tag to match. So if you are fair like me and want to stay looking fresh and frisky rather than frazzled and filthy this summer, you’ll have to put paying off your summer holiday on hold. Or just stay indoors and watch crap telly. Read more by Shelly.

Let me on the techno bus!

SHELLY BERRY

I like to think that as I go about my day-to-day life I cope quite well with modern technology. I listen to my MP3 player on my phone on the way to work, I use wifi when on trains and in cafes, I can carry out basic tasks in Microsoft Office and even produce a newsletter at work on desktop publishing software.

But beneath the façade is a technophobe desperately trying to hide her panic whenever someone starts talking about the latest gadgets on the market that are said to be the “next big thing”.

It’s not that I don’t like technology. I think modern technology is great. I love my little netbook, and can’t wait until I am due a new mobile upgrade so I can get a BlackBerry (I have one for work and it’s AMAZING!). I think my problem with it is that by the time you have got to grips with something, those boffins at Microsoft or Sony or NASA decide to introduce a new and improved version and, before you can shake your Nokia at them, all your techno treasure is once again outdated, null and void.

Take DVDs for example. I will never forget the day I walked into my Blockbusters to find out that they no longer stocked movies on VHS. “What???” I screamed. “What if you don’t have a DVD player?” The assistant chewed his gum nonchalantly. “Well, maybe you need to go out and buy one.”

I was outraged. OK, so you can buy DVD players for about twenty quid, but that wasn’t the point. I had a perfectly good VHS player, thank you very much, and a nice selection of videos to go with it.

I didn’t bother to buy a DVD player. In fact, technically I still don’t have one. I just watch my DVDs on the fella’s Xbox, and have a portable CD drive to use with my netbook if I want to watch one in the bedroom. You see, I have made progress. It has been slow going, but I am getting there.

About three years ago I went to work with a floppy disk. You remember them, right? I was nearly laughed out of the building when I complained that my work computer didn’t have a floppy disk drive. Sulkily I went to Argos on the way home and bought one of those USB memory sticks. I admit it was a revelation. I haven’t looked back. True, I still have only one and should possibly look at getting one of those hardy ones you see on the Gadget Show, but I made that leap of faith and was rewarded.

Thing is, even though I feel I am making progress, I still keep missing the techno bus. Take Facebook for example. I finally signed up to it about two years ago – and about two years after everyone else. And I think it’s great. I even have my own blog  – as well as contributing to this one – and I managed to set up my account on Blogger all by myself (well, once someone told me how easy it was). But even now I feel I am falling behind.

People keep going on about Twitter. I went on the website once and didn’t get it. Then there’s Flickr. Sounds fabulous but I haven’t dared even go there. A few weeks ago I got talking to a journalist about how to break into the writing market. I told her about my blog. She suggested I send my e-newsletter to magazine editors. I smiled and nodded, panicking that I didn’t have a clue how to set up an e-newsletter, let alone mail it out to prospective eds.

It doesn’t end there. I still buy CDs and have never bought a download in my life. Although I have an MP3 player on my phone and have inherited my fella’s iPod shuffle, it still takes me about three hours to figure out how to change my playlists on them. And as for uploading my photos from my phone onto my computer, well, it’s a task I put off until I absolutely have to. Like when my phone is finally being replaced or it has run out of memory.

Speaking of mobile phones, mine recently came up with an error message telling me to contact the manufacturer. I took the phone into my local O2 store and they sent it off for me to get it fixed. I got it back yesterday, with a little note telling me they had upgraded the software. And making a point that I could actually do that myself as it’s all very simple really. No need to be patronising, Mr Techie!

So, despite my ignorance, I get by. I have nearly replaced my VHS collection with DVDs and even though I haven’t quite figured out how Sky works a year after having it installed, nor figured out how to use my answer machine (or 1571), I live a relatively pain-free existence. That is until Blu-Ray takes over the world, we go digital and CDs go obsolete.

All I ask, techies, is that you give me a little bit of notice so I can figure out how to use your new equipment before it’s too late and I fall into techno-hell oblivion. Read more by Shelly.

Image (DVD drive): Gregory Szarkiewicz / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image (flip phone): Francesco Marino / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Can't we all just age gracefully?

SHELLY BERRY

I have a confession to make. I am 30 – and I am probably more comfortable with my appearance now than I was when I was 21. It’s not that I’m particularly narcissistic, but, bearing in mind I weigh six stone less than I did when I was 18, I actually think that, like a fine wine or a chunk of Stilton, I have improved with age.

However, whenever I turn on the telly or open a magazine, I am reminded that getting older is a bad thing. Whereas 10 years ago the focus was well and truly on a woman’s weight, it seems to be that the natural ageing process is the new enemy we women are forced to wage war upon. Ageing is the new fat. Adverts for skin creams promise us that they can delay the ageing process, protecting our skin from free radicals, shielding us from harmful UVA and UVB rays, and even reduce the appearance of the lines we have been unable to prevent through careless laughter and frowning.

The average woman who, like me, indulges in the odd glossy and usually relaxes in front of the box for at least an hour or two a day is probably exposed to advertisements for such products for longer than the length of an episode of EastEnders. And, like anyone facing an onslaught of propaganda, she probably starts to believe it. Yes, ageing is bad. The appearance of wrinkles will signify the end of your life. You must stand up to nature and fight it to the death – literally.

Then of course there is the cost involved. These lotions and potions don’t come cheap. Staying youthful costs. When doing the weekly shop, it dismays me to see how much more money I spend on toiletries than my other half does. While he can get away with a can of Lynx and a cheapo moisturiser, I have to cleanse, tone and moisturise, not to mention invest in spot cream for the occasional blemish and the obligatory weekly face mask and scrub.

The critics among you will no doubt notice that I used the expression “have to”. Of course I don’t have to spend my hard-earned cash on these things, and, to be fair, I spend a hell of a lot less than a lot of people, opting for cheaper brands rather than your ultra-pricey clinically-proven scientifically-formulated wonder-stuffs for which you can pay through the nose. But I do spend more than my fella. I could boycott skincare and turn to soap in protest – but I dare not. My skin might break out in spots whilst simultaneously crumpling like a screwed-up newspaper. Age spots might appear. My jowls might sink, leaving me with the face of a bulldog. I shudder at the thought of what might happen if I let nature take its course.

“What will it be next? Foetus-soft skin?

Egg-smooth hair?”

Having said that, I have my limits. A bit of magic moisturiser? Yes, please. Plastic surgery? I don’t think so. Botox? Actually, I think I’ll pass on poisoning my face, thank you. But, in a society that values youthful-looking skin more than life itself, my principles could soon be under attack. Not because I think I will cave in under normal circumstances, but because, by the time I am 40, Botox is likely to be the norm. Women who don’t have Botox and choose to stick to the more traditional anti-ageing processes will look old and haggard compared to their nipped and tucked, frozen-faced peers. Even slathering your face in factor 50 every day isn’t going to compete with that.

So, there it is. At 30 I might be getting away with my trusted moisturiser for combination skin with UVA and UVB filters. But by 35? Maybe the pull to freeze my face in time will be too strong to resist as everyone else jumps on board the Botox Bandwagon.

In the meantime, there is hope. Don’t you know that you can now get a foundation that promises to give your skin the appearance of a baby’s? And I’m sure there is a hair dye on the market that will colour your hair baby blonde. Ageing? Sod that when I can achieve the youthful vigour of a newborn. What will it be next? Foetus-soft skin? Egg-smooth hair?

Actually I’ll stick to looking my age, thanks all the same. Read more by Shelly.

Stop pushing me down the aisle!

SHELLY BERRY

OK, I’ve had enough now. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s catching up with old friends. Maybe it’s seeing people’s status updates on Facebook basking in the glory of their personal achievements. But, if one more person tells me what I should be doing with my life I swear I will be forced to blow a raspberry in their face before farting in their general direction.

Firstly, there is my relationship with the fella, aka Him Indoors. Him Indoors and I have been together for over seven years now. We have lived together for over three of them, and before that managed to maintain a long distance relationship before I dragged him kicking and screaming to London. During that time, we have survived unemployment, illness, bereavement, and our relationship is stronger than ever.

Aaaah, you might say. But here comes the hitch (excuse the pun). We have no plans to get married. He has never popped the question. Walking down the aisle is not a priority. OK, it will probably happen one day, but neither of us is in any hurry. And we are both quite happy about this. The problem is other people seem unable to grasp that this is an acceptable state of affairs. The conversation goes something like this:

Other person: So, how long have you and Him Indoors been together?
Me (smiling): Oh, just over seven years.
Other person (amazed look): Wow, that long? So, are you going to get married?
Me (still smiling): Nah, neither of us are that fussed to be honest.
Other Person (knowing look): Yeah, right. I bet you want him to propose really ...
Me (smile becoming a grimace): Nope. We are perfectly happy as we are.
Other Person (concerned look): Oh ... er ... so is everything OK?

Why? Why do people assume that just because we don’t feel the need to spunk all our savings on a flouncy dress and an over-priced fruit cake that there is a problem with our relationship?

Another classic came a couple of weeks ago when I went dancing with a friend and her boyfriend (whom, for the record, have been together for nearly as long as Him Indoors and me and, believe it or not, are also not married. Or engaged. Or having a baby.) Him Indoors didn’t come along.

Had we had a big bust up? No. Was I on the lookout for a bit of extracurricular activity? Certainly not. The truth is he doesn’t like dancing. But I do. So sometimes I go out dancing and he stays in with the Xbox (aka The Other Woman). On this occasion, I ran into a colleague. Whilst having a break from bopping, he asked where Him Indoors was. I happily explained our arrangement. He took a sharp intake of breath before changing the subject.

The following Monday at work he announced to the office that he had ran into me at a bar in Brixton. Without my man. Un-chaperoned. Glances were exchanged. I bit my tongue and glared at my computer screen.

So, apparently there is something terribly wrong with our relationship because we haven’t felt the need to run down the aisle, and we feel comfortable enough in ourselves not to have to spend every living second within sight of each other. But that isn’t where it ends.

At Christmas I met an old school friend who had just dropped baby number two. She clearly loves being a mum and has already managed to convince her hubby to have a third in the interest of conceiving a girl. So, baby number one happily being entertained by dad and baby number two happily chomping down some milk, she asked if Him Indoors and I were ever going to tie the knot. I gave my usual, well-practised response. She looked at me.

“Yes, but you will want to before you have kids, won’t you?”
I took a deep breath. “Mmm. Don’t think we will have kids.”
“What? OK, maybe not now, but you will one day. And you don’t want to leave it too late.”
I took another deep breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever want them. I just don’t feel the urge.”
She looked at me dumbstruck, then smiled reassuringly. “Oh, you’ll change your mind.”

Hang on. Don’t I know my own mind? OK, so fair enough, my maternal instinct may kick in any day, but right now I can quite safely say I have no urge whatsoever to add to the burden of this already over-populated planet. Why can’t people accept that my life doesn’t revolve around wanting to “settle down”?

And guess what? I am 30 ... and I don’t have a mortgage. Or a car. Nope, not even a cat. I am also still naive enough to do a job, not because it is in a field that pays particularly well, but because I believe in it and it is something I am passionate about. I am also likely to vote in the general election, not for Labour or the Tories, but for a party that I actually feel stands for what I stand for too. Not in protest, but because I refuse to vote for someone because they are “the lesser of two evils”.

Bloody minded? Maybe. But at least I know my own mind, what I want and what I don’t want. And if that doesn’t fit into your perfect little pre-conceived world, well, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. Read more by Shelly.

Image (cake toppers): FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Image (baby): Clare Bloomfield / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It's good to talk; just do it quietly.

SHELLY BERRY

Today, I am glad to say, I am feeling quite chilled. Mellow. Calm. Why? Well, I’ve got a week off work (Smug? Me? Never!) and I started it with a long weekend with friends at Centre Parcs. Not only was much fun (and alcohol) had, but we made the wise decision of upgrading to a deluxe villa with our own private sauna, steam room and hot tub.

And then, of course, there was the on-site spa. I started the weekend with a scalp massage (strange but good) and rounded it off with three hours exploring the numerous steam rooms, salt water pool and shower “experiences” of Aqua Sana. Aaaah, bliss.

However, I can’t ignore a little niggle at the back of my mind. That niggle being the question of Spa Etiquette. My idea of a good time in a spa is relaxing in various hot and humid rooms with your mates, enjoying their company while respecting the aura of peace and harmony. I don’t expect complete silence in a spa, but I do expect people to keep, well, quiet. By all means, catch up with your chums, ask them for a bit of boyfriend advice and run your career plan past them, but keep your voice below a certain number of decibels.

Unfortunately, not everyone can follow these simple rules. They think it is acceptable to screech at each other while trying out the ice fountain. Apparently they aren’t expecting it to be cold, but even if it is news to you that ice tends to hover around zero degrees, I don’t want to hear about it. Not from the other end of the spa, anyway.

Oh, and then there’s the protocol to follow when you enter a sauna or steam room that someone else is already using. Rather than shushing each other loudly and giggling, why not show others a little respect? And when they sit up when you come in, it’s because they want to make sure there is room for you and your gaggle, not because they have a problem with sharing the room with you. And yes, when you slag off other spa-goers for being snobs for the above, I suggest you do it when you leave the spa – because you are clearly incapable of doing it quietly.

On the drive back from our little jolly, my friend commented that her boyfriend left early because the level of noise was off-putting for him. I agreed the spa was a little busy and some people didn’t quite grasp the concept of tranquillity. “It’s not that I mind people talking,” I continued. “I just expect people to talk to each other quietly.”

My friend looked at me. “Yes, but the spa did have signs all over it saying 'Ssh, be quiet'. People go there to relax, not to listen to other people talking.”

Now, that made me feel bad. I had been quite happily chatting away to the pair of them (in hushed tones, of course) throughout the session. Well, before they both went off on their own. Ooops.

So I am now left a little confused. Although I agree that spas should be relaxing places, surely you are permitted to talk? I like a bit of peace and quiet as much as the next spa-goer, but three hours is a long time to spend with your friends without talking. And what happens if you go to a spa for a whole day? Or even a weekend? Do you have to use sign language or pass each other notes to communicate?

My point is: I think to enjoy a spa experience you need to get the balance right. By all means, have a good time; just keep the volume down. And if you really need silence in order to relax, as far as I’m concerned you’re better off having a candle-lit bath. Human beings are sociable animals after all, and appreciate each other’s company. Read more by Shelly.

Image: Ahmet Guler / 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.