Fight or flight

LAURA DEMETRIOU

Last year I had the unenviable task of being on a 16-hour flight to Thailand. While the cabin crew did their best to keep 400 passengers comfortable and entertained, flying in general is a horrible process (unless it’s the dream where you can fly above the clouds, of course).

Every flight I’ve been on, someone around me has managed to annoy me with inconsiderate behaviour. Being suspended thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube is never the nicest thought, but having to deal with annoying passengers is worse than the possibility of plummeting to the earth in a screaming panic.

So, I’ve decided to make a list of things NOT to do so you don’t annoy the fellow traveller who might be sitting behind, next or in front of you.

A plea to the man in the street: keep your opinions to yourself

ROSIE MCGEE

Lots of things about modern British society perplex me. The culture of insanely long pauses on reality TV shows, the fact people seem to actually like eating at Nando’s and jeggins are just a few. However, all of these merely intriguing phenomena pale into insignificance compared to the entirely baffling, widely held notion that it is entirely acceptable to shout at complete strangers in the street, or in some other totally unsolicited way comment on people you do not know as they go about their business.

I’m not talking about greetings, pleasantries and other totally innocuous comments in the vein of "good morning" or "beautiful weather we’re having". If anything I don’t think there is enough of that sort of nice, old fashioned chit chat. Instead, what I take issue with is people who deem it their God given right to pester unsuspecting members of the public with their inane drivel.

Stuffing your face on the bus? DON’T!

NAOMI SAFFERY

I have already written about my issue with bus drivers. But let me now turn my focus of derision to my fellow passengers. Up until a few weeks ago I only had minor complaints when it came to my brothers (and sisters) in arms. We were all in it together, battling our way to work; negotiating delays, rude drivers and the maniacal passenger who had us all staring determinedly into our laps.

But now all this has changed. The reason? The incessant need by a frighteningly large proportion of public transport-partaking society to eat their greasy, noisy and unnecessary food in front of others. I have been tipped over the edge by a particular incident that needs to be recounted in full for the enormity of the problem to be fully understood.

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

ROSIE DAVIES

Mobile phones. They have become so ingrained in everyday life that we would most likely not know what to do without them; holding them has become second nature, almost as if they’re an extended part of our hands.

Fiddling with their buttons absent-mindedly, or attempting to crack the various levels of games offers one way to pass time when waiting for a train, a bus, or friends. Issues with dodgy signal, the expense, the inevitable radioactive brain freeze and the weird deep-vein thrombosis feeling in your arm after using them for a decent length of time aside, they are extremely useful and in some instances life-saving.

But let’s all agree for a moment. At times, isn’t it easy to think that they’re the bane of modern life?

They manage to creep into every single facet of life, including places where they are categorically not invited. The theatre and the cinema are two that spring to mind. We’re all familiar with the ‘don’t let your mobile phone ruin the movie’ trailers, but as I’ve experienced so far, they don’t really work. I recently saw Harry Potter in one of those huge Odeon cinemas. Ten minutes into the film a girl four rows down got out her phone to browse Facebook. For crying out loud.

Aside from the fact that the light from her phone was terrifically distracting, who the hell starts social networking when they’re at the cinema? Who is that much of a slave to their cyber social life? And who has the attention span of a gnat to give up on a film so quickly? I personally managed forty minutes of The Wedding Crashers, a film so bad I have had constant nightmares about Owen Wilson’s nose ever since, before walking out. Even then I didn’t resort to my phone for comfort.

Then there’s the theatre. It’s more of a treat to go to the theatre, a little more cultured. Most of the audience will be of your parents’ or grandparents’ generation, so you’re lulled into the assumption that the majority have the decency and manners to turn off their phones, if they even own one.

Not a bit of it. Last night, whilst at the glorious Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn, a woman at the back let her phone ring three times before the eventually the actors intervened and gave her a good mouthful. Luckily, the play itself involved mobile phone sounds, so the cast could be fairly good-humoured about it. despite the outraged huffing and puffing from the audience. Unfortunately, the offender didn’t do much to help her fast-growing reputation as public enemy number one by calling out ‘I don’t know how to turn it off!’  Who has a mobile phone they can’t operate? I hope she thanked her lucky stars it wasn’t Shakespeare.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not 100% chaste. I’ve definitely heard mine whirring away in my bag on unsuitable occasions, trying desperately to cough loudly enough to cover the noise up. But I am bemused at the situations in which people think it is perfectly acceptable to use their phone, forcing everyone else to join in on the experience, whether they wish to or not.

We’ve all been next to the guy on the train forcing everyone within the radius of three carriages to know that he was ‘TOTALLY FUCKING WASTED LAST NIGHT’, and the vacuous girl who manages to have a conversation that doesn’t actually involve any real information. ‘I know, I was like totally…yah, I know, I just said to him like, it’s…really?! Yah, I know…I was like…oh my God, I KNOW!’ Why don’t the socially inept and those with little or no manners realise they are just being a plain sodding nuisance?

And then there’s dating. Most definitely NOT the time to constantly fiddle with your phone. We’d all like the person we’re sat opposite to think we are at a least relatively interesting, or attractive. However, here’s a stark warning: there are people out there who, on a date, will not only make you feel invisible by regularly glancing down at their mobile, but who actually have the nerve to text someone else whilst you’re talking to them, as if you’re just an interruption to their evening. If you’re lucky, you’ll get the hat trick: they’ll wave their phone in your face at some point to let you know they’ve received a text message which they are powerless to ignore, and make up some wet excuse to leave. I think I’d even prefer the fake emergency phonecall to that.

So, what to do? We can hardly get rid of them. But, just in case you do come face to face with those who ignore basic etiquette and manners from time to time, make sure you order enough surplus popcorn to throw at tossers in the cinema, and thoroughly enjoy the self-righteous moan you can have in the theatre when the perfect moment of poignant silence is broken. If in doubt, practise your best angry glare, and, if you can, move seats on the train. Better still, keep it in your bag once in a while, to savour the messages when you do finally have a quick peek at work. And most importantly of all? Sometimes, just sometimes – turn it off. Read more by Rosie.

The Train Commandments

JUDY JOHNSON

I am on a train for around 90 minutes in total each day. God, that’s depressing. It’s not the best part of my day. It’s a space in which getting a seat is a highlight, and something you feel a bit smug about even if it’s only for five minutes – so, hardly something to shout about.

But, after yet another journey of suffering people who either have no manners, no sense or just no awareness of anything around them other than their nose, I thought it was worth blogging about. And so, without further ado: The Train Commandments. Please try to remember at least one of the points when you next board a train. Or, indeed, any form of transport where other human beings are present. 

1. Thou shalt allow air into the train

I like air. Don’t you? Nice fresh air that wakes you up a little, helps you breathe, you know the stuff. So why, oh dear commuter, must you sit there idly, in your privileged window seat, as we all roast in this cabin of heated hell? If the windows are steamy, it’s not for drawing in – it’s sweat and breath and goodness knows what else, so open a window. It won’t bite. If there is not a single window open on your carriage, despite it being full of people sitting and standing in every space available, open a window. I don’t care if it’s raining. I don’t care if it’s snowing. You’re probably wearing a coat. Man up and open it so that we don’t all have to sweat and smell each other’s breath – there’s just no need to do that with strangers. 

2. Thou shalt not sit next to your invisible friend

Are you sitting on the aisle side? Look at the seat next to you. Is it empty? Now look around the carriage. Is the train getting full? Are people standing? Are you approaching a station with a platform full of people? Here’s a thought: don’t keep an empty seat next to you for no reason. Someone will see it and they will climb over you to get to it. That will be awkward, they might even touch you a bit with their boot, and given that you like sitting next to empty seats, that can’t be good. Shuffle over to the window side (or the middle if you’re in a row of three, there you go) and let someone sit down without having to negotiate the space between your feet and bags. Oh, and bags on a seat? Don’t you dare.  

3. Thou shalt remember your table manners, or find some

There’s a reason kids are told to chew with their mouths closed: it’s in the hope that they will remember it as they grow older and learn to eat like civilised human beings. None of us wants to see that mashed up Maccy Ds in your mouth. More importantly, none of us wants to hear you as you munch it, followed by a slurp of your drink, followed by more munching and loud exhaling through your nose. We don’t want to see crumbs falling all over the seat. If you must eat food while travelling (we’ve all been there), at least get something that doesn’t stink, doesn’t make too much noise and that isn’t messy. A Twitter friend had to sit on a train with a woman standing up, eating a Wasabi noodle soup. One can only imagine how sickening that carriage was, with its lack of windows open, full of people standing because the seats were filled by imaginary friends, while she slurped on soup. 

4. Thou shalt bend with thy knees

When you’re standing on a train and need to pick up your suitcase/briefcase/Maccy Ds wrapper, remember: trains are quite small. People sitting down are at about waist height. If you then bend over, from your waist, to pick up said item, you are quite possibly going to thrust your backside into someone’s face a little. This is bad etiquette. It is unnecessary. Simply bend at the knees and away you go, with no awkward encounters and probably no back problems because you really should lift with your knees, not your back. Those wrappers can be heavy. 

5. Thou shalt not infect the Metro

We all hate having coughs and colds and flu because we’re British and we still have to go to work and make sure we infect everyone else. But when you’re on a train, on your not-so-merry way to work, and that little tickle comes along, don’t sneeze into your Metro. Don’t cough into it. That is not a substitute for being polite. Use your elbow or hands to catch your grimy germs or, even better, use a tissue. Or even better than that, stay at home. No one wants to touch your germy dribble while reading about the royal wedding.

6. Thou shalt limit yourself to your assigned amount of space

Train seats aren’t luxurious, or wide, or particularly comfy, but they are a certain size. They are all the same size. Which means even if you are reading a newspaper next to someone who isn’t, that does not give you the right to elbow them in the ribs as you do so. Nor does it give you the right to spread your paper across into their space. And if you do, you cannot then get mad that they begin to read it. In fact, they should probably be allowed to turn the page.  

7. Thou shalt not try to get on the train before everyone is off it

Remember Funhouse? Well, in the final part of the game they had to wait for their team mate to come out of the funhouse before they could go in. Like a relay. Apply this logic to trains. Not only do you look like an impatient child when you shove your way past an old lady who is being slow at stepping off the train, but you are actually being stupid. The more people who get off the train, the more space there will be on the train. Let them get off, considering it’s their stop after all, and when you step on there will be more seats to choose from. See?

8. Thou shalt at least pretend to understand how annoying your voice is

It’s fine to have a phone conversation on a train. Really it is. But do you have to be so LOUD? We don’t actually need to know that your best friend has annoyed you, or that you didn’t get a pay rise. We’re not going to sympathise as we are busy trying to breathe in this airless carriage while not slapping the guy digging his elbows into our ribs. At least try to talk a little quieter or keep it short – we’ll know you tried, and we’ll hate you less.  

9. Thou shalt not suffocate those who are seated

It is unfair that you have to stand for part or all of your journey. We get that, we have been there. But We, the Seated, do not deserve to be suffocated by your coat. Or your bag. Or your scarf. Or your dreadlocks (seriously, this happened this morning, I felt quite pukey). Remember that the aisle, like the seats, is a certain size, and while those people sitting down may look comfy, it doesn’t mean they can handle having all the air, even the recycled air, taken away because you need to lean. This is no place for leaning. 

10. Thou shalt offer your seat to those who need it

A slightly more serious one to finish, but one that shouldn’t even need to be said. No seats left and a pregnant woman gets on? Get up. No seats and some elderly people get on? Get up. No seats and a disabled person gets on? Get up. Just be nice – it’s not hard. No one will think less of you, even in London. You might even get a smile out of someone – and that is something to shout about... 

The Train Commandments were originally published on Judy’s website, here.

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.

No exit: hell is public transport

SAM PECZEK

I try not to get all snippy about public transport, since, deep down, I deem it a noble endeavour. Sadly, and with increasing frequency, my happy thoughts are being kicked around by newer, meaner, and altogether angrier ones. Why, you ask, could this be? Let’s break it down:

First of all, whilst in transit, you’re pretty much being held hostage (albeit in a mostly voluntary way). Younger people often capitalise on this by sharing their atrocious ‘musical’ choices with the captive commuters. Their motives must be sadistic, since surely they can glean no genuine pleasure from the pitifully tinny echoes of their current top 10. Even the vaguely considerate pod people (the ones who utilise headphones) sometimes turn their mind music up to a level that must hurt them even more than it does us.

Then there are the compulsive phone freaks. There are two camps: the texters and the talkers. I’m not sure which are more irksome. Sure, the chatters are more invasive, but there is something distinctly wrong about people staring at a little screen for the duration of their journey. Clearly, they are so unsettled by the bus and the other people (hideous as we are) that their only escape is to chain-text vapid missives to everyone in their phone book. Lack of imagination is a sorrowful thing to behold.

Let’s not gloss over the talkers. For some unfathomable reason they cannot spend a single moment alone (especially bus moments) without being hooked up to some idiotic acquaintance. I’m not sure if the recipients of these calls even speak; all you can hear is the desperate dialler wittering on about their various woes: their job (but of course), assorted offspring, boring health issues. On and on and on. This is how they prepare for their day.

I was recently privy to a delightful girl who bemoaned her sore throat to a friend for a solid 15 minutes (I shouldn’t be going to work but they won’t let me have time off…). One can only assume she was scheming to hasten her illness in order to better her chances of bussing it back home before 9:30, no doubt treating a fresh batch of commuters to a new joy-laden monologue. And then there are those who engage in fully animated gesticulation, even though the listener (or silenced screamer) is not around to appreciate the performance. This can be especially irksome if you happen to be perched within striking distance of flailing arms.

It’s not just the passengers – oh no. The bus itself comes with certain trappings. Like the omnipotent woman’s voice telling us where we’re going and – repeatedly – not to stand on the upper deck or stairs. Sometimes the drivers get bored with pressing the voice woman button and give the intercom a whirl; these are often special moments where, granted, the distance is still there, but the driver is at least trying to reach out to us, telling one of our number to come back down and pay their fare. If I had access to the mic, I’d use it to inform the other passengers that no, there are not any seats upstairs – if I’m standing on the stairs it’s because my mission to sit down has failed, leaving me stranded. Absurd as it may sound, some people really do seem to think I’m standing there for the hell of it.

Other messages are silent, like when the writing near the front of the bus informs us that we are now on diversion, and that our destination has changed, without ever getting around to letting us know where this mysterious place is. Other bits of communication – the best kind – are usually screamed. Like when the driver needs to override the Voice: one is telling us that the bus Terminates Here, the other tells us, ‘No, she’s lying! It’s okay; I’m going to Tottenham Court Road – please don’t get off the bus!’ But it’s too late. The trust has already been broken; we have been wronged too many times before.

The bus is hard on us all, pushing us towards a special type of madness. I recall one gentleman who didn’t have a phone, but that didn’t stop him muttering into his hand for a long, long time. (To his credit, his use of the hand appeared to be a failed attempt to mask or even stop his outbursts). I discovered a delightful audio story that kept me occupied for a while. It was an open letter to a doctor who engages in an inappropriate phonecall whilst on the bus. I also have a nice recording of The Yellow Wallpaper for especially perilsome journeys.

So what are the rest of us to do? The tube? I think not; the atrocities that occur on the bus are all the more harrowing underground. Walking would involve waking up hours before daylight happens, which leaves cycling. I must admit I have become quite tempted – think of all those jaunty, joyful folk you often see, or perhaps just imagine, astride their bicycles. Sure, I’ll most likely end ending up mangled, perhaps beholding one of my beloved buses from a whole new angle – assuming, of course, that I actually see it coming.

Our lovely London buses are so very apt of dispensing with misguided cyclists – this much has been told. And yet it shall happen: I am crossing over. Today I cycled to work for the first time. Perhaps I got lost more than once, and perhaps my accidental detours meant it took almost as long as the bus, but – for now, at least – it is more fun. Albeit in a not-finding-the-right-roads-and-trying-not-to-get-broken sort of way. Read more by Sam.

Kindly spare me the details

ROSIE MCGEE

Minutiae, oh how I hate it. I’ve never been one to get bogged down in the finer details or spend an especially long time dotting i’s or crossing t’s -much to the chagrin of my former employers. Instead I tell myself I’m a concept person, all about the big picture, the big idea and the bottom line. Of course there have got to be box tickers lurking around behind the scenes making sure all the various admin gets done, papers filed and so forth. But let’s be honest, who really wants to hear about that?

I doubt you’ll see a new glam TV show premiering soon chronicling the trials, tribulations and love trysts of a bunch of office assistants. Not exactly cliffhanger material; Joe Public is highly unlikely to tune in each week to discover if that stationery order did come in on time and whether in fact there were enough green biros in it. No, instead we want to know about life and death, courtroom dramas and what the thin, pretty, suntanned girls from somewhere wealthy in California have chosen as the theme for their next school prom.

So we’re agreed, life’s little tedious things exist and have to be done but people are not interested in knowing all about them. Or are they? I can only assume the answer to be yes, as everywhere I look, turn or listen someone is either banging on about their lives in mind-numbing detail or worse still, encouraging me to talk about it. There’s small talk which I’m fairly partial to. Life’s too short and too tiring for big talk all the time. A gentle bit of conversation about not very much, especially with someone you don’t know terribly well, is a civilised way of interacting. However, there’s got to be a line or at least a sliding scale. What I’m complaining about here is the minniest, teeny-tiniest of talk. Chatter that makes discussing the weather look positively highbrow.

I’m sure anyone who has ever had the misfortune to work in an office has encountered one of the worst culprits of this horrid phenomenon: one half of an overly communicative couple. This is the person who rings their co-conspirator at lunch time (which they spend sitting at their desk surfing the internet and always look noticeably awkward when you invite them to the pub). The conversation, which is held in a whispery voice (you may well be ashamed of yourself), goes along the following lines: “What are you having?” Pause. “A sandwich.” Pause. “Tuna.” Pause. “Cucumber.” Pause. “Chocolate bar.” Pause. “Kit Kat. What are you having after yours?” Kill me, kill me now, or at least tie my arms so I can’t seize the telephone receiver and batter them to death with it before explaining down the line what I’ve done, blow by blood-spattering blow.

Since when did true love mean recounting the finer points of every morsel of food you’ve eaten that day? Or in fact ever? If that’s not bad enough then there is the person who questions you about the downright mundane, forcing you to come up with something to say about which there is nothing. “How was the supermarket?” this person will ask as you march back in with a carrier bag in your hand. It was a supermarket: irritating in its own right but also handy as it sells food. Then it moves onto: “Did you get anything nice?” Before you know it, you’re going through the plan for tonight’s dinner as if it were a military operation. 19.12: turn oven on to 180˚C, and so on.

And the whole time I’m thinking to myself that the other person cannot possibly be genuinely interested in my responses to these questions and is therefore either buttering me up for some truly horrible favour or having a bet with someone over how long they can keep me gibbering away. Either way, my gut instinct is to get the hell out of there and run for the hills.

If, by some miracle, you’ve survived the whole day of such torment, then it continues on the way home. Get people on a train armed with a mobile phone and they love to ring home (the place they will be in about half an hour) and go through every single tedious, uninteresting thing that happened to them. The outcome of the marketing meeting, how someone double booked a meeting room and what Jo from Accounts thinks of their new hairstyle ... and so it incessantly continues. In short: verbal torture against the eardrums of other hardworking, tired people who do not give a damn about your day.

Small talkers extraordinaire, please, stop invading the commutes of others with information you can easily discuss when in the privacy of your own home instead of instinctively turning the TV on and proceeding to ignore each other all evening. Or, maybe spend your journey reading a newspaper or a book so you’ve actually got something of interest to discuss. Or even better, meditate for a little while on why you’re so empty and needy you have to fill every waking moment with stream of babble about nothing very much. Read more by Rosie.

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.

Sandals, sweat and sunscreen acne. Oh, good, summer's here.

SAM PECZEK

It’s getting closer – you can see the signs seeping in through the cracked corners of your little world. That spring in the steps of the many as they saunter down the street; that extra little pinch of pep that whispers summer ...

Needless to say, I am not a summer person. I have no beef with the sun and all its lovely life-giving warmth. I like the flowers and the nature and things not being dead. What bothers me is excess; the sticky, dirty, clingy heat that plagues me between the months of June and September. The cancer-feeding UV rays can be a bitch as well, especially if you’re blessed with that kill-me-now skin type that’s simply begging to turn on you if you forget to reapply your factor 60 paste less than 38 times a day.

Yup, everyone hates sunscreen. Sure, I’m glad that it stops me from sizzling away in the sunlight, but why do they have to make it smell so godawful? All day, the sickly pseudo-coconut scent clogging up my pores and my nostrils until I can scuttle back home to a shower and safety.

If only the smell was the worst of it, but no; there’s the delightful way it greases up my skin, giving me the wonder that is sunscreen acne. Needless to say, when your face is quite literally melting all over the shop (and anywhere else you dare tread) makeup is not an option.

"All the sandaly, flip-floppy crap I’ve tried has always ripped my feet to blood and blister-ridden shreds."

Don a giant hat, search for the shady side of the street; it’s not enough. Clothing is a major issue, one that I’ve never managed to resolve. Like most winter folk, I like wearing lots of clothes. Liken it, if you will, to walking around in an almost duvet. If I could get away with sticking armholes in a sleeping bag, don’t think I wouldn’t have tried. It’s happening already; girls everywhere sporting their floaty dresses and sandaly shoes. I tried to go with it, pretend to be okay with all the summer stuff, sneaking into a shop and looking at all the vintage dress-shaped garments. No hope; all the patterns were hideous – and this is coming from someone who at one point aspired to a granny wardrobe of ugly flowery dresses. Instead I left the shop with yet another plaid shirt, only to encounter throngs of those annoying skinny girls prancing about in their little dresses. Or worse, those odd characters wearing coats – I swear they’re doing it just to mock me.

Footwear is the mother of all summer evils. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m about comfort over aesthetics, so it’s trainers all the way. Sadly, they are not the best option in hot weather. And yet all the sandaly, flip-floppy crap I’ve tried has always ripped my feet to blood and blister-ridden shreds. Even the ones not made from plastic and whimsy. Yes, even those.

Which leads us to the trauma of transport. We can rule out the underground straight away – we all know how ghastly being crammed into a tube of moist, hot, and odorous bodies with no clean air, praying that the train won’t stop in between stations for a perilously long (ie, more than half a second) moment. Time does not exist underground; you have entered (albeit voluntarily) an abyss where time and hope are sucked out of your feeble existence until you are able to crawl out into the godforsaken sun once more.

Buses, I have discovered, are only fractionally less painful. Sure, you get to look out the window and know that the world outside still exists, but those dammed rays of burning heat beat at your fragile skin relentlessly. Added to this is the maddening way that the radiators continue to pump even more hot air at the half of your body that is below the window. I remember once, being stuck in traffic on a remorselessly hot day, and thinking ‘yes, this is actually hell’ (the fact that I was also on Streatham High Road is purely incidental).

And finally – the workplace. I spend my weekdays in a very windowy room, which is lovely for the precious, soul-soothing daylight, but also rather apt at creating something of a heat trap. To resolve this, we open windows and employ the use of a very, very loud fan. Or close the windows and try the air con (also not so innocuous sound wise). This makes communication somewhat of a mission, especially when answering the phone. I’d like to think I’ve mastered the art of guessing what people might be saying, but alas, this has proven not to be the case. I shall spend my free time scanning ads for telepathy lessons… and flights to (and jobs in) those mythical cold places I’ve spied on a map; the sort of place where people understand the pains of summer and get how it’s you guys and your weird sun worshiping ways who are the freaks, not me. No need to wish me luck, I have a good feeling about this plan ...

Read more by Sam.

Is civility dead?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

I’ve discovered the reason why I can be deemed a Grumpy Young Woman. It really is so simple that I don’t know how I didn’t realise it before. I used to think that it was just the actions of other people that naturally left me seething, but I’ve come to the conclusion: I have the ability to soak up fury. Like some dodgy lotion that should be avoided because of the chemicals it contains, the bile seeps into me and settles into my organs.

This is why my aggravation is always worse when I am forced to use the London Underground. What is it about public transport that makes people act like lunatics? Why would anyone feel the need to do battle for a seat during a journey to a location where they will spend the day sitting down? In fact, the seat is so precious that it cannot possibly be offered to anyone who needs it more. In my experience, the culprit is invariably male and clad in a pin-stripe suit.

To make matters worse, men love to spread their legs in a concerted effort to occupy the seats either side of them, apparently to accommodate their substantial balls. Well, they have to do something now that the recession has made it uneconomical to fill the Porsche/Hummer/whatever with petrol.

“Apparently, it is easy to confuse public transport with your own living room.”

For the most part, the utter lack of common courtesy doesn’t appear intentional; it stems from an inability to recognise that there are other people around them. Egocentric somehow doesn’t seem to provide an adequate description. It is the only explanation for why anyone would open up a broadsheet in a position where it covers the book that their neighbouring passenger is reading. Apparently, it is easy to confuse public transport with your own living room.

Those who don’t make a mad dash for the seats can be equally annoying, but just in a different way. It is clearly too much trouble to stand out of the way of other passengers. Standing in the aisle and blocking empty seats is much more preferable.

Now I don’t remember myself as a teenager – it was much too long ago – but I’m sure I wasn’t as loud as those who seem to live at the back of the bus. Not only do they love the sound of their own voices; they think everyone else also loves it so much that they think nothing of singing aloud in public. Can you imagine – whole groups of teenagers singing? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they were tuneful, but even Simon Cowell’s botoxed face would form a frown if he heard it.

It doesn’t get any better when you decide to walk anywhere, because you have to contend with drivers who show little courtesy towards each other and even less for pedestrians. I’m sure the Highway Code says that a pedestrian has the right of way if they are in the process of crossing the road. It doesn’t say blow your horn at them and attempt to intimidate them with the car bumper.

In fact, the spirit of entitlement and selfishness is so bad that, not long ago, in a supermarket close to where I live, a man died after being attacked over an argument about a place in a queue. Had all parties involved remembered their manners and dealt with the matter in a civilised way, the whole tragic mess could have been avoided.

There are some glimmers of hope, though. A teenager held the door open for me at Wimbledon’s Centre Court. This is despite the fact that I was several steps behind her and she was perfectly within her rights to let the door go, but she saw me, stopped and held it open. Of course, I thanked her; I’m sure she thought it was only for the door, but it was actually for renewing my faith in youngsters!

The normally hateful chore of supermarket shopping was made a little better when an assistant offered me the opportunity to pick apples from a brand new pallet when he saw me attempting to choose from the shrivelled crap that was on the shelf – bless him for helping me get my five a day. I thanked him twice and skipped off to the checkout.

There are still signs of life – quick, pass the defibrillators! Read more by Shermaine.

How hard is it to give up your seat?

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

If you’re the sort of person who studiously looks at their feet when an elderly or disabled person gets on the bus so you don’t have to shift your bum out of your seat then, to borrow a phrase from The Inbetweeners, you’re a ‘bus wanker’. In fact, I think you’re just a bit of a wanker, bus or not.

My local bus company started life as a student shuttle service running between the university and the halls of residence. Those days are gone and it now serves most of the city and carries a huge range of passengers. Some of the students can’t seem to get their cloth-eared little heads round the fact that not all the passengers are lazy students rolling in to 9am lectures. Many have been known to get territorial about letting the ‘wombles’ (the charming name given to the elderly passengers) onto the bus.

The students sit there gossiping loudly about who they want to pull and ‘like I’ve got so much work to do OMG’ and, as soon as someone who could actually do with sitting down gets on the bus, they either shut up and become engrossed in their phones or they talk even more loudly as if they’re deaf as well as blind.

When I offer my seat to someone more in need of it than me, nine times out of 10 they will politely decline, forcing me to engage in a battle of wits to get them to take my seat whether they like it or not. I can’t just sit there even if they decline the seat because I always imagine them to be thinking that I’m an ill-mannered lout. One thing is for certain, if my stepmother ever caught me not offering my seat to someone I’d get a clip round the ear, even if I am 28 and haven’t lived at home for 12 years.

The other thing that winds me up about bus travel is being stuck sitting next to men who feel compelled to sit with their legs as wide apart as is humanly possible. Are they trying to make the entire bus stare at their crotch? On the way home recently I sat next to an imbecile doing this, legs akimbo and a look on his face that said “Yeah? And?” His inability to sit properly left me clinging onto my seat with half my bottom and digging my heels into the floor to stop myself sliding down the aisle of the bus as it took a rather sharp corner. The temptation to elbow him straight in the gonads was overwhelming, but unfortunately, or fortunately for him, he left the bus before I got a chance.

It’s not difficult to exhibit a little common courtesy so, next time you’re on a bus, why not give it a try? Yes, students of Southampton University, I am talking to you! A slight word of warning, though: do be careful offering your seat to someone you think is pregnant without being absolutely sure it is a baby in there and not just a food baby. I was mortified when that happened to me in Rome; that’s the one time I did wish the lad had just stayed in his seat, staring at the floor. Read more by Alice.

Image: Journal of Public Transit in Ottawa.

On the buses

NAOMI SAFFERY

Is it just me or are London bus drivers the dregs, I repeat DREGS, of society?

Every day I trudge along to the bus stop to catch the bus to work. I stand at the bus stop, knowing, just knowing, that the bus will take half an hour to arrive. I live in central London; the buses are supposed to be every five minutes. How is it then that my bus runs so late, every single day of the year?

Not only does the bus run late but the bus decides to change destination half way through the journey. I say “the bus decides” because a woman’s automated, robotic voice blasts out of the speakers announcing the destination change because, of course, the driver can’t actually talk to the passengers.

This drives me apoplectic with rage. My eyes start bulging, my forehead throbs, I start breathing heavily as I tell myself that today is the day that I will make the driver answer the little old lady’s question about where to get off for the museum.

But no, I sit there in a state because whatever any of us do I know that it is no good. He won’t answer; he just turns his head slowly and pushes the button: “The Victoria and Albert Museum,” the woman’s voice menaces at the little old lady.

But, this rudeness is nothing compared to the sheer audacity of the bus driver who decided he was a little parched and fancied a nibble during his ‘arduous journey’. He pulled over next to a newsagent, alighted and went in. He left behind a seething mob of commuters packed into his bus like caged animals whilst he toddled off in the middle of rush hour to get himself a packet of crisps and a fizzy drink.

I don’t know what staggered me more, the fact that he did this or the fact that he conducted himself in the obligatory bus driver silence throughout the whole criminal act.

My mouth was agape with fury and I looked over at my fellow, stressed, tired passengers and in that moment I realised that this was the final straw. The fight had left them as they were so used to this sort of behaviour that it now seemed normal to them. Where has customer service gone? No, scrap that; where have basic manners and human decency gone?

I was late for work that day – and I was late for work the day that the driver turned us all out as if, yet again, he was changing destinations. Only he wasn’t changing destinations, and we watched as he went on his way leaving us all behind at the bus stop, in the rain. One woman had the balls to scream after him “You are so evil! That was a wicked thing to do” – but I don’t think he heard. The whole thing was completely inexplicable as he could not tell us what was going on (because bus drivers don’t speak) and the button didn’t have a woman’s voice behind it for that particular scenario.

I decided to do something about the shocking state of London’s buses. So, I went onto London Transport’s website. Can someone please tell me how I can speak to a real person on the phone as I have emailed and emailed again to no response?

Do you think BoJo will sort it for me? The Mayor’s wonderful bus which is ‘going green for London’ doesn’t work when it is really cold – as it has been recently; funny that, seeing as it’s winter and all – they conk out and, again, there is no woman’s recorded voice to keep us informed. So the bus driver resolutely sits in silence as he is blocking traffic, we sit in resigned silence as we notch up another late entrance into the office and I feel trapped in a nightmarish dream that I am going nowhere.

I now stand at the bus stop and hope with all my might that the bus to come around the corner will be the knackered, old, polluting tank of a bus which is certainly not green. Funny, at least I know I will have a chance of reaching my final destination – even if the bus driver can’t tell me where that is. Read more by Naomi.

Image: www.hamleys.com

The Quiet Zone: where nobody can hear you scream

CHESS TAYLOR

The test of good manners is to be able to put up pleasantly with bad ones.

I hate travelling at the best of times. And I mean hate it. It makes me feel uncomfortable, crotchety and a bit sick. To combat my particular abhorrence of train travel I always make sure to book a seat in the Quiet Zone.

Ah, the Quiet Zone, my noise-free sanctuary. No iPods blaring Euro-dance, no cretinous idiots shouting “Hello? Hello?! Sorry, my reception keeps ... Hello?!” into their mobile phones. Just peace, quiet and the chance to have a doze. However, every time I make a booking I seem to forget the frustration such seat allocations have caused me on all previous occasions, instead opting for a rose tint and a self-satisfied smile as I type in my credit card details and pay.

The last time I made such a gross error of judgement was shortly before Christmas. After finding my seat and noting with pleasure a distinct lack of other passengers, I settle in, put my head back and close my eyes. A few others shuffle quietly into the carriage but quickly immerse themselves in books and papers. I allow myself to relax. Amateur mistake. Seconds later the tranquillity is shattered into infinitesimal pieces by the arrival of a cheeseburger-wielding, loudmouthed chav and her squabbling brats.

“Jack, just eat your fucking chips and leave Paige alone. Do you want a smack or something?”

“Oh shut up!” (My thoughts exactly.)

“Right!” She swipes at the boy, who looks no more than seven, knocking him into a chair with a thump. “Now eat them, shut up and stop messing about!”

I could quite easily clobber her at this point but I weigh up the options and decide against it. Actually, that’s a lie – I’m terrified she’ll knock me out, so instead I close my eyes again and pretend to ignore it along with everybody else. But the noise doesn’t just continue; it escalates. The kids are using profanities I’m sure I didn’t even know existed until I got to about 18, while Chavarella’s talking (loudly) to her friend on the phone about someone whose company they clearly do not enjoy whilst intermittently barking at her little darlings.

I start to glare and tut. But they’re timorous displays of annoyance; I can’t quite commit to them with the gusto I’d like because I don’t want to provoke her too much. I just want to kick her quiet-carriage-conscience into touch. I glance around to find some allies but everyone seems to be feigning ignorance. Either that or all of their senses have been immobilised. Surely I can’t be the only one driven to distraction by the incessant noise and stink of McDonald’s? Spineless so-and-sos. I continue to glare, sigh, tut, shift around and then, the final straw. Crisps. Rustling bags and open mouths.

“Excuse me?” I’m feeling brave now.

She silences the kids and all three of them stare at me. So does everyone else, thankful, anticipating some respite.

“What?”

I point at the Quiet Zone sticker on the window.

“Erm ...”

My courage is waning and I’m hoping the sticker will do the work for me. It doesn’t. I try to look imploring rather than confrontational – also unsuccessful. I’ve just got to spit it out.

“Would you mind keeping it down a bit?”

She eyes me with amusement. “Sorry, are we disturbing you?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Erm ...”

And that’s all I can bring myself to say. Where is the show of solidarity from my fellow passengers? Why am I so gutless? And why do some people seem to think that intimidation transcends manners? I should have just cut my losses and booked a seat near the coffin-dodgers discussing the scenery.

You see, that’s the thing about the Quiet Zone: sitting there just makes travelling an infinitely more unpleasant experience than usual. Read more by Chess.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A Miscellany of New Year Melancholia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

You talkin' to me?

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Though I hate it, I can understand the pushiness of many sales people – at least to some extent. Not taking “no” for an answer is their job, after all. I imagine they all take classes to hone their ability to have an answer for everything. The sales people I encounter are in a different class, though: they’ve taken the Advanced Course in Obnoxiousness, the corresponding manual taking pride of place on their bookshelves for whenever they need a top up.

The latest culprit hailed from mobile firm 3. “But you don’t know what I’m offering,” he countered, in response to my immediate assertion that I was happy with my provider. Of course, I could have belittled him by suggesting that maybe he wanted to sell me a timeshare instead of a mobile contract, but only would have earned a response from his manual. Besides, his fake cheeriness was so aggravating that he deserved nothing more than to be hung up on – so that is exactly what I did.

The satisfaction I took from the abrupt end to the call was tempered by my speculation of how much my mobile provider made from selling my details.

Though these random calls I keep getting are annoying, what is even more annoying is the backchat I get from people who are not even trying to sell me anything. I’m in the right and, yet, finding an answer – no matter how flimsy – seems to be acceptable.

If I tell someone (let’s call him Moron #1) to take his defecating dog off my property, then I expect him to do it – its my property, dammit! Responding with a lie, eg. that the dog is just sniffing, will only result in the belligerent inner me coming to the surface. Note: I didn’t ask what the dog was doing; I said: “GET OFF MY PROPERTY!”

Same goes for ignorant ticket inspectors. Moron #2 wanted to see my ticket when I was already off the bus – yep, disembarked, no longer a passenger. Earphones in and not expecting to be asked for my ticket, I walked straight past the imbecile, only for him to stop me and tell me I should listen to what I didn’t hear from someone who hadn’t shown me any identification. Miss Belligerent came out to play again, treating him to a few choice words and some instruction on how to do his job before letting me get on my way. If Beyoncé can have an alter-ego, so can I.

Moron #3 is a master – he could teach Moronic Behaviour. Somehow assuming that I’m happy to stand at my front door gabbing all day, the idiot actually had a response for my excuse to leave. Bear in mind, this absurd man disturbed me in the middle of the day for no good reason and I told him that I had no time for his nonsense as I was busy cooking. Now any normal person would take this as their cue to leave – Moron #3 asked if I had cooked enough for two! Seriously. Needless to say, he got the door shut in his face.

Is there some sort of consensus that no one should admit being in the wrong? If so, I didn’t get the memo. People seem to assume that they can get their own way by force, and I don’t like it.

My suspicious mind tells me that being a petite woman has something to do with it – I’m sure that a 6’5” male ultimate fighter wouldn’t have experienced such insolence whether he was in the right or not.

People judge me on my looks and never count on my alter-ego. Don’t be fooled. Beware of Miss Belligerent: though she isn’t male, her superpower is retaliation and she does a mean De Niro. Read more by Shermaine.

Image: www.freeimages.co.uk