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

SELINA NWULU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Miscellany of New Year Melancholia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Season's greetings? Hmm ...

ROSIE MCGEE

Am I the only person under 40 who still bothers with Christmas cards? A great deal of time and energy goes into choosing the right one, often starting months in advance. Not only is care and attention paid to the card itself but then I faithfully write a personal message in each one. None of this sign-the-name-shove-it-in-the-envelope business. I’ve decided if you value someone enough to send them a Christmas card then you should at least be bothered to write a personal sentence to them inside it.

I’m definitely in the minority with this philosophy. Without specifically shaming anyone in particular, I’ve even received cards that don’t contain my name at the top, merely on the envelope. Such aloof bits of paper conjure up either a minor celebrity signing away as if it’s the latest kiss-and-tell autobiography or the world’s most stressed woman ploughing through 3,256 cards before knocking out 912 mince pies. Surely no one who sends me a card is that famous, or that harassed?

Totally impersonal cards are like a blank email. Yes, it’s nice to know you dedicated a second and half to thinking of me, but really I’m a little offended you couldn’t spare me the full minute. However, I would take any of these over nothing at all, or worse: Christmas card criticism. The season of joy on earth and good will to all men means I socialise to the point of exhaustion and near nervous collapse. To each occasion I always take cards – for my hosts and for other friends I might see there. Why? Over-zealous card compulsion? Irrational desire to keep writing my own name? No, because it’s polite.

At least I think so. As a child I remember people thanking my mother when she handed these envelopes over, smiling and making appreciative noises. Sadly that’s not my experience. I’m often greeted with a look of definite irritation and statements like “Oh, I’m not doing cards this year”. Suddenly my gesture of good will is four inches square of unwanted paper making all around it distinctly uncomfortable. Longing for the courage gleaned from a third glass of mulled wine, I imagine saying “Well, maybe you should. It is tradition, good manners and stops you feeling so awkward in situations like these.”

Instead I nod and look sympathetic as the excuses start. It’s either “work’s been manic”, or “as we’re away for Christmas we didn’t the see the point” or, increasingly, “it’s not very environmentally friendly”.

With the word ‘RECYCLE’ ready to burst out of my mouth at volume, I find it safer to stick to a non-committal “Mmm” while wondering when the whole world became so lazy that writing out a Christmas card was too much effort.

This maddening trend is symptomatic of society losing sight of the little thoughtful actions which make it a more pleasant place to be. I’m so sick of hearing everyone’s so incredibly busy it’s a miracle they even have time to go to the bathroom. And yet these are often the same people updating their status every five minutes on Facebook announcing what they’re watching on the telly or having for dinner that night.

No one’s suggesting you make the damn thing from scratch in a frenzy of gold pen and glitter – just spend a few minutes, once a year, to remind people why they’re important to you.

However, if that’s still beyond you due to a job as rocket scientist, on-call brain surgeon or self-appointed television critic, then at least have the good grace to thank someone who has taken the time.

At Christmas it’s common to put differences aside, so is it really too much to ask for a little good will towards a well-intentioned friend proffering a few kind words lurking behind a picture of Santa getting stuck down a chimney? Read more by Rosie.

Image: www.freeimages.co.uk

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

Office etiquette stinks

ALICE LINLEY-MUNRO

I have few pleasures in my working day because I am a slave to dull administrative tasks and now, apparently, petty rules. The management team at my nameless, faceless place of employment has decided today that the best way to spread Christmas cheer and winter warmth through the office is to ban the consumption of hot food.

No longer can I spend my lunch hour supping homemade soup with a nice crusty roll while catching up on blogging or internet browsing at my desk. No longer can I walk the three steps from my desk to the office microwave to heat up delicious leftovers for sustenance. If I want hot food now, I either have to go out in the cold and battle against the hordes of students all craving hot lunches in the wintry climes or I have to schlep halfway round the building to find another microwave and then go and sit in some dark and poky little room entitled lovingly and creatively The Staff Room

Apparently there are people who work in my office who find the smell of hot food offensive. I am really struggling to get my head round this; that someone could be so pathetic as to be offended by their colleagues enjoying winter-suitable lunches. The other reason being bandied about by the management is that we’ve received complaints from students who come into our office for assistance – the very students who spend at most 10 minutes each at our front desk whilst we listen to them bleat on about their problems and then do our utmost to send them away happy and sorted. Surely that should be the crux of our interactions with them, not whether or not one of us has last night’s leftovers warmed in tupperware on our desk.

They haven’t banned hot drinks, though, so the managers who brew up cafetières of expensive and frankly stinky coffee are fine to continue. The lady who has Cup-A-Soup is also allowed to continue supping her warming liquid because it is in a cup and therefore a drink. On that principle, I am going to start drinking my homemade chunky soup from a cup. I might even go as far as blending my solid leftovers into a drinkable substance.

Frankly the whole thing stinks; as will the Camembert, Limburger and Stilton sandwiches that will replace my lovely warm lunches. Read more by Alice.

Image: www.freeimages.co.uk

Peace on earth? Err ...

SELINA NWULU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image: graur razvan ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net