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 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)

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.

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.

Recruitment Consultants WIN!

I'm trying to think of what's irritating me the most today.

Tricky, because there are a few contenders.

Will it be my colleague's penchant for nibbling at the skin around his fingernails, seen just out of the corner of my eye and heard clearly even over the roar of low flying aircraft?

Or perhaps it's the incessant calls from recruitment agencies, all calling and sending through their own deftly crafted lump of excrement which, when roughly translated by a corporate-speak version of Babelfish, transpires to be a job specification?

Tell me, dear recruitment agents, you're a strange little breed of salesman but I'm sure you'll have an answer: Which bit of my CV has the IT software marketing experience this company is looking for? Now you mention it (and you do, right there under "Essential Experience"), where in my profile have you scouted out the 3-4 years design knowledge required for this - erm, also way above me - executive senior managerial role?

And by far my favourite thing because I do have all the time in the world, is this. Wouldn't it be a great idea to read the bit about where I want to work (Crafty tip, fact finders! You'll find it marked in capitals with asterisks either side, like this: **CENTRAL LONDON**) before spending ten minutes on the phone extolling the virtues of a job which turns out to be in the Outer Hebrides, or, like, Berkshire?

Or finally, is it the bit where they then ask me to do their job for them? The cherry on the coiled turd, if you will. The part where they say "Oh, yes, so we're probably not the agency for you" (Oh hi, Sherlock) "But if you know of anyone else who might be a good fit, do let them know about the role".

Sunshine, am I missing something? Cos... god know what I'll end up doing next, but that's your... job...init?

Yeah. Today, the Recruitment Agencies win it.

Panic

Despite feeling alright yesterday and today - well, I say alright, I didn't cry - tonight I haven't been so lucky.

I was meant to be going out, but my friend had an emergency and had to cancel at the last minute. This meant I was now faced with a night in that I wasn't prepared for. Not a problem, I thought, I did it last night and the night before - no drama.

But on the train home this evening I felt something close to panic rising inside me. My heard started beating out of my chest, my throat tightened. The further I got to the flat - and I'd already purposefully taken a long route back - the more this panic kept on inside me. By the time I got through the door I was breathing heavily, struggling to catch my breath and I had to sit on the bed as I cried.

All I could think was I didn't want this. I never wanted to live on my own. I moved out to live with him, because he was the only person I could imagine living with, and now he's fucked everything up. His stupidity, whatever it was that caused him to switch so suddenly, has knocked me down. I'm not the sort of girl who cries about being on her own. I never minded being single, never went out looking for love. Except this time I didn't want to be single, I was happy how I was. I was starting afresh, moving on, moving out.

And now I can't even spend a night on my own without feeling panicked about the prospect. I hate him for doing this to me, for ruining everything. I bloody hate him.

Cascade this to your readers

I'm getting pissed off with the amount of 'business speak' going on in my office lately.

It's pretty much a given in any workplace, but at the moment here it seems to be particularly bad. And it's really bloody annoying me.

There is nowhere else in life that you use the words coined in offices. When you're talking to your mates about going to the pub, you don't say "Going forward, I think we should try a different boozer". If you hear something you didn't know about, you don't reply with "Oh, really? I wasn't across that decision". And if you do, you're an eedjit. That's blog-speak for your opinion is void.

The other day, right, I h'actually got an email which said "Please cascade to your colleagues as appropriate". CASCADE? What's wrong with SEND? We ain't working at Niagara Falls, are we?

And urgh, everything has to be on-brand. There must be a direct, clear call to action. We have deliverables to follow. My Blogger spell check doesn't even recognise that as a word.




So in real life is it like, "I've issued a call to action in the pub tonight, where we will be acting on the deliverables of 5 glasses of wine?"

These words, and many more, make me want to bang my head against the proverbial brick wall.

Thank god it's nearly C.O.B. Laters. I'll touch base with you all on Monday.

Don't tell me to CHILL OUT.

The worst thing about arguing with your boyfriend isn't yelling.

It's not the tears, the tantrums and the silent treatment. It's not storming off then realising you don't have a door to slam. Or storming off when you have nowhere to storm off to. The worst thing about arguing is when your boyfriend says those two little infuriating words, from which there is no return:

"Chill out"

The minute he says that, it's game over. You might not have been angry before, you might just be feeling the tinge of annoyance. All he has to do is change the subject. Talk about the weather. Let it go. Instead, he says "Chill out!", and now there can only be one response.

Anger.

And a hearty shout of "Don't yoooou tell me to CHILL OUT."

See, boyfriends? See how it has the opposite effect? It's like when you're in a really shit club and some drunken fool having a better time than you are comes over, spills their drink on your shoes and yells "Smiiiiile!" with his beery breath. It doesn't make you smile. It makes you want to unleash the fury into his grinning little face, then plant a stiletto heel firmly onto his foot.

In short, saying "chill out" will make your girlfriend's voice rise to frequencies heard only by sea mammals. And just because she is now officially angry, you may feel that your next insistence that she "chill out" is perhaps justified. It's not. Because then comes that bit where the argument splits off; suddenly, you're not arguing over the fact that your phone is shit and he can't hear you because the full signal inexplicably drops every two seconds even though you're not moving (I'm looking at you, HTC Wildfire), you're arguing because he told you to chill out when you weren't even angry.

"But you were!" he claims, exasperated and confused.
"No, I wasn't." you reply, indignant. "But I am now."

It's a learning curve. A few more times, and I think we'll have nipped this one in the bud.

Ready, set, panic.

With just under four days to go until the lease begins on my new flat, it's fair to say that the upcoming move is making me go a litttle bit bonkers. I feel really bloody anxious at the moment, and if I'm honest, I have done for the last couple of weeks. At first I put it down to worrying about whether the Boyfriend would like his Christmas present because it meant using iTunes, about which he used to regularly yell, tourettes stylee, "iTunes is SHIT!". But that all went ok, and still the anxious feeling remained.

Then there was the run up to NYE, an annual time of fretting and trying to please everyone. I hoped to wake up on 1st January swaddled in cliche ready for a brand new start. Instead, I predictably spent first few hours of 2011 arguing with the bloke I'm due to move in with. It seems to have set the tone because at the moment, we can't have a conversation without it descending into a heated discussion about who's being the bigger pain in the arse. And usually, it's me.

And oh, money. Money makes me worry even when there's no rent to pay, something now magnified by the fact that from now on, there will be rather a lot of it leaving my account each month. The flat we are renting depends on two salaries; not one of us could afford the rent on our own without the other. So news this morning that the Boyfriend's job, which until recently was back to it's normal secure self, is now wobbling all over the shop hit my already anxious brain, which had been up half the night swirling it's never ending train of thoughts.

Bah. I'm panicking when I should be excited. And I don't like it. And it's getting worse. And I don't feel like I can tell anyone about it.

Apart from my blog.

Hello blog.

Take that for New Year.

2011 Resolution: To do what the hell I want. Like everyone else.

Mates over dates. Bro's over hoes. Whatever turn of phrase you choose, the sentiment is the same. When it comes to being in a relationship, you've gotta keep your friends on the radar. The rule is simple: Do not become One of Those Girls.

I've been going out with the Boyfriend for well over a year now, and I'll be the first to admit that (during cold, wintry, god-it's-cold-outside-can't-we-just-watch-a-film times) I have allowed several weeks to pass without seeing head nor pint of my friends.

I mean, sod it. Seeing your Boyfriend is easy. It's warm. It requires no thought. It demands nothing but Donkey Kong, a sofa, and lying sans make-up in bed all day. It costs precisely naught. But that being said, after a few weeks of relative hibernation, I have got my act together and evened up the friends to Boy ratio.

So when I get snide comments regarding how much time I spend with him - which I have done from several corners lately - on the one hand it's understandable, but on the other it's, well... not. Come on. We all do this. Show me a girl who doesn't let her social life slide when she's in a relationship, and I'll show you a handsome toad doing the twist.

But as far as I can remember - and any stalker friends who may stumble on this blog and emit a fit of rage at such a statement, please feel free to interject - I have yet to actually forget about arranging an evening with my friend, and then when reminded, spend it with my boyfriend anyway. Which is what happened to me tonight.

Forgetting isn't a crime. I forget, god do I forget. And if the plans made in the meantime were bloody amazing and / or non-refundable, then fair enough: abandon mate o'clock. But unless you're going out with Jamie "Epic Munch" Oliver, that doesn't include a generic night eating round your boyfriend's house. Who you saw yesterday.

Maybe I rate my company too highly. Perhaps the lure of me, some wine and the Wii ain't what it used to be. But one thing's for sure. I do believe I've just been bumped off for a boy. And that's just not cricket.

Oh, what a lovely day!

"There are currently severe delays on the Bakerloo line, due to a person under a train at Warwick Avenue."

Is it just me, or has there been a sudden rise in inconsiderate bastards throwing themselves under tubes recently?

It's like, bloody hell, yes winter's depressing, yes Christmas is a drag, and yes life can get really, really shit in this vastly expensive city. But if you're thinking of ending it all - your life, your choice folks - I'm just going to put this suggestion out there: why not just do it in the comfort of your own home?

In fairness, I can see the up side of hurling yourself in front of a tube at rush hour (and it is always bloody rush hour); it's quick, you can do it on your way home and your family won't have to see or clear up the mess you inevitably make. But then you are mentally scarring a tube driver and those who choose to remain ON the platform at your chosen station, before causing an evening of travel chaos for thousands of Londoners who just want to get home and eat dinner. Then again, maybe that's the point.

When half of the Central Line was closed last night ("the second jumper this evening" said the TFL worker I spoke to, "and we had three last week"), I had to take an entirely different route home. This meant leaving my car on a roadside by my usual station over night, walking home from somewhere I could get to, and taking a horrendously awful, stop-every-two-minutes train into work today. Seriously, the Metropolitan line gives an whole new meaning to the term "semi-fast".

And the clincher? Despite a 25 minute journey taking twice that, and a 12 minute wait for the next Hammersmith and City Line train at Baker Street, all London Underground lines were apparently running a good service. Ha! Is that like when you say good, but mean really, really categorically bad?

I despair. It's a wonder these people can find a train to jump in front of.



(Non Londoners for whom this is absolutely non-information, please excuse the rant. I've been back to the dentist this afternoon. My lovely day has been made infinitely better by one mother of a filling.)

Books, The Kindle, and that nice little feeling.

It's 11:45pm on a Monday night, and I'm in bed thinking about books.

I've just realised how much I actively dislike the idea of owning an electronic book reader. A Kindle. A Sony E-reader. You know the types.

The whole thing about books is holding something, reading the back of it, feeling the weight of it in your hands. Devouring or struggling through the pages, then passing it onto a friend with a recommendation or at the very least, an opinion, and getting it back with a few more pages turned down at the edges, a few more creases on the spine.

You can put the words on a beautifully conceived screen that looks remarkably like paper, you can make it lightweight and easy to carry, stack it on a memory card next to 5,000 others - but then, what's the point?

You're no more reading a book than I am writing on a laptop. You're relieving yourself of a heavy bag at the expense of the actual experience. You're not going into a good, beautiful book shop, talking to someone who knows their stuff and curling up with a decent page turner. Sod it, you haven't got pages to turn. How's that button feeling under your thumb, anyway?

E-readers annoy me. Another nice way to pass the time, like looking through photographs, that is now consigned to a screen.

God. I hope no one buys me one for Christmas.

A plea to all drivers, re: inertia

This weekend I drove up to East Yorkshire.

On the way, it occurred to me that there may be some driving instructors out there who are omitting a very simple piece of advice from their lessons, and depriving a nation of some essential car knowledge. 

Next time you're poodling along the road in your car and need to slow down (perhaps you have found yourself to be 1mph over the speed limit, or you are approaching a speed camera at 30mph, and know without doubt that you will get caught for a crime you are not committing, unless you drop to 25. Maybe a rogue leaf can be seen making its way towards the kerb and threatens to flutter into your path), just think: could this action be achieved by simply removing my foot from the accelerator? Do I really need to touch the brake pedal for absolutely no reason, repeatedly, and cause a wave of blinking red light panic to ripple through the cars behind me, thus slowing an entire lane of traffic?

Consider this, over braker: is your aim to frustrate the car behind you into yelling "WHY ARE YOU BRAKING? WHY? WHYY?", when you're on a long, straight, otherwise stress free road with no one in front of you? Or would you rather just slow up by, you know, withholding your foot from the pedal which causes speed to build, and saving the driver behind from giving herself a brain haemorrage from banging her head against a metaphorical brick wall?

The answer, of course, is "Why, yes that does sound better".


PS. London and the South East - I've seen the future. It's white, cold, falls from the sky in flakes, causes endless news reports, a plethora of boring Facebook photo albums and makes already shit drivers a lot worse. You have been warned.

Say AHHH

On Wednesday I have a dentist appointment.

And I am absolutely shitting myself at the prospect.

It's just a check-up, and I'm slightly calmed by the knowledge that when they do decide to do horrible things to me, I will have another couple of weeks to think about it before it happens. But it will happen. I know it will. They're going to go scrape with that little metal scrapey thing and I'll go "OWWW!" then it'll be game over.

Here's the truth. I haven't been to the dentist in ages. In fact, I can't actually remember the last time, aside from the fact that it was probably while I was at university, possibly before. If this all reads like a bit of a guilty confession, you're spot on. I am completely embarrassed about my lack of dental care.

To compensate for this non-dentist-attendance, I brush twice a day, floss and swill round whatever I find in the bathroom (err, within reason). They're deceptive little scamps, my teeth. They're straight, they're white, they look fine. From the outside, you'd never guess that I've already had fillings and two back teeth removed on either side. I'm embarrassed about that, too, even though no one ever notices unless I drag a gum to one side and point out the gaps.

My fear of The Chair started when I was very little, and I think I caught it from my sister, who once took great delight in biting our dentist's finger. Neither of us liked him, he wasn't very child friendly and come to think of it, he had the worst set of nashers I'd ever seen. Whether it was the sight of his own teeth or the thought of what he was about to do to mine, I'd cry until they agreed to giving me general anaesthetic to have the work done.

Looking back, I suppose looking after my teeth came second to problems at my various schools and several hospital stints throughout my sickly youth (asthma attacks, a bout of meningitis, ongoing migraines, something called Acute Torticullis - the list goes on). When I ran out of passes to the anaesthetic clinic, they sent me to another place down the road where I had extractions under the wonderful, woozy influence of laughing gas. I remember giggling uncontrollably at the clock on the wall as the nurse came towards me with a needle and asked me to open wide. It was actually pretty good fun.

But long gone are the days of glorious nitrous oxide. On Wednesday I face being prodded and poked with rubber gloves, scraped and screeched at by metal bits and filled with squeeky cotton wool; then chastised for not visiting sooner.

And best of all - I'll be paying for the pleasure.

I hate the dentist. Save me now.

I'd love to change the record, but they won't let me

"One more thing" I tapped into an e-mail while sorting out the pay (or rather lack of it) debacle with my Recruitment Consultant last week. "When I clicked to view my pay rate online, it comes up as £xx an hour. I thought it was agreed that I was getting more than that, at £xxx a day"

A response zipped back a few minutes later.

"Re: rate, it is not £xx per hour as stated on your profile..... the system writes it in units - it is actually £xxx per day"

Needless to say, if it's not one thing, it's another with this large group of incompetant recruitment flumpards. And today, Team Useless at Crapsticks Recruitment Ltd excelled themselves again.

For this morning, upon checking my bank account and payslip for an influx of much needed cashishe, I realised that I hadn't just been paid, no no no. Despite spotting and flagging up the possible system error last week, I have actually been a couple of hundred pounds underpaid.

I'm complaint-lettered out. Who wants to take this one?

This week I have been WHINGING relentlessly about matters over which I have no control

Whether it's my latest job, which sees me dealing with disgruntled, downright outraged (and, I expect, incredibly bored) people on a daily basis, or the definite autumn chill accompanying the sporadic bursts of rain outside, je ne pas. But this week's to-do list scribbled in the back of my WH Smith diary goes something like this:

Complain

Complain

Complain

You'd be forgiven for thinking that this is quite normal for a prolific whingebag like myself. Truth be told, I'm actually quite reasonable when it comes to Things That Annoy Me, and usually settle for a 140 character rant on Twitter, or a 500 word stint on the olde blog. It's a rare occasion that I direct my wrath at the company concerned.

I always remember the time when pinkjellybaby had a rant about a holiday company on her old blog (or something), and an eagle eyed company googler concerned duly got in touch and sorted out the problemo. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to happen too much these days. Even with the recent burst in generating online opinions on products, blogs are slipping down the radar when it comes to those who matter. Unless, of course, you're covered in ads and commanding enough hits to demand a company's attention. As much as I'd love to have this much blog-clout, it's a safe bet that for all our product pushing or lamenting, this blog, and most of yours, never will.

Saying that, there are a few companies whose headquarters are receiving a written spanking this week, from Chanel to Bose to HTC. Most notable, though, is STA Travel.

So far, they have ignored my e-mails (and calls) surrounding that rather minor issue of me being refused access onto a plane in New York while using their Round The World ticket. Ergo, I am no closer to recouping the £624 I was forced to shell out for a new flight home. So, after letting them break the code of conduct which gives them 29 days to respond, I've taken my complaint a step further.

If e-mailing, phoning and blogging about the matter won't help - then I suppose we'll have to leave it to ABTA to shove a foot firmly up their arse..
 
If there's any clout left in blogging, perhaps it's this.
 
Dear readers: there are a multitude of other companies who will give you a better deal and service than STA Travel. Take my experienced and considered word for it. If you're thinking of booking your next travel expedition with STA Travel - don't.

Excuse me while I fume.

Last month, I attempted to enlist the help of various recruitment agencies in my search for a job. Not because past experience has told me they're any good, but because I was seduced by their fancy websites, glowing testimonies and promises of career success. Oh, the little scamps. They only want to help! Drop us an e-mail, they said, and we'll tell you how!

Unfortunately, the response was less than overwhelming. Assuming I got a response at all, that is. Which I largely didn't. Even when introduced to a consultant through a friend, after being told they 'had something that was perfect for me', there would be no reply to my CV sending. I gave up.

Then one day I got a phone call from a consultant who spotted my newly updated profile on a job site. She got me my current job at The Company, was nice, friendly and kept me updated while things were being arranged.

Last week, I started working. And then....silence.

I duly e-mailed references last week, after which, she said, I would get login details for the Agency website. Nothing. I posted my P46. Nada. I e-mailed changes to my work dates on Monday and to check she got my forms. Not a sausage.

Then late yesterday afternoon, I e-mailed her again about another change to my dates and to double check ye olde payment situation, as hearing sweet f.a was beginning to grate.

Hi again. I still haven't received my Agency Website log-in details you mentioned - so as yet I haven't been able to submit a timesheet. I'm assuming this won't effect me getting paid on Friday.

Suddenly, my gmail inbox experienced a highly unusual flurry of activity. Website log in details arrived minutes before I was due to go home for the day. Capital letters SHOUTED that the P46 I sent can't be used, I MUST fill out the one online. This MUST be done before my timesheet can be completed. Then, the crucial bit. My timesheet MUST be authorised by 10pm that night, or I won't get paid on Friday.

Hold up, sunshine.

You what?

For one, my manager hadn't been in all afternoon. For two, it was home time. For three, it turns out my manager wasn't even authorised to sign off the damn thing anyway when he tried last night and this morning.

So, Madame Recruitment, I've missed the payroll deadline and you're now apologising for not, you know, letting me in on these crucial nuggets of payment information earlier...which is thoughtful of you. But that still doesn't change the fact that I've got £0.48p in my bank account, a busy weekend ahead, £2.65 for lunch until Friday, a hankering for new shoes and now won't be getting paid until next week. I may have just bagged another few weeks work here, which is great news for your commission bonus, but at the moment, I can't actually afford the train fare in on Monday.

And that, my dears, is enough to make a small girl shout down the phone.

Lend us a quid.

As an aside

Despite what the masses will have you think, the best way to see a city isn’t necessarily by donning a rucksack and digitally recording the tallest buildings.

That’s not to say that, while in New York, I haven’t taken full advantage of all there is to see and do. But when it comes to tourism, I always feel like there’s a better option. For example, we gave ascending the Empire State a miss, choosing instead to see it through blurry drunk eyes from the roof top bar of an adjacent hotel. We saw the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline from the comfort of the Staten Island commuter ferry and took in Central Park from the vantage point of a well positioned rock.

No photos exist of our visit to Ground Zero; but oh, the camcorders and disaster tourists were out in force. The things people choose to photograph on their holidays never ceases to amaze me. They stand there, smiling away, vacantly recording: Me in front of building. You in front of building. Us in front of building. Building on it's own. Move on. People plonk themselves in front of anything from Alice and Wonderland statues to French designer shops to the inscriptions outside terrorist attack sites these days. I don’t know about you, but seeing a teenage girl posing for smiley photos in front of a memorial to several hundred dead firemen leaves nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.

It’s the families and friends who have to sit through slideshows of that shit back home who I feel sorry for. Who wants to see a picture of you grinning in front of a building site where thousands died? Why, instead of videoing the information on the wall in the 9/11 visitor centre, don't you just put the camera down and read it?

I haven't had a camera since (both of) mine broke back in April. There's been some sharing going on, but largely, I've left the Boyfriend to it. And you know what? It's amazing what sights, sounds and smells the mind can remember when you give it a chance. It's been a constant frustration to me on this trip, realising how many people fail to give this other way of recording a try.