Large Groups of Language Students. Discuss.

NAOMI SAFFERY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grumpy girl's guide to shouting out of windows

ROSIE MCGEE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conversational Pet Hates: The Literal Meaning

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

No lady you didn’t literally write bullshit in your Politics exam paper because if you did the story would have been all over campus as soon as the papers reached the exams office and we would have spent the rest of the week laughing at your foolishness. Nor dear friend of mine did you literally wet yourself laughing at a joke you were told, because if you had you wouldn’t have dared tell me and would have been too busy stocking up on Tena Lady to recount the story. Man on the bus, you did not literally roll home from the pub because you were too drunk to walk normally, yes you will have been bouncing off walls all the way home but there was no literal rolling involved.

I don’t understand what the fascination is with the word but whenever I hear someone using it I want to slap them sharply across the face to make them realise how stupid they sound. Have our vocabularies shrunk so much that we are left with no other ways to express ourselves? Or are people just lazy? I’m sure there are people who have literally wet themselves laughing or literally told their boss to piss off before storming out of the office in a huff. However I will wager that those occurrences are few and far between whereas dropping the ‘L’ word into conversation is common parlance now.

It even annoys me more than people who use ‘txt spk’ or who go one step further and ‘rItE lYk DiS’ because I tend not to have dealings with people who do that. The literal zombie appears to have stolen several of my friends brains and infiltrates their conversations on a regular basis. I’d like to have a ‘Family Fortunes’ style buzzer hidden about my person so that whenever someone commits the crime of dropping the ‘L’ bomb I can stun them in to silence with a big fat ‘UHH ERRR’.

Capitalising on their stunned silence I would then gently, I promise not to use my fist, explain why they got buzzed before letting them go on their merry way safe in the knowledge that they have been schooled in the art of conversation. Read more by Alice.

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.

Trouble at the Tills

SELINA NWULU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you're going to fake it, fake it well.

ROSIE MCGEE

This summer we true Brits have been trying to soak up every last ray of sun. Lily-white, goosebumped limbs have been freed from warm sleeves and denim trouser legs. And I, like many others, am not especially keen on exposing flesh which bears a certain resemblance to corned beef.

In order to feel a bit more comfortable about showing off so much skin I have been known to give nature a helping hand and dye the top layer of my dermis a slighter darker colour. And what’s wrong with that? As someone with what can only be described as an ‘English rose complexion’ by kind people and ‘pasty’ by unkind people, I’ve been faking it for years.

Over the last decade fake tanning has really taken off and evolved. I think back with a shudder to the revolting product I used as a teenager; from The Body Shop, it smelt like acrid artificial watermelon, it streaked like hell and often made me itch so much I scratched over the top layer of skin, removing the need for me to exfoliate. All the fancy quick-drying, airbrush-effect stuff now available is light years ahead of that revolting goo.

Now we’re all a lot more clued up about the dangers of the sun - skin ageing, skin cancer and so on - it’s become more and more popular to get your tan out of a bottle. I don’t care what you say; everyone I’ve ever met looks better with a bit of colour. Provided you don’t go too far and end up looking like the creepy little man from the Tango adverts, it is a quick way to noticeably improve your appearance. Did you know that most women look half a stone lighter when tanned? It hides all sorts of marks and blemishes and just makes you feel more confident, which always makes you look better.

Right, so we’re agreed, fake tan’s a wonderful thing. Or is it? Like any sort of chemical substance, it’s dangerous when it falls into the wrong hands. More than any other beauty product, it takes time to get right and unlike smudged eyeliner or pancakey foundation, it can’t be immediately remedied. If you make a real mess of it, you’re stuck looking dreadful for several days unless you’re willing to scrub yourself raw. And that’s what bothers me, having to look at others who’ve well and truly cocked it up.

Low level offenders include the person with golden arms and deathly white hands and the individual with the odd missed patch, especially around the knee - neither of which is great but just about visually acceptable. What I honestly cannot bear is being forced to observe the person who didn’t rub it in properly so now has what looks like a trickle of melted chocolate, usually frozen in time, rolling down an ankle or heel.

Not to mention the true wally who forgot to wash her hands after applying and now looks like she’s been mushing apricots solidly for the last month. For god’s sake - how hard is it to remember to wash your hands? You know, it’s that small thing you supposedly do every time go to the loo. Remind me never to come to their house for nibbles - or any sort of food in fact.

Then there’s the person who doesn’t own a loofah so never exfoliates it off properly as the top layer of skin starts to shed. I live in fear of conversations with such offenders as I invariably find that the resulting patching is worst around the neck and décolletage area. And I can’t stop staring at it the whole time I’m talking to them. If you’re too lazy, broke or disorganised to purchase this bit of kit then at least improvise. Use the pan scourer for all I care, just get that disgusting flaking skin off.

It goes without saying that I have committed every single one of these beauty crimes at some point in my life. As I said, it’s tough to get the hang of it. But do you know what I did each time I messed up spectacularly? Had the decency to hide it from the general public and then learnt from my mistake. With great power (to look radically better) comes great responsibility (to make a decent job of it). So please, embrace safe sun tanning but take the time to get it right before showing it off to the rest of the world. Read more by Rosie.