Time at the bar: how not to treat the regulars

NAOMI SAFFERY

Generally, I choose the house I live in based entirely on the local. In London we lived a few doors down from a boozer that served Pimm’s by the bucket load and knocked out a wonderful BBQ every summer. This was followed by the lovely ramshackle gastropub just around the corner from our house in Oxford; it served amazing mulled wine and I had a very happy winter indeed.

The village that we have moved to has a wonderful pub made of stone, with roaring log fires and wooden floorboards akimbo. It is suitably ‘ye olde worlde’ and I fell in love with it. I had visions of numerous hours spent sitting next to the fire with a good Merlot whilst chatting to villagers about badgers, hedgerows and cricket. That was until the landlord arrived.

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.

14th Feb: just another day.

JUDY JOHNSON

The 14th of February is the day of the year where couples (or those with dates lining up to take them out) get to feel sorry for singles and singles end up feeling sorry for themselves. For some reason not having a date on that particular night (a Monday, this year, for goodness’ sake), accompanied with something red, tacky and heart-shaped, means that you are missing out. Well, on what is about to be my third single Valentine’s Day in a row, I can’t say I’m too bothered.

When I was at school and girls started talking to boys, I felt left out. I didn’t talk to boys unless they talked to me and that was pretty rare. When other girls started kissing said boys and getting cards sent to them on Valentine’s Day, I hoped one day I’d be lucky enough to receive one too.

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

KATE COLES

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

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

Love, actually, is all-year-round

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

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

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

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

NAOMI SAFFERY

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

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

One is certainly not on work experience!

MARTHA CASEY

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

... What was the problem, again?

Starter for ten: how old are you?

ROSIE MCGEE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tidings of discomfort and nausea

ROSIE MCGEE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROSIE MCGEE

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

ROSIE DAVIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently sausages grow in fields now...

NAOMI SAFFERY

I have to congratulate the advertising executives who dreamt up the latest ad featuring Jamie Oliver. Truly, it is a work of sheer and masterful hilarity. I remember the ‘early years’ Jamie sliding down his banister and throwing ‘bits and bobs’ around the kitchen. Now he has graduated from the school of ‘alright me ol’ mucca what can I do yer for’ to serious campaigner and activist doncha know. Yes, gone is the cheeky chappy, and instead Mr Oliver is fighting childhood obesity, bad parenting and general food-related issues that, according to him, aren’t ‘pukka’.

So, he tackled school dinners and twizzling turkeys. But it doesn’t end there – now he needs to reform the nation’s bad food habits. And how is he doing this? A series of adverts for a leading supermarket. Yeah, because their vegetables flown in from Kenya and washed in chemical solution are so fresh and healthy. So we had Jamie on the road – chucking food around for giddy mums to try. But that wasn’t enough – now his beef is with taste.

Apparently, things that taste good are what the supermarket is all about because things that taste good are pure and healthy and virtuous, and if Jamie says it’s good then it must be. In the latest ads, Jamie is filmed rambling on a hillside, clutching a fork, becoming more and more out of breath. ‘Where is he going?’ I asked myself as I tucked into my TV dinner of kebab and chips. ‘Gosh, he is struggling – is he looking for water or an inhaler perhaps? Or is the fork to catch a pheasant with?’

Nope, he heads straight for the frying pan on a stove in the middle of the field. Of course, that’s what grows in fields! I had always wondered. In the pan sizzling away are a load of juicy-looking sausages. Miraculously ready and waiting for Jamie’s fork to plunge into their meaty goodness and hold up to the camera. Before I have time to blink he has roughly bitten into a sausage and uttered the phrase “Everything [the supermarket] stands for in a bite.” Then some more rambling and banging on about taste and the grand finale – a doe-eyed stare into the middle distance.

Well, I learnt two things from this very informative advert. Firstly, that sausages are actually vehicles for philosophical musings and secondly that sausages are not, as previously thought, manufactured out of noses, ears, eyes, lips, trotters and arseholes in a factory somewhere grim. Nor are they stuffed full of salt, preservatives and all sorts of other little nasties which make them taste unbelievably good. No, they grow in fields! Fantastic. And that is what the supermarket is about: honest, wholesome, good-tasting and natural food. We already know that Jamie Oliver doesn’t advocate processed food like turkey twizzlers. So, in another ad exec’s words, ‘simples’: sausages cannot be processed food. Jamie ‘lovely jubbly’ Oliver can’t possibly be misleading us, because he wants the nation to be healthy and happy.

There you have it – sausages are natural food found in fields somewhere on what looks like the South Downs. I don’t know about you but I reckon I can save a fair packet if, instead of buying sausages, I just go and forage for my own. Read more by Naomi.

No, we will not be frollicking in the park, thanks

MADDIE YORK

I so agree with Sam: summer is so difficult. I really cannot be doing with it. For starters, it’s too hot. It’s TOO HOT. How am I supposed to function when it’s like this? Oh yes, I’m supposed to eat silly too-cold food, wear silly clothes that look like underwear, and I’m supposed to do a lot of silly lounging around in public areas.

Forgive me, but if you sat about on a bench in winter, just lounging, even on your day off or on a bank holiday, you’d be distinctly frowned upon. People would think you were a tramp, frankly. But when June rolls around, the whole of Britain suddenly has twice as much time and starts lolling about eating 99s or freeze-pops (or, if you’re posh and called Sebastian or Tilly, strawberries and bubbly). And everyone’s suddenly spending four hours spreadeagled on a lawn, as though hot weather gives us a licence to to behave like we’re at Glastonbury. (Don’t even get me started on Glastonbury – or festivals, generally.)

I am just not someone of sunny disposition. Not by any stretch. I get a buzz from heavy rain, especially when it starts with that end-of-the-world-ish darkening of the sky and then – KABOOM! Fantastic! I like being inside, see, either all curled up with a paper or book or something, or at my desk. I actively choose that sort of indoorsy lifestyle at all times of the year, so it’s not as if any so-called ‘bad’ weather’s going to get in the way of my life. If anything, bad weather helps me function.

So, when TV weatherpeople start warning us in their pretend-sad voices to ‘carry an umbrella’ or ‘remember to pack the fleece this weekend’, I don’t react in the way we’re supposed to. I don’t feel remotely disappointed that I won’t be able to skip off to the park and eat lollies, wearing flip-flops and later cooing ‘Ooh, typical me, I’ve caught a bit too much sun’. Instead I think: perfect, I’d prefer to stay inside anyway, and now I’ll get that rainy-thunder soundtrack that I have actually considered buying on a CD because I love it that much.

Those inevitable invitations that come flying at you from all sides at this time of year, to go and relax in your bikini in a park on a Sunday afternoon, just because we can, are awfully hard to say no to – you just end up sounding like a total happiness-hating freak.

And if you start to address your reasons for not joining in, you come across all repressed and awkward. Try confessing to any of the following: I feel uncomfortable sitting on a lawn for that many hours because I tend to get lawn bum and lower back pain; I don’t know how to arrange my legs without ending up lying down completely which seems quite anti-social; I don’t like using public park toilets; I get squinty in the sun but don’t like it when everyone wears sunglasses because that inhibits my reading of facial expressions; all my summer trousers are white and they’ll get grassy; I’d rather have a normal lunch at home than eat silly dippy-sticky food I would never normally choose.

Exactly! If you say any of that your friends just laugh at you – believe me, I’ve tried – and make withering, superior comments such as ‘Oh, you really don't know how to live, darling.’ So you end up having to make lame excuses or pretending to be busy, all the way through to the end of summer when everyone comes to their senses and realises they’ve been lying about in public wearing garments that are not actually, when you think about it, any more decent than a BRA AND PANTS.

Then, as a windswept Peter Cockroft (someone bring the poor fellow down from the BBC London roof, for goodness’ sake) strains to warn us that the nights are drawing in, I shall light the candles, pour a glass of blood-red wine and growl happily, ‘shut that door’. Read more by Maddie.

Short but not short of attitude.

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

It was with interest that I read the posts of my fellow Grumpy Youngsters, Shelly and Selina, who stand taller than the average woman. I already know what being short is all about, so I often find myself curious about what life is like for someone taller.

I have no problem with my diminutive height – the world would be a very boring place if we were all the same - but I get the distinct impression that other people are not quite as accepting as I am. In fact, it could actually be rather enjoyable were it not for the moronic behaviour of others; I’d be able to revel in the fact that people automatically assume me to be innocent, I’d lap up the ‘cute’ comments and getting asked for ID (Alright, I confess, it only happened a couple of times years ago, but it still counts). Instead, it ain’t even close to being a barrel of laughs because I have to deal regularly with being patronised.

Let’s leave aside all the clothing alterations that I have to get done. (I’ve accepted the fact that clothing manufacturers hate short women, as proven by the fact that petite clothing ranges are harder and harder to find.) At least my dry cleaner loves me (yep, I can’t sew; the shame!) The issue of clothes that don’t fit becomes positively trivial when someone, who successfully gives the impression of having a two-digit IQ, speaks down to you.

Not only do people speak to you like an idiot, but being petite seems to make people assume that you are a pushover who will happily take their nonsense. Though, I do get some pleasure from the surprise that results when I reveal the fact that I don’t suffer fools. Apparently, being small also means that I can’t speak for myself.

My theory is that, to many people’s minds, short equals young and young equals stupid. It’s called the Moron Theory.

All this is on the basis that I’m actually noticed. Of course, there are occasions when not being seen can be greatly beneficial, but its mostly just plain annoying. I can’t count the number of times that I have been walking along the pavement, my pathway clear and free from obstructions, only for someone walking on the other side of the pavement to turn directly in my path. I have had fully sighted people actually bump into me in broad daylight when I’m walking in a straight line on a wide pavement. Never have I wanted to punch someone in their face more than when the answer to “What do you think you’re doing?” is “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” Then again, I’m probably too short to reach: I could elbow them in the stomach first. I’m well aware that I’m shorter than average but I’m far from being the size of Tinkerbell.

It can even affect the mundane things like going to the supermarket, which becomes a hazardous pursuit. Not because I put myself in danger by clambering up to reach high shelves – it’s a risk I’m prepared to take – but because of how I hold my basket. The level it reaches is the perfect height for small children to run into as they tear around the supermarket without watching where they are going in an attempt to knock themselves out. It really is the final straw when you go unnoticed by people smaller than you.

I learnt very early on that making assumptions about people will often leave you with egg on your face, but I obviously went to a different school of life to many others. Today there is only one very easy lesson. Pens at the ready...don’t judge a book by its cover. Well done, you’ve passed. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: Marcus74id / 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.

Sam Peczek's Grumpy Election Review

This is my list. It is annotated for your reading pleasure. Going into detail will push my rant buttons (yes, they are plural) so I shall keep it short and ‘safe’:

1. TV debates. Great way of getting people interested and seeing how the candidates work under pressure, but impossible to decipher what the policies really mean. You want me to READ them all? Can’t you spoonfeed me the answers? I bet Wikipedia can tell me what it’s all about ... but they can’t explain why Sky and ITV decided to deck out the debates like pilots for sad 70s game shows that never made it past their ill-conceived debut. Shame on you all!

2. Tactical voting. The pragmatic option? Backfired this time, idiots. Live and learn? Not on my watch.

3. Cleggmania. Who? Oh, him. Yeah. Too late. Who’s gonna vote for someone who’s name we only learnt 4 weeks ago? Not England. Oh no.

4. Where are the women? Oh, they’re married to the men. Gosh, rumour has it there are some female MPs ... and yet we know more about which wife is the lesser train wreck. Nice.

5. People voting for the BNP, ‘because it’s funny’. If I was in a grave I would be rolling over in it. All in good time.

6. Rupert Murdoch. Is a dick. Monstrous, manipulative, and munching away at everything in its dirty path ... ‘M’ also stands for ...

7. The Media*. It’s big but it’s not clever. And it just happens to capitalise on the fact that most people aren’t much clever either. Classy.

8. Candidates lurking outside your Polling Station. NOT classy. I also saw a lot of blue balloons ... tempting, and yet (go on, say it) fine, the pretty little bits of gassy elastic will last longer than their promises. Cheesy yet true.

9. People who waited until after 9pm to vote. It’s your own damn fault if you missed out; don’t moan about something you’re not that bothered about.

10. Hung Parliament. Interesting. Dilute your policies or get them dirty? Tis a tricky business, but you’re not in it for the fun. Even the twisty political kind.

11. (Because 10 would have looked like I was going for a theme) The beginning of the end. Nah. Maybe we won’t even notice. Not unless the papers tell us we should be angry or sad. We can but wait.**

*Yes, even the Guardian. Another example of too little too late. Try staying ‘impartial’ next time, guys. Your notion of support is confounding.

**Which is something you’re probably used to if you live in Hackney South. Major counting/organisational fail.

Read more by Sam.

Personality does matter!

ROSIE MCGEE

Am I the only person who is openly admitting that personality has a big bearing on who is going to get my vote today? I’m not a complete idiot advocating a Martini ‘vote for the pretty people’ style approach to politics. Of course it’s also about substance. But can we all just take a minute to be honest and admit that as human beings our perception on a particular person is going to impact on whether we buy into what they’re saying. Personally I’m getting to the end of my tether with people explaining to me in patronising tones that it doesn’t matter whether I’d like to invite Mr. Brown or Mr. Cameron round to tea; it’s about how they’d get on with the business of running the country. Really? Thanks for pointing that out to me. Are you sure we simple, empty-headed women should really be allowed to have a vote anyway?

What I wish people like this would understand is that now the ideological gap between the major parties is narrower, then there needs to be another way of comparing them. Surely how a person comes across should be and is indicative of how they approach other things in life such as their job.

So let’s take a look at those demeanours. On the one hand there’s Gordon Brown who quite frankly gives me the creeps, especially when he smiles. I am still having regular nightmares over the ‘penitent sinner’ grimace. Then there’s David Cameron who is not only totally devoid of an upper lip but always seems to be endlessly shiny. You’d think what with all the money being poured into a general election campaign, someone could at least pull him to one side and dab a powder puff on his nose once in a while. This is Britain after all, not some tropical climate, so it’s not as if he’s out there shaking hands in the blistering midday heat. His constant glowing always makes me think of politicians as oily, slippery creatures and then it’s rather hard to trust them - or more to the point him - completely.

Then we come to the fresh-faced Nick Clegg. No wonder he’s doing so well; for starters, he doesn’t have any apparent facial problems. After watching the televised debates, I’ve taken to him. Is it because I agree with his policies? Well according to www.votematch.org.uk/2010/, not in the most part. However, I do find him agreeable. And before you ask, yes I probably would invite him for dinner. Having that likeable quality, a type of charisma, is key to being a successful leader. If it really wasn’t about personality at all then surely they’d be called representatives or spokespeople. But they’re not: they’re leaders. Someone, who by definition, will encourage others to follow them.

What’s wrong with wanting the people that represent you to be nice chaps and good sorts? People who embody what you believe in. Take my local MP, who has held his incredibly safe seat since 1992 and until recently most probably lived under the impression that it would take an act of god for him to lose it. That was until the expense claim debacle. Abroad at the time it happened, I recently have learnt that said MP who lives in zone 6 (like me) claimed disgusting amounts in second home allowances. Suddenly I don’t care about his policies or which party he represents. All I can think of is the many mornings I squeezed onto an unpleasantly packed train to commute into Central London to be paid a lot less than an MP, or the fact it takes about seven minutes to walk from London Victoria station to Westminster. Something clearly beyond his capabilities; as a result I have no intention of helping him to stay on.

Call me cynical but I do have trouble believing that all the promises currently being made can be kept and that the voter-friendly manifestos now being pushed won’t be changed, scaled down or scrapped once the new government (whoever that may be) gets its feet, weary from campaigning, back under the table. In which case, then what have you voted for? Hopefully someone, when all is said and done, who is a decent individual who will try their utmost to do what’s best for the nation, not their own pockets. With all the extended television coverage we’re getting of the candidates it’s almost like we know them. It’s enough to follow our natural gut instincts as to whether they’re someone we want bestow with the great honour of our vote.

However, whatever you decide, may I recommend the heady pleasure of telling every bumptious pain in the posterior who condescended to you about your political ignorance that you voted for the Monster Raving Loony Party - and only because someone you vaguely know lived next door to their Minister of Fun while at university. Read more by Rosie.

I am not your 'love'. I am your customer.

MADDIE YORK

There are some things I simply can’t let wash over me. Having strangers, especially customer service people, call me ‘love’ is one of those things. I mean, how dare they? Who do they think they’re speaking to? Their mum? Their grandma? Their girlfriend?

Well, I’m none of the above, and being addressed in this over-familiar way by complete strangers irks me to my very core. My very core, I tell you!

It happens so often, and each and every time it makes me flinch. “That’s two-pound-fifty, love,” says the man at the ticket office in my train station. “Where to, love?” asks the taxi driver.

Today I was reminded how much this offends me, when I answered a call from somebody attempting to get me to sign up for one of those makeover and photoshoot days at a studio and was greeted initially with a casual “Hello, love.”

If a complete stranger calls me, on my mobile, at a time that suits them not me, and they’re trying to sell me something, how dare they, for one single solitary second, think they are entitled to address me as ‘love’?

I didn’t say anything in objection the first time and allowed the guy to give me the spiel. (This wasn’t a cold call as such; back in December I got sucked in by a special offer for a haircut with this photography deal built in. I had the haircut straight away and promptly forgot about the shoot, so the studio was calling me to check if I still wanted it. Fair play, really, but still.)

I soon gathered, though, that they were asking for more money over the phone, as a deposit for the shoot. I’d gone off the idea completely, truth be told, and the whole deal only cost me the price of one of my usual haircuts so, you know, nothing lost on my side. I certainly didn’t want to get caught up making another payment to them for something I didn’t really want. “I’ve decided not to go ahead with this, actually,” I told my ‘gentleman’ caller.

“Oh, why’s that, sweet?”

‘Sweet’? Had he actually just called me ‘sweet’? A man I don’t know. A person engaged in a conversation geared towards taking my money. A man talking to a woman in a customer service scenario. Yes, yes, I’d heard him correctly.

“I don’t have to explain to you why I don’t want the service. I’m a customer and I’ve simply changed my mind,” said I, a bit trembly in the voice now on account of the irritation.

“You might as well do the shoot, love, as you’ve already paid for it.”

Well, that was it. Hit the roof, didn’t I?

“You should not call me ‘love’ or ‘sweet’. You don’t know me and it is completely inappropriate. Please count me out of the whole deal and strike me off your list of contacts. Thank you. Good BYE.”

I really resent the fact that there is no way to slam down a mobile phone to end a call. There’s only so much dramatic statement to be made from pressing a button really hard.

I’m not asking to be called ‘madam’ or ‘miss’. That’s probably going a bit far. But, in customer service interactions and sales calls – in fact, in any interaction with someone I don’t know – I definitely expect the person to be polite and vaguely aware that I’m actually not his best mate or his girlfriend, and that we’re not having a chat on the sofa.

It should feel a bit stiff and awkward, because it’s a business interaction and our custom is at stake. They should damn well address us with courtesy and formality. Presumably they think, if there is indeed any thinking behind it and it’s not just laziness and/or sexism, that being chatty and forcing us to engage with them in a personal way will win us over and make us feel comfortable.

Well, it does not. It makes me see red. I’m sure men get called ‘mate’ all the time, too, which must be equally aggravating.

Actually, I’ve just remembered I got called ‘mate’ several times by an electrician once. I was so baffled by the fact that this man apparently interacted with everyone, male and female, as his ‘mate’, I totally forgot to be offended by the rudeness. Until now. Read more by Maddie.