The guilt factor

I went to bed with a heavy feeling in my chest.

As my eyes closed and I lay in the dark with thoughts of the night's events swirling through my brain, I recognised the feeling well - the guilt was back.

There's a lot of reasons to feel guilty these days, take your pick: guilt for not being better at your career, guilt for not doing the things you set out to do that day, or that year, or before you were however old because, when all is said and worked and eaten, you just want to get into bed and watch TV.

Guilt that you're not giving enough help to those who might need it; guilt when someone else spearheads a campaign to get a homeless bloke off the streets and you know you could have, but didn't - and probably won't - do it too.

Guilt that you're still single and don't mind too much, mixed with guilt that grandchildren probably aren't on the cards with your sister, so they probably should be with you - or that's the end of that family name, isn't it?

And then there's the overriding guilt that you're not doing enough for, or spending enough time with those who, sooner than you might think, might not be around any more.

The latter is something that bothers me a lot, and has done for a while - but most noticeably since my auntie and uncle (both unexpectedly in their 40s), my granddad, grandma and my mum's best friend all passed away in frighteningly quick succession a few years ago - because you know how quickly it can happen.

More than that, it now regularly dawns on me that my parents are getting older, and how utterly lost I'd be if they weren't around.

Yet even knowing this, the guilt when I snap, or get frustrated, or do an irritated sigh seems to far outweigh the efforts I make to be appreciative and kind.

Despite trying to be patient, to call home, to visit and help in the small ways I can - the balance of real life, a bad night's sleep or a grumpy morning sometimes tips me the other way. And I'm aware of it every single time.

All that, and then this week's argument - a ridiculous, familiar one my mother and I have had for months now, this time with the addition of an unnecessary comment, designed to make me feel guilty.

"I was saying to someone earlier," she'd said with a strange, casual laugh, as I stood outside the gym finishing a call which had ended, once again, with me frustrated and listing the reasons why it would not be appropriate for my 64 year old mother to come on holiday with me, my sister and our friends, something everyone but her seemed to understand - "what it is I've done that makes you both hate me so much that you don't want to be anywhere near me."

For the first time in a long while, guilt was replaced by anger, tears and complete incomprehension. The line was crossed, and I flipped.

Enough of this.

Realising the reaction was not, perhaps, what she'd intended, my mother apologised. The argument was resolved, the words taken back, "I didn't mean it", she said.

The anger stuck around for an hour or three, then simmered down as I lay in bed, thinking about it all, and gradually realising that this time I was feeling guilty for feeling so angry.

Oh, give me a break, I thought, just once.

Before slowly, exhausted by my own mind, I drifted off to sleep.

How to put a dampener on a lovely summer evening

Picture the scene.

You're up on the roof terrace of a pub in Kings Cross with some friends, enjoying the last couple of hours of sunshine and demolishing fruit-stuffed glasses of Pimms as the day slips seamlessly into balmy night.

After an hour or so, you glance down at the bench next to you. Then you look at the floor. You glance nervously to the opposite seats (maybe you put it over there?) and for reasons unknown, start patting your pockets-  as if you normally pop your handbag in your jeans for safe keeping.

"What are you looking for?" says a friend, having seen your eyes step up their frantic search behind you and on adjoining tables.

"Oh, just my handbag..." you reply, all casual, like.

Others join in the search. 

"It's definitely not here."

"No" you sigh, acknowledging what you knew when you first looked down. "It's gone."

That's annoying, you think, the Pimms and Prosecco softening the blow slightly as you borrow a phone and start cancelling things. Someone alerts the bar staff, another friend tops up your glass and two others go and rifle through the bins outside, returning with three other stolen credit cards in their hands; none of them yours.

Someone tops up your glass.

You mentally list everything that was in the bag: your everyday survival kit.

Wallet (no cash these days, thankfully), debit cards, drivers licence, National Insurance card. Boots, Tesco, Necter, spare SIM card. Diary, phone, Oyster card. Bus pass. Bits and bobs you keep close. Moleskine diary, your plans for the next few months, the ideas written in the back. Your shit HTC phone that you actively urged people to steal regularly, but feel a bit lost without now that it's gone.

On your way back from checking the toilets, the calm feeling is shattered by the realisation that you've also lost the key card for your block. The keys to your flat. Was your address written anywhere?

Your glass is filled again.

The bank arrange for emergency cash, you get a taxi home. Your housemate lets you in.

The list of things you've lost continues to rack up the next morning as you start your day. Earphones. Mac cover-up. Dior lipstick.

Throughout it all, you're calmer than expected. A friend sums it up nicely with a cautious question.

"Urm, was it...it wasn't....it wasn't...The Bag, was it?"

"No, no. Thank God."

"Phew."

"I know." you sigh, hangover creeping in as you write down all the things you have to do before you can get to work. "Every cloud."

Expectations Vs. Reality

There's a nice scene in 500 Days of Summer when the screen splits in two.

If you haven't seen the film, it's when the main character, Tom, goes to his ex-girlfriend's house for a party. On one half of the screen, you've got his expectations playing out and on the other, what actually happens in reality.

It's nicely done, and if you're anything like me, it'll send your stomach lurching for him whether it's the first or fiftieth time you've watched it.

I think it's the way the expectations and reality converge at various points and then split off, just like they do whenever your thoughts have time to wonder each day. Whether it's playing the lottery and realising you haven't won (again), or just sitting opposite a nice looking bloke on the tube, catching their eye once, and building an entire situation in your head where they follow you off the train at your stop and ask you for your number.

Of course, they don't - you get off the train without a word and never see them again. But the happy scenarios are always there keeping us entertained on a boring journey, and occasionally - very occasionally - playing out in real life in the most spectacularly perfect way possible.

It's a bit like when you've been thinking about a bloke who caught your attention the other week and what would happen if you bumped into him, then you get to the top of the stairs at Kings Cross Station and - bloody hell - there he is. Standing right there.

This is it, you think, that moment when the stars align and you catch each others eye and end up giggling on the concourse, sharing a backwards glance when one of you eventually drags themselves away, phone number in pocket. This is the start of something grand.

You look over, try to meet his eye while running your fingers through the front bit of your hair. You keep looking to check it's him; that you're not about to go "Oh hello, it's Bloke From Last Week, isn't it? Nice to see you again!" to a complete stranger.

You pause your step and your eyes meet, your mouth opens and the very first inkling of an almost-"Hi" comes out of your mouth - but his phone is held to his ear, and he's looking around as if he's trying to find someone. He hasn't recognised or registered you. The moment is gone, and you carry on walking and look back, kicking yourself for not trying harder. Definitely him.

Bugger.

And just like that, it's back to reality.

Mended?

"You're mended" came the PIB's assessment, as we sat in a cocktail bar late on Saturday night.

The weekend had been full of the things I like best: zipping around London, meeting new friends and catching up with old ones. Friday night was spent in the company of Future Housemate and later, some of her (male) friends; one of whom had caught my eye and attention from the start.

"Look at me all talking to boys 'n' that!" I'd exclaimed excitedly to the PIB the following night, "He's probably got a girlfriend, and he's probably really young. But we talked a bit. And he was lovely".

Ok, so it's just talking - hardly a string of illicit dates or marriage, not even texts - but it was nice to feel normal again. In fact, the entire weekend had felt exactly how being single in London should feel: exciting and full of endless possibilities. The broken heart a vague memory in the distance, well and truly mended.

So when the e-mail popped into my inbox on Monday night as I pottered around on the internet - a name I hadn't seen bolded and unread in there since last March - I wasn't really prepared for the zap of panic that came over me.

Here it was then, the long awaited contact. No subject line to determine what it might contain. What's he e-mailing me for? My heart started racing as I stared at my inbox. How should I reply? Should I just delete it? Why now?

The reasons for the above became clear seconds after I took a deep breath and opened the e-mail. And there it was in all its glory: a spam link. Hurrah for the ironies of modern technology; after a year of no contact, my ex boyfriend was sending me links to porn.

Don't check the other e-mail addresses to see if her name's there. Don't. Don't. Don't. 

Oh, fuck it. 

Click "more". And sure enough, among the other lucky recipients was her name, too.

After a few minutes of staring at the e-mail, my heart beat returned to normal. Just spam. I pressed delete.

But when the second e-mail arrived today at lunch time, in the midst of a day where the to-do list was getting longer while the working week was getting shorter, it knocked me back again, and I took myself outside for a walk.

It felt faintly ridiculous to be teetering on the verge of emotion in Pret over an e-mail about, well, absolutely nothing at all - a warning to undisclosed recipients  not to click on any links in my previous e-mail, his e-mail got hacked, thanks. 

It felt stupid to feel slightly disappointed that it wasn't just to me, apologies with a by-the-way how are you.

It was alien to see his name come up and his words on the screen - no matter how impersonal they were.

And it's a strange thing to admit when you're an advocate of being single, taking what life throws at you and being happy with it, that you might actually want someone else now. Because deep down, you know a ridiculous spam e-mail sent to an entire address book wouldn't bother you so much if another person was on the scene.

Can you ever really get mended until you've moved on to someone else?

Experience the joys of flat hunting in London

Flat hunting in London is a very special experience. 

In fact, if you've never felt your hope deflate, melt, and accumulate slowly into a pool of disillusion at your feet in the space of 30 seconds, then I highly recommend you try it.

Because 30 seconds is usually all it takes, and I'm not talking about that "oh, you just know" instinct that buyers harp on about. I mean literally: you walk through the door and within 20 seconds you've seen the living room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms of wildly varying proportions, which leaves another few seconds to pause and take in the damp using only your nose.

And because the estate agent's standing there while you open various doors looking for the secret Narnia cupboard that £650 per month would probably get you up in Newcastle, you make the best of it.

You find yourself saying things like "Without that bed, you could probably fit a desk in there", and "Oh, well it's not like I'd need to get to the kitchen much anyway", before shaking hands and leaving, stepping over the puddle of despair on your way out.

It also doesn't take long to realise that basements are good for a lot of things; storing bicycles, hiding boyfriends, even raising children you fathered with your daughter, but they seldom make for light, airy, sweet smelling living spaces.

Likewise, when even the "enough room to swing a cat" cliche would be pushing it in the bedrooms of the split level maisonette you're viewing (n.b. fish-eyed cameras lie), it's all you can do to cease wondering where the second level got to and quip to your Future Housemate, "Well, on the plus side, the bedrooms are the same size".

And ah, Gumtree listings; where Marylebone means Edgware Road, Camden means Holloway, "shabby chic" means your bed's in the living room, and £240 per week means you're the wrong side of Finsbury Park Station.

Samuel Johnson said when you're tired of London, you're tired of life.

I say when you're tired of flat hunting in this city, you're probably only just getting started. 

The redefinition of "good news"

"...the good news is that we have until the 24th March" continued Tuesday's text message, thus confirming Monday's surprise announcement.

Needless to say, my response was short, polite, but to the point, and began with the suggestion that the sender reassess his definition of the term "good news".

As well as putting the wheels in motion to relocate myself, this week has also been an exercise in trying to work out whether the annoyance I feel about having to find a new house so soon after moving in to this one is justified.

While the responses of friends, family and you lot seemed to suggest that this was indeed Crap News Delivered Badly, unfortunately there remained two people who didn't (and, I expect, still don't) quite see the problem.

Suffice to say, it came as a bit of a surprise to have to explain, in detail, to the blank, uncomprehending faces of those responsible that my "not all that great, to be honest" mood on Wednesday morning wasn't down to the onset of the common cold.

So instead of wasting any more time being annoyed, I think maybe there is some good news in all of this. Because what this whole saga really confirms is that my own views, priorities and expectations - both in life, and of others - do not match up to those of an engaged couple.

And for a 27 year old who spent Tuesday evening in a friend's kitchen with eight other single girls, drinking cheap fizzy wine, doing shots of Glenfiddich and regaling the neighbouring Kings Cross residents with a loud, not altogether tuneful rendition of Beyoncé's Love On Top, I have concluded that this can be no bad thing.

Curveballs are fine, if you know they're coming.

Thinking about it, eight months would have been nice amount of time. 

I mean, I'll settle for five - it's better than nothing, but ideally eight months would have been the optimum time for nothing to change.

Unfortunately, it's not like you can really write to Captain Life and apply for eight months of static living please, pretty please with a cherry on top, can everything stay the same for a while. But what you can request is that if things are likely to change, that you're given a fair amount of warning. 

"So, me and Girl Housemate have been thinking that we want to live on our own before getting married" started Boy Housemate this evening, arriving rather laboriously at the point after an extensive preamble. I continued to season a rather lovely bit of fillet steak.

"Yeah? That makes sense." 

"And for the last month or so we've been keeping an eye out."

"Ok..."

"Today something came up on Gumtree, just around the corner. So I went to see it."

"Oh, right. To buy?"

"No. Rent."

"Right..."

"So I put an offer in, and if it gets accepted - which it might not, we offered lower than they want - but we'd have about four weeks to..err...sort stuff out"

Which is how it transpired, tonight, entirely out of the blue, that I potentially have four weeks to find somewhere else to live. 

It's difficult to explain without telling you all the boring details - you'll just have to take my word for it - but I can't live here if they don't. 

It's difficult to explain why I didn't get angry immediately, or demand to know why, if they've been considering other living arrangements even if just for a month - they didn't think to give me a heads up until now. 

And it's difficult to explain why I feel really, really shaken up by the prospect of what comes next. 

Do I move in with people I don't know? 

Do I, almost a year to the day after I moved back in with my parents last year, let history repeat itself? 

Do I really have to call my parents up and admit that once again, things that weren't meant to fall through actually have?

And like every time something changes - I just wish for once that it wouldn't. 

Or failing that, I just wish it would give me a bit more notice.

It's Sunday morning. The house is empty apart from me.

My housemates are away for the weekend, and this means I am experiencing the small yet perfectly formed joys of being alone in a shared abode. 

The kitchen has been Detolled into spotless submission, there are no pubic hairs in the bath (or sink, for that matter. Don't ask.) and the toilet is well and truly flushed. Later, I might even go all out and clean the shower. Maybe even mop the floor, and buy a bin to replace the Tesco carrier bag on the back of the bathroom door. 

I think you'll agree; a truly exciting day awaits. 

Prior to starting this new permanent job - which is going well apart from the daily abject terror that I will not be able to deliver what is required of me, that I will fail monstrously and not live up to expectations and shrivel slowly into a puddle by my desk wailing "I'm melting, I'm melting" - there were a lot of things I wouldn't have been able to consider.

One of those things was getting my own place, something that job security will one day afford me even if, for now, the salary doesn't.

It would be my own one bedroom flat where everything is as I left it - food in its rightful place (i.e. not blocking the drain), toilet roll in the bathroom (i.e. not in bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms and anywhere else frequented by a runny nose) and water confined to places capable of both holding and disposing of it (i.e. not on floors, walls or any surface within a two metre radius of the tap).

It's not even that I dislike living with people. Not at all. I have bloody good housemates, I'm a sociable beast and research tells me these are problems I'd have no matter who I shared with. And anyway, it's nice to hear the low-level buzz of other people downstairs, to have a mini-social life in your own house when illness, money or general laziness keeps you indoors. 

But one day I'd like to live alone in lovely London, create my own mess, and not hurl £600 a month into my landlord's Spanish villa retirement fund in doing so. 

And when that happy day comes, I will gaze wistfully into the kitchen sink and sigh:

"Yes, there is egg  from three days ago nestled in and around the plug hole. But it's my egg, god damn it, and that makes it ok."

The problem with getting home...is getting home.

Last Thursday I stood under the bright lights of a bus shelter and realised that of all the things that irritated me about the world, being stood here was pretty high on the list.

It wasn't raining. The bus wasn't late. In fact, I wasn't even waiting for a bus: I'd just got off. It was half past 12, I was on my way back from the cinema and my only agenda at that point was to get home to bed. 

But minutes earlier, I'd identified the bus stop as being the most well-lit and therefore safest place to be. I waited, eyes alert and watching, heart rate clicking up a notch, while my brain did automatic things drilled into me since school - switching my music off, taking out both earphones. Removing house keys from my bag and tucking them between my middle and forefinger. Feeling for my phone in the other pocket, making a mental note of who I'd call. 

The man - older, drunk, rough looking - raised a heavy, almost apologetic arm, before crossing the road and disappearing into the distance. 

However innocent, his behaviour had buzzed as odd in my head. He'd got on the bus just one stop earlier, fixed me with a stare and spoken words I couldn't hear over my music. Then he moved to the front of the bus. My stop arrived, I got off, the doors shut.

Seconds later, the driver re-opened the front doors at the man's request and he got off, too. He continued to speak to me. I stopped in my tracks, still ignoring him, let him pass ahead - and walked back under the light of the bus stop. 

And there I stayed for a few minutes before continuing on at double speed, checking behind me the whole way; newly conscious of my heels on the pavement as they echoed down the quiet road.

Perhaps I was never at risk, maybe everything I did was just common sense and therefore the whole episode unremarkable. But what's not unremarkable is just how often this kind of stuff happens.

A conversation with three girl mates at the weekend revealed the following: one had moved to a different area of London after being followed home too many times. Another had been curb crawled twice on her road. My housemate has been "approached" - although that word seems too passive - two or three times in the years since she moved to where we live. All have found themselves running home out of fear at least once.

What really annoyed me as I continued my walk (keys ready before I got to the door, of course) is that it won't ever get taken seriously, all these minor little instances on dark roads: passing comments, words, jeers, watching, following, unwelcome attention. Nothing worth reporting and no laws being broken.

It's ingrained from a young age that as a girl you've got to be careful. Take precautions, keep an eye out, get a taxi instead of walk.

After all, we're girls, and that's just the way it is.

The Matter Of The Night-Flush

I was going to use my blog to share my thoughts on a matter of distinct worldwide importance, but at 4am this morning I realised there was a more pressing issue at hand.

Toilets.

As you may recall, my bedroom in my shared house is adjacent to the bathroom. Although this stands me in excellent stead when it comes to the lesser known Hangover Vomit Sprint, it also means I have become familiar with the toilet habits of those I live with.

I should clarify - it's not that I'm sitting there listening cup-to-wall or anything, but when Niagara Falls thunders down into the pot at 4am, it's a little bit hard to ignore. Which brings me to my next point.

Flushing.

Now, I don't believe that I can be the only one who has had this debate. But in certain households, there seems to be an unspoken rule about flushing the toilet in the middle of the night. Or not, as the case seems to be.

The motivation behind not flushing is largely consideration for others: not wanting to wake sleeping people. But for me, this act of selflessness has bigger implications; simply put, when I stumble bleary eyed into the bathroom at 8am, I'd rather not come eye-to-urine with a bowl full of someone else's piss.

It's admirable that they don't wish to wake me from my slumber, but quite frankly, if my room is close enough to be woken by a flush, it's close enough for me to hear everything that comes before. This includes the light being tugged into life, toilet seat going up, the inevitable tinkle (or, tsunami, I'm looking at you, boys), and the "tip-toe" back down the stairs.

And this isn't a one-off encounter I've had with Morning Piss. When I lived at home, no one did night flushes either. It drove me round the bend, not least because my room was across the hall and not in audible loo distance. So after sleeping through the night undisturbed, I'd get rewarded with a yellowy toilet treat, right at that point in the morning where things - good day? bad day? - can go either way.

"Can we PLEASE flush the toilet" I'd plead, rubbing the wasteful vision out of my eyes, "I don't want to see your WEE"
"But we don't want to wake you!" would come the thoughtful reply from family members alike.

Then one day my sister moved out. And ha! Low and behold, a few months after her new house-share commenced, the complaints started. For her new house mate (male, platonic) did not partake in the Night Flush, and she soon tired of being faced with day-glo wee surprise at such a pivotal point of her waking day.

"But I used to complain about that all the time at home, and no one saw the problem!" came my response to her protests.
"Yeaah, but it's different when it's not your family's wee, isn't it?"

Well that's just the thing. I'm not sure it is.

So convinced am I that this is not just a matter surrounding my immediate family and my (admittedly easily irritated) brain, I'm opening it up to the wider blogging community.

Readers: To night-flush or not to night-flush? That is the question*.


*(Oh come on, Shakespeare went to the loo too)

Why I will never be a spy, a best selling author, a zoo keeper, or actually ever get anything done.

Sometimes, you can be sitting in front of the TV when a thought suddenly hits you.

Instead of sitting here watching crap-yet-strangely-watchable TV, you should be doing something else. 

Not washing up, or making tomorrow's Tupperware offering of pasta and ready made sauce with some token bits of courgette. Not painting the old school desk that's been sitting in the cupboard under the stairs for a month now waiting for you to sand off the words "WANKER" and "NICK WOZ ERE 82" and make it look nice (I haven't even bought the paint yet), but something else. Something important.

You wonder: could this be that that eureka moment where people go "Cor blimey, that's it!" and immediately start penning their first bestseller, or begin charting their long lost family members, or book that life changing trip across the world?

And is it really happening to me during an episode of Don't Tell The Bride?

With this little sudden impetus inside me, I waste no time. I start thinking about what I could do to leave a little mark on the world.

Like writing a book - that's what English graduates do, innit? We aspire to be novelists, right before we realise it's all a bit long and become journalists (or bloggers) instead.

Then I realise that my attention span tends to falter around the 600 word mark, and I don't really want to write a book. Because quite frankly, the world has enough sob stories about boys written by girls with English degrees.

It's then I recall an advert that caught my eye in the morning's Metro.

MI5 NEEDS YOU 

it said.

And low and behold, they have a position which, with some amount of career shifting and wishful thinking, I could probably, maybe do. So I put the wheels in motion to become a spy, and breeze through the first stage of the application:

Name:
Date of birth:
Are you definitely British:

And having passed that, I'm onto the next stage; whizzing through the online tests and giving serious thought to which close family member or partner I would confide in about my application, and whether I'd still be able to have a blog if I was in the secret service, when...

So that's out.

Failing a career as an award winning author or a spy, perhaps I just need an extra curricular hobby.

I know! I like penguins. And dogs. And WHALES. I could volunteer at the zoo!

Alright, alright. Maybe not with the animals, then. But surely I could do something equally useful, save the world's animals through administration and filing?

Oh.

And by this point, to be honest, the flash of inspiration is beginning to dwindle. 

Sound familiar? Come on, rouse me with a chorus of "We all do it".

It's not that the ideas aren't there, it's not that the enthusiasm is lacking: my 'to do' list is as long as my leg (not that my legs are particularly long, but still). It's the fact that when you sit down to put all these little ideas into practice, they often, for whatever reason, just don't seem so achievable any more.

Barriers pop up, whether it's money or work or lack of skills. There's so much I want to do, but sometimes I wonder how I'll ever get round to doing any of it.

I suppose this is why people decide to run marathons. 

Ooh, now there's a...

Nah. Sod that. 

Being British and the Cake Conundrum

There are many, many wonderful things about being British.

Like, when three people are standing around a kettle in the office kitchen waiting for it to boil, the lull in conversation can always be filled with mindless observations about the sun, rain, clouds, heat, cold (or lack of it).

And no matter how chaotic the shop, there will always be a staunchly adhered to queue at the pay desk, populated by people who possess the ability to communicate using only tuts and rolls of the eyes.

Then there's the way the transport system in our capital city is governed by a set of rules based on maintaining order and politeness: letting people off the train first, allowing those in a hurry to get by on the escalators, giving up your seat for someone who needs it, and then shutting the hell up so everyone can brood at the lack of space in silence.

We live in a country where "sorry" is probably the most spoken word in our collective vocabulary, uttered even if we're annoyed and complaining about something - which we frequently are - and yep, we do that really well, if quietly, too.

But for all these entertaining little British nuances, these little quirks based around maintaining order - sometimes there's the feeling that people can be just too damn polite. Not wanting to tread on toes or rock the proverbial boat, we'll often say the opposite of what we want when asked. I like to call it The Cake Conundrum:

They say: Would you like the last slice of cake?

You think: Yes. Say yes. You're starving. Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You say: Oh, no thank you. I'm stuffed. And I ate yesterday, so I really shouldn't.

All of which keeps the world a lovely polite place, but doesn't really do you (or your rumbling stomach) any favours.

The Cake Conundrum can be reversed and applied to many situations, but the end result is the same. One person doesn't say what they really want, and ends up feeling worse, maybe even a bit resentful for it. The other person has their cake, eats it, then feels rude when they later find out, usually by via someone else, that they deprived someone of much needed food.

To carry the metaphor to its healthy end: I suppose sometimes, I feel like I eat a lot of the cake.

You ask me a question, you'll get an honest answer. If you're dithering, I'll decide. You see a husky dog on the tube with a face like a cuddly bear and stare at it longingly; while I'll bound up to the owner, pat the dog on the head, ask it's name ("Bonza") and smile all the way to work.

Because politeness is good, politeness is great. Politeness makes this country go round.

But sometimes, it's good to shelve the weather talk, tell the cashier to hurry up, ask that person next to you to get their bag off your lap, and not automatically apologise when someone else bumps into you. Aside from anything else, you'll feel better for it.

And always, always smile at the dog.

Primark Killed The Charity Shop

Image from inspiredesignblog.co.uk

Let's put something out there straight away: I ain't no fashionista. Rifling about for floaty calf length skirts that channel thy inner vintage just isn't my thing.

I also hate fancy dress. It makes me feel awkward. At a push, and in a situation where everyone else in the whole entire world was dressing up and I wanted to fit in, I'd go for a full bear outfit for maximum coverage. No "is she? Isn't she?" ambiguity. It'd be "Yes, she is. And she is clearly a bear".

So what use do I have for a charity shop, if not to see 1970s potential in dated floral blouses or finding braces for Laurel and Hardy themed nights out?

To be honest, it's rarely clothing. Accessories tend to win it: functional belts that look a bit like the one I refused to pay £50 for in Urban Outfitters. Or cut price nearly-new books, especially in my local one where I'm pretty sure someone who works for a publisher just dumps all their freebies every week (Grace Dent's How to Leave Twitter and a hardback copy of one of my favourite books, A.A.Gill is Away in one haul this weekend. Score.)

I'd love to buy clothes from a charity shop, I really would. Because as much as I'm not a vintage lovin' fashion fiend, I do love a good bargain. With rent now a fixture in my banking calendar, and in need of a big Autumn-y cardigan, this weekend I took myself home and trawled the abundance of local second hand shops for just that. But sadly, I never did get one of the big cosy grandma cardigans I imagined would be in abundance.

Instead, I got a healthy dose of disdain.

Disdain for the sheer amount of average, worn-looking, generic gumpf from Primark lining the rails.

Not the nice dresses and catwalk cast-offs you see in the magazines, or adorning the backs of fashion conscious festival goers, either. The other stuff. The guilty stuff. You know, the bits you buy in bulk, purely because of the price.

Oh, it seems like such a bargain when you get home with 30 vest tops for a fiver, doesn't it? And when you've worn it, washed it and it now resembles more a tent than a top - well, you feel a bit bad shoving it in the bin. What a waste. Nah, let's put it in a black bag and give it to those in need; the grateful receivers of refuse they can't refuse - charity.

Looking at the rails, the tell-tale Atmosphere label was everywhere. I'm not sure what your non-UK equivalent would be, but here's a 101. Think cheap, miserable, sorry looking excuses for clothes which have travelled from third world slum to first world city, only to be slapped with a £1.50 price tag for the trouble. Disposable clothing worn once, replaced, and now donated in the hope that someone else might pay for it again.

Except they're not going to, are they? Would you? No. Because it's crap. And ironically, it'll probably be more expensive in the charity shop than it was to begin with.

Like this article says: "where something’s too cheap, someone, somewhere along the line is paying"

And despite what your conscience tells you, as long as Primark's in your donation bag,  it's not going to be the person rifling through the rails in a charity shop.

Girl on the train

Last night I was on the tube when a young girl flounced onto the train. 

Laden with large envelopes, a couple of posh looking branded material bags and about five Google Map print outs, initially I was annoyed. She'd sat down next to me and plonked her bags half across my lap. Even my shuffling about didn't alert her to the space infringement, so intent she was on studying the route mapped out on the bits of paper. 

A few stops along she got out her phone, clicked down to "Mum" and pressed call. Clearly stressed, she vented that she'd been running around London all day, delivering envelopes and having asked if she could finish up tomorrow morning, they'd said no. She didn't know what time she'd be home. My irritation fell away.

I glanced down at the top envelope and saw the name of a PR firm written in the corner. We went underground and she finished the call, got out a tube map and started comparing it with the Google version, which showed three markers dotted around east London.

It was well after six o'clock, and we were still west. I took out my earphones.

"Do you know which route you're going to take yet?" I said, pointing at the maps.

It transpired the girl - who was on an unpaid internship with the PR company - lived in the Home Counties, and would still have to get back out there once she'd finished the "drops", which had to be done tonight. With what I estimated to be (at least) another hour of walking ahead of her, she wasn't even close to going home. 

She was, effectively, a free courier.

I looked at the maps with her and told her the quickest way to go, which tube lines linked with where and what I hoped was an easier route than the one mapped out. Making a mental note of the PR company name, I wished her luck and got off at my stop.

Now, I don't know how long this internship was, or any other details apart from the company name*. What I do know is that there was a young, stressed out girl on my train home who wasn't getting paid for what was well over a full day's work.

And quite frankly, if the documents inside were really that important and really couldn't wait until the next day, why would you give them to an intern to deliver on foot?

The internship situation is beyond a joke. Yes, work experience is probably the most valuable thing I ever did, and let me find out which industry I wanted to work in. But I did short term, well managed placements. I never felt taken advantage of and working past 6pm was always a choice, not an enforced rule. 

It's one thing to offer valuable experience. It's another to give someone all the jobs you don't want to do yourself or pay for, and call it an "internship". 

You'd think they'd make it against the law. 

Oh, wait...

*No names, it'd probably do more harm than good.

In Defence of University

Today a survey was released about what students think of their university course.

Predictably, the conclusions were different depending on where you looked. While The Metro headline was all "No, they hate it, sod off and leave me to cry in my shared room", the Beeb's students gave a satisfied smile.

From this we can firstly conclude that the British media is like a confused, slightly mental uncle, and secondly that university isn't for everyone. Big shock there then. But it reminded me of a thought I've had a lot recently about what being a student is actually all about.

After the tuition fee debacle, which for the non-Brits basically consisted of our Government saying "Hey, Uni! Yeah, you there - listen up! You can now charge people £9,000 to get a degree! But don't worry, students. They won't." (they did), Britain's universities have rightly got a lot of bad press.

Most of the talk has centred around whether a degree is worth the £9,000 (or, err £60,000) you might end up paying for it. Whether you're a righty, lefty or couldn't careless-ly, the truth is this: if the value you place on your degree ends with the bit of paper you get at the end, the answer is probably no. It's not worth it. Unless your career choice depends on having a particular qualification, go do something else. Work experience (a couple of weeks at a time). An internship (paid). Specialised college course. Circus training. Whatever.

But since when has university been solely about the degree? My parents might disagree, but for me, getting an English BA and Masters was about indulging a love of books and getting out of my London-born mindset, where a sweaty warehouse in Kings Cross heaving with drum 'n' bass heads was the pinnacle of my social scene. It was about exchanging a comfortable, tidy life with parents for unruly accommodation shared with 30 others, where games of "bin Jenga" replaced a cleaning rota. It was about standing, swaying, and dancing drunk in a student union up North, on my own two feet. Then getting a piggy-back home.

The degree itself hasn't come up in any job interviews thus far, but those four years probably got me through the Company's door. Uni gave me an in depth knowledge of films and books I probably wouldn't have watched or read. It made Fargo one of my favourite films as opposed to, I don't know, The Shawshank flippin' cliche. It made me proof read until my eyes hurt and string together big words and ideas I'd only fleetingly remember again. And importantly, it made me a shoe-in for the Shakespeare questions in a pub quiz.

Best of all, it gave me a solid group of now London-based friends, two soon-to-be Housemates, an Ex Boyfriend, more tactical vomits than I care to remember, and an ability to slalom down a dry ski slope in 30 seconds.

My student debt wouldn't scratch the surface of what they're facing now. There's no denying it; uni is more expensive than it's ever been. But as far as I know, no one I graduated with is complaining (too loudly) about the cost now it's over with.

The experience was all.

And it seems that, through all the analysis and news articles, this little detail is always the bit that gets lost.

Things Mothers Say in Arguments

Tonight, our house was rocked by a family domestic.

Don't ask me what started it, or who. It's not important, because it ended as all family arguments tend to end; with a frustrated mother complaining, loudly, with much stomping and slamming of the salt and pepper shakers, about the same issues that have rattled the kitchen windows for years.

Her sound-offs would have more gravitas if a) I hadn't heard it 420 times before, and b) my friends hadn't confirmed, long, long ago, that their mothers all say exactly the same things.

So, with the latest round of "None of you care!" ringing in my ears, I canvassed Twitter. Humour me, I said, what are your mother's favourite lines in an argument? And you know what? It all sounded very familiar:

"When you're my age / a mother / have children you'll understand"

me, @rabbitinahat and @annettevdm 

It seems to me that fathers, sons and daughters will always let a mother down consistently in one area: we don't understand. And god dammit, they're right! Because I don't understand what's going through a 60 year old mother of two's head any more than I'd understand a book on nuclear physics written entirely in hieroglyphics. And thank god, because with all the woes they betide, it sounds bloody mental.

"If you don't [insert command here] I will [insert threat here] and that is NOT an idle threat THAT IS A PROMISE"

@i_like_telly 

Yahuh. Yep. Promise. Not threat. Sure. Completely. No! Really, mum, we believe you. (everyone else, see below)

 .

"I might as well just leave you all and go live on my own"

 or

"I'm leaving" followed by much storming around the kitchen, but no leaving.  

@thisgreenstuff

Let's be honest. After 26 years of the same threat - oops! sorry, promise - you'll know for certain: they ain't goin' nowhere. Think of the mess we'd make of the kitchen. Speaking of which...

"Well if I don't do it, no one else will" 

or

"I'll just leave you to live in your own mess shall I?"

@cjwalker 

You've just finished cooking up a feasty din dins. Pots, pans and vegetable bits abound. As you settle down to eat, in walks the mother. Having eyed the cluttered surfaces, she begins to clear up. "Leave that" you say, "I'll do it". Oh, no, you, sodding, won't. Quite whether you're supposed to let the food go cold in favour of cleaning up isn't clear, but one thing's for sure: a sink of unwashed items is the red rag to the proverbial bull. @cjwalker concurs: "we get the 'leave you to live in your own shit' line too." Don't we all.

 "When I was your age I was married with three children, isn't about time you grew up?"  

@dellers 

(See also, "In my day...")

Ah, the great generation gap. This is akin to me telling the Post Office "if an e-mail can get from London to Australia in 5 seconds, why does a letter take three weeks? Time you grew up, Post Office. Time you bloody grew up." It stands to reason that what with times changing and everything, a portion of your parents' lives would have taken place in an entirely different cultural, social, economic and technological era. Some call it progress. (M)Others use it as a line in arguments.

"You treat this place like a hotel"

- the entire world

To prevent structural damage, do not follow with "...and with customer service like this, just be thankful we don't rate our stay on TripAdvisor, arf arf". @rabbitinahat adds "My Dad was a fan of that one. He also referred to my friends as my "cronies"". Ah, when it comes to belittling your children, nothing wrinkles those youthful foreheads like an 18th Century term of address.

"If you don't like it you can always move out"

 @therealleighbo

Usually prefaced by "It's my house, my rules", this is the ultimate threat; the child silencer. Unless, that is, you have indeed already moved out. Although as Leigh continues, "She forgets that she would only eat beans on toast and cry without me". What's that about being careful what you wish for?

 ***

So you see, this is overwhelming evidence that in an argument situation, the best thing to do is just smile, nod and shut the hell up. Because you don't understand. You can't understand. You won't understand. But my guess is, the minute you find yourself uttering any of the above phrases - you probably will.




PS.  More corkers included: "If I had my time all over again I'd have had 3 German Shepherds" - @daisytoo, "Not my mum, but my dad likes: '...with your track record' quite a lot. Usually in ref to something I did up to 20yrs ago"- @tommyflisher,  "You may think you're right, but I KNOW I'm right." - @MissPickle109 and "When I'm dead and gone you will wish you had washed the dishes/hoovered/babysat for your poor mother" - @EllaBeCool.
Brilliant. Feel free to add yours below.

The Facebook Check-in Generation

I am having so much fun I'm going to open up Facebook, locate where I am, check-in, take a photo, upload it, write a status telling you I'm here, carry on, then check back every few mintues to see if you approve.

- Me, last month

Alright, it's not 2007, we all know that Facebook is a 21st century soapbox for the boasting generation.

It's not news.

I hear you.

BUT.

They never fucking check-in to Tesco, do they?

It's always the clubs. The members bars. Your Shoreditch Houses and your Kensington Roof Gardens. Always the music festivals. I AM AT GLASTONBURY! LOOK AT ME RAVE! Always the places where - and this is what baffles me - the emphasis is on having a jolly good, drunken old time with mates. You know, the 3D ones standing next to you at the bar, as opposed to the ones you haven't actually Liked, in every sense of the word, for 15 years.

I prefer it when people are consistent. Take Twitter, whose users let you know when they're about to do a good fart, never mind going somewhere cool. Or take my sister. Goes to the gym, hops on her spin bike, gets out her Blackberry and tells Facebook all about it. Toddles home, checks in at her house. Meets a mate down the pub, there she is again raising the online flagpole. You can follow her every movement (there's a bowel joke in here somewhere) throughout the day; a compulsion that irritates and baffles me in equal measure. But at least she doesn't discriminate. Come Saturday, she's nipping down Lidl for cut price popcorn before staying in to watch Jaws II with pride.

My real rage is reserved for the people that only let their many hundreds of online acquaintances know where they are if the music, atmosphere and people around them are so amazing, so absolutely all-consuming of their happy little senses, that they have to stop everything, get on Facebook, and tell everyone. Then - and I've seen it myself - insist on checking their phone every 30 seconds to see who likes it.

So next time you're somewhere incredible and get the urge to let all your old school friends know, just remember: when you check in on Facebook you don't even get to be the mayor.

Just a massive tool.

New starter

Going back to work after a holiday is never an easy transition.

The process is made slightly more disorientating when you walk back into the office and find eight, beaming new faces have filled the empty chairs, all with an "I'm taking your job! Ain't it great? Hurrah!" air about them.

One of those beaming, enthusiastic little faces sits down in the seat next to me.

The seat was previously occupied by my hilarious yet opinionated, finger skin biting, tempestuous yet fundamentally likable Gay Colleague. Who, by the way, has disappeared; signed off sick for the remainder of the contract with a mystery stress-induced illness. Baffled by this exchange of old to new, I'm introduced to this bright eyed, bushy tailed person as the New Me; the boy selected to take over my job when the department moves in a little over a week.

Now, given that he doesn't know me at all and has my job in his overenthusiastic little clutches, personally, I found his first question after being introduced a little...how you say... insensitive.

"So! Have you got a new job then?"

Now, let's just think about this for a minute, dear lad. You are sitting in an office full of people who, unable to relocate to the other end of the country for whatever reason, are facing redundancy and unemployment. Most, nay, all of us are still here because the alternative is a bright square of light presented by Lorraine Kelly, Loose Women and Jeremy Kyle. Not because we've got new bosses lined up, eagerly awaiting our arrival.

We may be in high spirits, but stay a while and you'll notice a direct correllation between our high spirits and the diminishing pile of E-numbers on the newly coined Office Snack Table to my right. There's a bottle of red wine under my desk, which our team won for creating the best name in yesterday's Pub Quiz style competition, held in place of a departmental meeting. In short, we're being humoured. 'Don't be silly, you're still important! You're still valued team members! Look, come to a meeting!'. We did. There were sweeties on the chairs and first on the agenda was trivia.

Back at our desks, and us leavers are busy. Observe. When our fingers aren't having the skin picked off them, they're smashing records for quickest CTRL+Tab between Guardian Jobs and a Gmail Inbox.

It crosses my mind to tell him all this, but I decide otherwise, opting for a splutter of "Well no but maybe but got a few things in the pipeline might have something well got a meeting but don't know really we'll see something will come up".

And while we wait for all that to happen, there's always free red wine.

The Perils of Living with Parents, Part 3 million.

My weekday mornings run like clockwork.

Get up. Shower. Deodorant. Contact lenses, then moisturise face (v. important, or you get moisturiser in your eyes). Hair. Get dressed. Make up. Greet dogs. Breakfast. Brush teeth. Check mirror. Leave house.

Usually, this is only part of the day that can be planned. You can't control the traffic, and London Transport is a law unto itself. Things can be factored in to the morning routine; a dog walk, 10 extra minutes in bed, or 5 minutes lying on the bathroom floor wondering when tequila on a school night became a good idea. But to get my day off to a good start, I generally like to know about these things in advance. This, in various degrees of OCD, probably applies to most people.

Unless you're retired.

A shout came up the stairs this morning, and I poked my head around my door.
"Yep?"
"What time are you leaving for work?" My mother stood, coat on, near the front door.
"Around quarter past nine."

A pause.

"So, normal time? Nine? Just after?" she prompted, as if my last sentence never happened.

"Well, like I said. About quarter past. Probably nearer 20 past, because I've got pilates this evening so I'll be leaving work later to go straight there."

"Oh. Are you not leaving at nine then?"

"Probably not. As I said, it's quarter to nine now...and I'm standing here in my bra. I've still got to eat breakfast. So I'll be leaving in about half an hour."

There followed an audible huff.

Apparently, mum had plans too. Places to go, people to see. Expecting to be able to catch a lift to our local central line station with me, she was now faced with a problem. A problem that - in my view - could be solved by her waiting an extra 10 minutes, walking to a closer station, or using her own car to get where she needed to be.

"Well can't I at least get a lift to The Closer Station? IT'S POURING WITH RAIN!"
"At least? Mum, you didn't really give me notice. Plus you've got a car! It's like £2 for the carpark...just drive!"

Stomping. More huffing.

Feeling guilty, I admitted defeat. Shoving on a t-shirt, I grabbed my car keys and went downstairs. "Oh, fa gods sake. Come on then. Let's go"

But the lady who, just two minutes earlier had been stood at the door, coat on, handbag on shoulder ready to go, had now put everything down. She was searching for something. I stood by the door. "Ready?"

"Just...got...to find my glasses. Now where are they? Have you seen them?"

(At this point, I should explain that this is a fairly regular occurrence in my house. Despite having no less than five pairs between them, my parents seem to spend a sizeable chunk of their day searching for their specs. And when you find a pair, you get "Not those ones, no. My other ones".)

Five minutes of patting, rummaging and tutting, we eventually made it out the door. It's now ticking past 9am. Two roads away from the station, we hit rush-minute traffic. Sensibly, my mother gets out and walks the rest of the way.

I'm back at the house and continuing to get ready. As I brush my teeth I can hear the house phone ringing. I go into my room and check my mobile. One missed call: Mum. I call back.

"We've stopped, but there's been a power cut. There's no trains from the next station."

"Right..."

"So if I get a taxi back to the house, will you still be there to take me to the other station?"

This logic dumbfounded me.

"Mum, by the time you get a taxi back here, and I take us BOTH to the other station, you might as well just get it to take you straight there. Or somewhere else closer to where you need to be."

This she laughed off, as if I'd just suggested renting a spaceship and flying there.

"So you won't be at home if I get a taxi back?" she continued.

"No, mum. I'm leaving - hoping to leave - in a few minutes. Just got to put my shoes on and I'm out."

"Well there is one thing you can do, if you've got time...that is..."

"I don't really, but what is it...?"

"I'm going to be late for my meeting now...so can you get the number of the place I'm going and..."

"Mum. You have an iPhone. Google the name. Instead of waiting for me to do exactly that and text you, or fire up my laptop, just type it in Google on your phone and ring them straight from that."

"Right. Fine."

"Mum..."

"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it. Bye."

Eventually, I left for work. Late. Annoyed. Routine disrupted. Wondering at what age common sense starts it's ascent towards the window.

And marvelling at the fact that while my mother might have lost her work routine, she has not lost the knack of giving the perfectly formed guilt-trip.

When London Transport and Interviews Attack

'No, no it's cool. I've left an hour and a half to get there, and it should only take 45 minutes. I'll be fine.'

In London, these are what we like to call "famous last words".

My interview was at 9am and the train - packed, delayed, stationary - was devouring my travel time. A child screamed, then moved his sticky fingers from my coat buttons to the wire of my ear phones, giving them a hearty tug. I clung precariously to a sweaty hand rail next to a pushy woman and the child's buggy. Enraged passengers at each platform, unable to find room for their ample, incredibly rude backsides, yelled angrily at me to move down the carriage. "WHERE?!" I replied, "Shall I get into the buggy?". Then "Oh, sorry" as they spotted the offending object. "Oh, sorry indeed".

Things were not going well.

A bus ride, an apologetic phone call and a quick shoe-change later; I arrived at the interview three minutes late.

Let me start by saying this. Had I known an interview for a writing job could involve being tested on division, multiplication and number sequences, I'd have spent the night revising GCSE Bitesize rather than scouring my brain for witty content ideas. From what I could discern, the 50 number and word puzzles that were placed in front of me seemed to serve only one purpose: to remind me how utterly shit I am at maths.

Maths makes my brain shrivel. It panics me, flusters me and makes me wish I understood the strange finger-formula for remembering my nine times table. That is why I write. Because if my career choice depended on knowing how to divide big numbers in my head, I'd be spending my days mine sweeping in McDonald's.

Fifteen minutes passed and my exam paper was collected.

Shit the bed, I thought as the HR Woman left the room, What next? "Put these trainers on love, we're off for a run"?

My mind hullaballooed by cryptic word and number problems, I stumbled through the verbal interview that followed. If given the job, what would I be told to improve on after three months? I entered two minutes of very deep thought, which produced two extremely vague answers. "And a third?" she prompted.

The heavy thinking resumed.

"Err, make more cups of tea?" I japed into the silence, somewhat unwisely. There are several stock answers to this question, and that probably isn't one of them.

I struggled on. The tables turned. What questions did I have? I asked about the potential salary, stated as "Dependent on Experience" on the job description. She told me. I was disappointed. She asked my current salary. I added five grand to her number. "Oh."

"Well, if you want someone with a lot of experience who can just get on with writing good stuff, then that's me."

But if they're looking for a mental arithmetic enthusiast with no interest in ever leaving home (or buying a new pair of shoes ever again), and a flair for telling HR Managers exactly what they want to hear...let's be honest.

It's probably someone else.