The internet is playing a trick on us

Lots of us, my generation, are guilty of falling for it. 

We're constantly, unknowingly seduced by numbers (over a thousand followers? Must be a big deal) and faces (the featureless, flattering photos of Instagram) and other people's life events (the party where everyone's having the time of their lives).

And no matter how well we think we're negotiating this life stuff, these little tricks - and deep down we know they're tricks - end up making us feel bad about ourselves anyway.

So a while back I decided to cut down my online life a bit, and make sure I was doing alright without it.

A few weeks before my 30th birthday, I decided that Facebook could be where I got event invitations, or involved in group inbox conversations, or tagged in photos - but I would no longer browse what I had begun to term The Timeline of Doom.

Despite never being a particularly active user, not having it on my phone, and never big on sharing my innermost thoughts, I hadn't realised how much I subconsciously flicked onto the website in between tasks at work throughout the day, and the effect that was having on how I felt about myself.

At first, it felt a bit alien not to be entertained by the constant slew of missives from friends and acquaintances. I felt a bit of a pull towards it, and that surprised me too.

But after a few days, then a week, then a month and more, the habit dropped completely.

Now I manage quite nicely without the constant drip-feed of other people's lives - which almost never made me feel good, but did give me a lot of oh my god, why aren't I doing that - and instead, if you'll excuse my French, began to give a shit about the stuff that actually, you know, matters.

And low and behold - when you're not comparing yourself to others, or locked down to life on a laptop, or updating the world on your every move for a Retweet - it's like...bloody hell, I'm doing alright.

In fact, I'm doing good: I'm working hard, earning enough money to live the way I want to in one of the world's best cities. I can travel and see friends abroad, live in a good houseshare, occasionally date people, occasionally not, have busy weekends and quiet week nights. And all of that is ok. 

Being online a lot can warp your priorities, and change what you think you want. 

It's fine if other people aim for marriage, babies or a house, writing a book, or getting fame and popularity in a corner of the internet - but at the moment, I'm working on a different kind of future: where I work hard and earn money, not "likes", having fun and, well, a pension; because when I'm old and rickety after all the adventures, I'm going to need some cash.

A timely reminder of the digital microcosm we live in now came the other night, when I sat opposite a man I'd just met for the first time - through an app, ironically - laughing, flirting, getting along fine, and seeing a blank look on his face when I mentioned the word "Buzzfeed".

That someone my age had never heard of this huge website that dominated so much of my online feeds seemed odd - but it was also hugely reassuring.

Because most of the websites, numbers, influential people, followers, likes and carefully posed profile pictures are all part of the internet's big trick.

What matters is when you're sat in front of someone, just getting on, having a laugh. Mates, dates, your face, their face, chatting in the real world: knowing that if they like you, that's cool, and if they don't, you'll still be alright. 

And no amount of Instagram filters can help you with that.

Kids these days

One of the most terrifying things about being in your late twenties is that every so often, you catch sight of a date of birth which ends in something like "2010".

If you're anything like me, you'll like to think that people just stopped being born after about 1995; a time in which everyone was caught up in deciding which Take That member to scratch a heart around with the pointed end of a compass on their pencil case, not merely Tweeting their adoration of Harry Styles.

You'll like to imagine that everyone alive now should, and indeed does, remember a time when knowledge came from libraries, not from a mythical "search engine", or - sod it - a time before the internet itself.

The fact that all our worldly information is so readily available now - to the point where our capacity for memorising things is shrinking - is indicative of a more pressing concern: that there are children in the world at this very moment who have never booted up a CDROM of Encarta Encyclopedia, and magically produced the exact same "research" as everyone else handing in their homework that day.

The same goes for mobile phones. It's not the instant, hyper-connectivity of noughties children that worries me; more that kids these days will never have to search through the Yellow Pages for a house  number and mumble a greeting to their crush's mother,

 "Hello, Mrs Smith. Is Daniel there please?"

...before making stilted, quiet, awkward conversation while balancing carefully on the stairs; an operation that was always hindered by the meter long ringlets of stretchy phone cord which never quite reached anywhere out of parental earshot.

Worst still, by taking their first "I fancy you" steps via text message or Facebook, kids these days will never have to endure the tell-tale click of a phone being replaced on its hook, followed by the hot-faced embarrassment of their older sister yelling "Oooh! Who's MARK? Have you got a BOYFRIEND?" from her listening post in the kitchen.

BT phone boxes must seem like relics of another time to kids these days; make-do street toilets, public drug taking cubicles, an extreme last resort if you forget your mobile - not a place your best mate used to call you from when her parents regularly barred outgoing calls from their house.

And let us not start on TV on-demand services, which negate ever having an all-out sibling war over who recorded over the only VHS copy of Ghost with an episode of Byker Grove, or whose cassette recorder ate the ribbon on the latest Now...! double compilation.

Oh, kids these days. Those poor people born in 2013, whose idea of nostalgia will be a screen resolution without HD.

They're missing out.

It's Women's Day, part of International Blummin' Good Friends Week

For a long time, I associated getting older with the loss of things. From hair to sanity, grandparents to friends, it always seemed I was more likely to lose rather than gain things after a certain age.

It's no wonder, really. All through school, university and travels, the emphasis is always on making friends. Once all that's out of the way, there's a shift. Girls aren't supposed to look for friends any more, they're supposed to look for a relationship. If that fails, the solution never seems to be "go and make new friends", it's "grab your old friends, and go and find a new man".

What nobody tells you is that if you do find yourself single at 27, that you can still make friends - lots of them, in fact - and they'll probably end up being the best, most honest, generous and like-minded ones you ever had.

It's International Women's Day today, and there have been lots of reminders floating around the internet about female solidarity both online and off.

The reminder came for me on Tuesday night, as I hung around the office sending e-mails to friends as the clock ticked past 6pm. Truth was, I wasn't relishing the thought of going back to a house where I no longer feel all that comfortable.

Eventually I headed home leaving the e-mail chain in mid-flow, and hopped on the tube. A voicemail came through as I was killing more time in the Co-op.

"Hey love, I'm leaving for Brussels tomorrow, so my flat's free if you want to get out of your house. I'll be round the corner tonight and I have a spare key for you. Come and meet me. Byeee!"

While I was gearing up to call her back, my phone rang. It was one of the other girls, offering to meet me for a drink so that I didn't go home and sit there feeling crap all night. I grabbed the key and a quick hug, then hopped back on the tube into town to the pub, having gratefully taken both friends up on their offers.

The next day, the following sentences at the end of an article in Stylist magazine caught my attention:

At around the same time...I experienced the surpassingly odd sensation of making a new friend. A genuine friend, a good friend. It really was, and remains, a bizarre feeling. I never expected it to happen again at my age. I brighten every time I get a text from her and can’t wait to meet up with her every week to put the world to rights. It is like the beginning of a love affair but without the sickening doubts or sexual anxieties. It’s absolutely brilliant. 

And I couldn't have put it better myself.

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."

What I've learnt in 2011

“As for you, my galvanised friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable. 

– The Wizard of Oz

If there's one thing I've learnt this year, it's that everyone is responsible for their own happiness.

It's easy to stay with what you know, whether it's a relationship that's bad for you or a job you don't enjoy. It's easy to compare yourself to prettier, more confident friends and wallow in self pity that you're not more like them. It's easy to stay put and complain, instead of getting up and changing the thing you're unhappy about.

It's also the easiest thing in the world to blame every low point, down-day or tear that comes to your eye throughout the course of a year on the breakdown of a relationship; or the silly boy who wanted someone else over you.

And I think that, conversely, is why this year has been so hard.

2011 wasn't hard because someone treated me badly back in January. It was hard because I chose to leave him, cut all ties, go home, recoup, get my social life back on track, and give my heart a little rest. I said no to dates with boys, yes to drinks with new friends and made - without a doubt - some of the best mates I've ever had as a result. I saved up, took a leap, left home - again - and moved in with new housemates.

Job hunting was hard, too - but my old, unpredictable contract job finishes today and my new, permanent job starts next week. New Years Eve has, for the first year since records (or blogs) began, been planned without dispute, stress or worry.

There's a lot to celebrate, and 2011 has been a good year. I am happy with the way things turned out.

And no one's responsible for that except me.


Happy New Year x

What do you do in a power cut?

The TV went black. The dishwasher ceased washing. The kettle stopped making my cup of tea. The internet dropped out and the house plunged into darkness and silence. Well, except for me.

"Oh, what? HOUSEMAAAAAAAAAAAATE."

Not ever having experienced a power cut before, I wasn't exactly sure what to do. Do you call someone? Does someone come to fix it? I checked out of the window and saw the neighbouring houses were still lit up. Just us affected, then. Puzzled, I flicked our light switch again for good measure. Nothing.

"Shouldn't we... look at the... fuse box in the... where is it?" I asked, not really understanding what exactly it was we had to check for in these situations, but knowing that this was something I should say.

After establishing that this wasn't a) my fault or b) a result of my housemate's new game: Extreme Bill Paying: Dodge The Final Notice, I wondered what to do.

And what with us living in times where even if you can't do something, you tell someone about it, I hopped onto Twitter for advice.


"Candles, ghost stories and shadow puppets!"


"Dance around and sing at the top of your lungs in the dark. Fun, AND your neighbours will appreciate the radio replacement."


"You scrabble around in the dark for bits of old candle."


Candles, then. Which after some scrabbling about, we had - but no holders.

"We need a bottle to put it in" I said to Boy Housemate, eyeing up the red wine in the kitchen and adding carefully "But, oh. That bottle is full."

"We should probably finish the wine and use that." he replied.

Bingo.

Two glasses of wine and a lit candle later, we're sat in the living room waiting for some sort of man from the electricity thing to appear with the answer (or so the technical terminology goes), and engaging in what used to be known back in the 1990s as h'actual real live face-to-face conversation - you might have seen it on telly - and discovering that electricity is a great leveller.

Because once it goes you're back to basics; relying on knowledge instead of Google, sleeping bags instead of central heating and flames complete with dripping hot wax instead of switches.

Having never in my life been without it, I actually had no idea how much we depended on the stuff. From the dying battery on my phone (no alarm clock), to no power for the freezer and potentially more frozen peas than Iceland to consume, being without it for any length of time would leave us in a mighty big pickle.

But what it also meant was an evening of two housemates chatting, when they'd normally be in separate rooms absorbed with TVs or laptops, or both.

After three hours of darkness we decided to call it a night. And just at that moment, the house sprang back into life, swiftly followed by Girl Housemate who'd also been out for the evening.

Admittedly, the set up must have looked odd; discarded takeaway on the kitchen counter, candles, two empty wine glasses and a now far-fetched sounding story about a single-house power cut.

"You drank the CHIANTI" she said, clearly not quite understanding the emergency pitch-black situation we'd been in minutes earlier.

"Baby, we had no candle holder" Boy Housemate replied, "We needed the bottle."

With the explanation now seeming slightly implausible in the whirring house, everyone retreated into separate rooms to fire up their electronic devices.

And back to the real world we went.

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)

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.

Who Are These Disconnected People and How Do They Find Out About Important Stuff?

If you're reading this, you probably quite like the internet.

You might spend your week playing and working on it, like me. In which case, you'd be forgiven for thinking that everyone's life revolved around the quick, simple, instant communication that being online offers.

But the fact remains: despite 140,000 tweets being sent each day, and with Facebook clocking up around 750 million users to date - 50% of whom access the site every day - there's a lot of people who, when it comes to being online, just aren't that into it.

Although about ten of my good friends possess a Twitter account, only a few of them use it daily and in a way that doesn't make me want to bang my head against the keyboard and shout "For the LOVE of GOD, stop retweeting every mention of your name, cut down on the exclamation marks, that link went viral four weeks ago, and lay off the lol"

Then there's close friends of mine, whose internet usage goes no further than the odd check of a Hotmail account. And god forbid you send them something pressing that way; it'll take days for them to see it and longer - if prompted - to reply.

Parents are excused from this disconnected demographic. The other night my mum yelled from the computer room for my help, where I found her staring quizzically at a website called "404 Page not found".

"I've been trying to get tickets for this event. It says here..."
(she pointed at a magazine article)
"to go on this..."
(she pointed at an email address within the article)
"...and sign up for tickets. But every time I type it into here..."
(she pointed at the internet browser)
"...it comes up with page not found. Why won't it work?"

"Because that's an e-mail address."
"Yes. But I've typed it in and it says webpage not found."
"You're not meant to type it there. It's an e-mail address. See? It's magazine@tickets.com. Just like your email address is Mum@gmail.com. It's not a web site. It's e-mail. You need to e-mail them."
"But - oh."
"Ok?"
"Ah. Yep. Ok."

(N.b. That is a shortened version of the conversation)

Quite frankly, what with that and the time she thought the "I'm feeling lucky" button on Google was some sort of sordid search channel, the less time my mother spends online, the better.

Unbelieveably, a few friends of mine don't even have internet at home. Yeah. You heard. NO. INTERNET. CONNECTION. AT. HOME. Through choice. Why? They just "never got round to it". As someone who Googled "How many weeks in a year" today, this strikes me as something of a strange phenomenon.

Without internet, communication then falls to the good old telephone. Not being a great lover of text messages (delayed screen tapping business - give me buttons), I favour a phonecall. Then a voicemail. Or two.

And if all that fails, sometimes you just have to concede defeat: it's probably not just the internet they haven't got the time for.

It's probably, maybe, might just be...you.

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 compulsive itch for information

It's ironic. The fact that I'm choosing to blog about this particular issue rather than just mulling it over in my head.

But of all the things I've begun to worry about in my downtime, top of the list is my dwindling attention span.

I'm not sure when it happened. But I can no longer just sit still.

Last night on the tube I looked to my right and watched the woman next to me frantically scooting a finger across her Samsung phone screen. Facebook was being loaded. In the five seconds it took for that to happen, she checked her e-mail. Suddenly realising that I too was waiting for the same website to appear, I caught myself and turned it off. Conclusion? We're all at it without even realising.

It's not just me. Friends have become surgically attached to their iPhones. In the silence between conversations they swap sips of coffee for a skim read of a news feed, consuming the latest updates on life over there instead of life, well...right here.

On more than one occasion, I've returned from a night out and seen Facebook statuses posted hours earlier declaring locations, quotes and topics that were taken from our table and tapped out in text. It felt like an invasion; wasn't my company good enough? When did they find the time to do that? Probably while on the toilet. But why does every funny anecdote between friends have to be shared with 500 "friends"?

Worse than the need to share everything instantly is our sudden inability to just be alone with our thoughts. Try it tomorrow. Sit on a bus or tube for the whole journey and don't reach for your phone unless it rings. Do it. If you're anything like me, you'll last a few minutes before you forget the task at hand (or in bag) and scratch the compulsive social media itch.

As I sat on the train home yesterday looking objectively at everyone around me, all tapping, stroking, transfixed by screens, it all felt a bit strange.

When did we stop being entertained by our own thoughts and start living off a stream of everyone else's?

My guess? Probably around the same time a website started dictating, declaring, making and breaking the status of our relationships.

But that's just me. And well, probably you as well.

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.

It's nearly time for everyone's favourite night of the year! WOOOO

It's nearly the end of 2010. And with that comes the annual stress of working out how to see in the New Year.

Having travelled the globe and expanded my mind etc, I've come to the conclusion that a trouble, argument and stress free New Years Eve relies on the following: rolling solo in Australia, ditching the Boring Germans you're stuck with and putting yourself at the mercy of a couple of Irish alcoholics.

Failing that, this year it's me, the Boyfriend and four other couples in a flat in West Hampstead. Which probably sounds a lot more debauched than it actually is.

However, I'll be seeing in 2011 with a Boyfriend who demands my time on such a night, and with mates who don't insist on driving everyone to tears over which Pizza Express we eat in. In fact, there will be no Pizza Express. There will be only Strongbow, cheap champagne and M&S nibbles.

So hurrah for that. And hurrah for 2010, which saw me travel the world, survive a long distance relationship, get a decent job doing something I love (i.e. faffing around on the internet) and move out of home (well, strictly speaking, that's next week). Not bad for twelve months.

Happy New Year everyone...

Have a good one x

How to cheer up a the British troops, or not, as the case may be.

There's always something weird going on outside my place of work.

It comes with the media territory, I think. From "fun" fashion to fame-hungry hopefuls breakdancing outside the entrance, ain't never a dull day. But as entertaining as it is, all this activity does makes the surrounding streets a haven for those with a campaign on the brain.

One such person met my eye yesterday as I walked towards work. There he was, loitering about in a functional kagool, looking for an innocent victim to pounce on. Armed, no doubt, with a lengthy survey or money-swindling form that would require a fixed gaze, a stern "No thank you!" or sudden preoccupation with my mobile phone screen.

"Hi, have you got a minute?" he said, all friendly like.

I gave him the once over. No clipboard. No leaflets. No visible religious paraphernalia. No dreadlocks or dubious smell about his person. Satisfied that I wasn't about to sponsor a cucumber, I shuffled over.

He produced some sort of listening device and waved it about.

"We're recording Christmas messages for British troops overseas. I was wondering if you'd be able to record one for us? It can be as long as you like, or you can just say Merry Christmas and that's it. Up to you!"

It didn't sound too hard; speak into a voice recorder, share a bit of Christmas good will, heal the world, then toddle off to work. What can I say? Catch me before 10am and I'll agree to most things.

So he checked I was ready, and with that, the "listening device" was aimed at face height and I found myself staring into a lens.

"Oh, hello!" I exclaimed, momentarily thrown by the introduction of a camera. "Merry Christmas!" I paused, job done, only to find Mr Kagool still nodding, still recording, still beaming expectantly at me to continue.

"Merry Christmas! I hope you're having a good time in..." I continued automatically, quickly realising the ridiculousness of such a sentiment considering the recipients were probably the only Brits guaranteed not to be having anything resembling a "good time" at this - or any other - time of year.

Nice one, idiot.

I bumbled on.

"a good time in, err...in..." I stumbled, realising I hadn't a clue where said British troops tended to be these days, Afghanistan? Iraq? RAF Northolt? Before cleverly concluding with:

"in...wherever you are! Errrr...oh..."

Another pause from me. More expectant grinning from Mr. Kagool. Seriously? You want more, after that?

"Ok! I'm done!" the camera was turned off, I was thanked and sent on my way.

Look, I know some of you have army friends overseas. I know you've probably sent them presents and letters and cards, packages of tangible gifts full of heart felt lovely wishes in what must be their most difficult month abroad, fighting in dangerous countries when they'd rather be at home with loved ones. 

And with any luck, all that will distract them from the blithering, early morning ramblings of a politically oblivious clown, standing in front of a respectable institution wishing them a bloody good Christmas, as if they're off on their hollibobs in Spain or something.

Yeah. Spontaneous goodwill isn't my strong point. Let's hope I don't make the final cut, eh?

De Ja Vu

While I’ve been sunning myself on Bondi Beach this week, the Boyfriend continues his epic mission across Europe. In fact, his current travel plan sees him cover more countries in five days than I plan to on my entire trip. How's that for progress.

So, the update. Instead of waiting for his Monday flight from London, he decided to try and fly out of somewhere in Europe. He took the Eurostar to Paris, where he discovered that all trains to Spain and other airporty places were full, and got interviewed by BBC Radio 1. He then queued up to buy a return ticket to the UK, and by chance, got talking to someone who told him that he could get a coach instead. After an overnight stay and 16 hours on a coach, he arrived in Madrid.

You with me? Right. So today, he’s got a flight from Madrid to Cairo, Egypt. After an hour there it’s onto Dubai, where he’s got a fourteen hour wait, then another flight to Singapore for another little stop. He’ll finally arrive, completely exhausted and malnourished from an airline food overload, in Sydney on Sunday evening.

Part of me is expecting him to arrive as planned. Another part is fairly convinced that something else is bound to go wrong. A third part is going “Shit the bed, Jo. This bloke must really like you to make all this effort. You better look hot, and buy a proper box for the presents you were just going to wrap in newspaper”. Oh, and the fourth part is quietly hoping that my freshly waxed bits stop resembling a plucked turkey by the end of the weekend.

Still, if this whole episode has taught us anything, it’s that you really can’t control Mrs Mother Nature. Well, that’s what I’ll be telling The Boyfriend anyway, when the predicted 26 degree heat on Saturday inexplicably drops to rain and cloud just in time for his arrival. Ha.




Fingers crossed again please: for weather, for imminent arrivals, and my red bumpy waxy bits. Ta.

Alternative methods of transport

In the face of Volcanic defeat, the Boyfriend has been looking into more, well, alternative methods of getting to Australia.

"But" I said, one hand on my phone, the other tapping on my newly "Alt+F10" rejuvenated netbook, "You're not seriously considering this though, are you? Like, really-really?"

He'd been talking excitedly for about five minutes while I tried and failed to re-download Skype on the intermittent, but free, internet connection at my quiet little Auckland hostel. I tuned back in to hear the rough itinerary for the latest plan, which involved getting a train from the UK through Europe, and eventually flying to Australia from - of all places - Moscow. By changing trains just twice.

"I could do it Jo! There's a train leaving in...in..." click click click, "an hour! I could be there by Wednesday! It would be an adventure."

"And if you get half way there and then hear that flights have resumed in the UK? Or you get to Moscow and find that the ash cloud has beaten you to it?" I ventured, suddenly aware of the curious looks my roommate was giving me.

"Yeah. Hmm. Well...but would I need a visa for Russia or could I just turn up, do you reckon?"

"Boyfriend, I know as much about getting into Russia as you do about horses."

"I know loads about horses. They have long faces."

"Yeah, four legs and a tail, too. You're not getting the train to Russia."

After at least fifteen minutes of seriously contemplating Operation Moscow, holes were beginning to appear in the plan. One, the expense. Two, the time it would realistically take. Three, the fact that it was a fairly ridiculous idea to start with. Eventually, and with no resolution in the pipeline, we both rang off in order to eat (him: breakfast, me: dinner). An hour later, my phone beeped.

Text Message
From: The Boyfriend
To: Me

:( have rebooked my flight for next monday 26th. She said when it clears they will put more flights on so might be able to get one end of the week if it does. Have fun without me :( If it carries on tho, train it is. I will get to you no matter what! Miss you xxxx

All being well, he'll arrive here a week on Wednesday. All not being well, I'll be shipping him an ushanka and a bottle of vodka for the ride.

And oh, hold the front page. Seconds away from clicking publish, and there's another phone beep.

Have a new travel idea. Gonna make a few calls may be en route soon x x x

All aboard Puff the Magic Dragon, perhaps?

Nada.

I can count the amount of times that I’ve felt really down since leaving the UK on one hand. Heathrow departures, a lonely day or two in Perth, the days before and after I stopped working for the Polo Player… and right now.

Try to understand. For five months, there’s been one constant date to look forward to. I’ve spent hours thinking about it, imagining the scenario, trying to guess at what might happen in that moment. At first it was months away, a dot in the distance. Slowly it’s crept closer until it was two weeks, then just a few days ago, when it was only seven days away. Finally, the talking that we’ve been doing since November has some relevance, we were now discussing plans for next week. A few days time. I imagined walking into arrivals and looking around for a familiar face, not just walking through a sea of hopeful relatives and cardboard holding cabbies, heading for the exit and finding a way to my hostel. I’ve spent hours wondering how I’d feel on the plane there, what we’d say to each other, and the next two days spent holed up in a Sydney hotel room.

Knowing that in all probability this now won’t happen, at least not on the date or with the ease it should, has been a pretty big blow. There’s nothing worse than looking forward to something for so long then realising it’s not going to happen the way you imagined. That you’ll be arriving at the airport as usual, and checking into your lovely but non-refundable, non-changeable hotel room alone, instead of with the person you’ve been waiting five months to see.

Yesterday morning I woke up and checked the BBC News website, only to see that the flight ban will continue long into the weekend. Today I checked Qantas and saw that his flight is indeed cancelled. Then I cried, because there’s nothing I can do about it. Hundreds and thousands of people are out there, delayed, stranded, feeling frustrated. This ain't reality TV, and a sob story won’t get you through.

But more than anything, I look at the headlines in amazement. We live in a world where terrorist attacks and light snow ground planes. Not ash, glass and rock from sodding volcanoes. In an obscure twist, for the last couple of days I've been killing time in Taupo and volcanoes are visible from every window I look out of. Yesterday I walked around part of New Zealand’s biggest lake and there three of them stood, huddled together in the distance.

I can't even direct my anger at anything, because all these stupid volcanoes dotted around the world are really bloody beautiful.

It’s like trying to get angry at a large, potentially lava spilling Labrador.

I know it could be worse. I know he'll get to Sydney eventually. But it won't be Tuesday April 20th, and that's why I'm sad.

Stupid Volcano

Five months I've waited.

Five, bloody, months.

If that bloody volcano stops a flight to Sydney leaving Heathrow on Monday, there will be two very unhappy bunnies on opposite sides of the world.

Stupid volcano.

Fingers crossed, please.