1. "Smart casual" - I have just received an email confirmation for an interview for a new job. The dress code that it has been specified that I should wear is the infamous "smart casual". I'm sorry, I must have missed something along the way... Is that not an oxymoronic specification?! How can one possibly be smart and yet casual simultaneously? It's equivalent to asking someone to dress "slutty modest" or "snow beachwear". Maybe I'll just wear a tophat and dungarees and hope that ticks the boxes! I'm sure that would guaruntee me the job!
2. "I'm not being funny" - No, quite clearly you are not. I am not laughing, you have not told and amusing anecdote, so why would you prefix an exclamation with this phrase when inherently it's quite clear that what you're about to say is not funny in any way, shape or form.
3. "Many thanks, kind regards" - I blame the invention of email for this one! Does anyone in their right mind who doesn't originate from a 1960's etiquette class/is a robotic Stepford wife actually verbally utter this phrase?!
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Friday, 6 August 2010
Life Lessons – Number 1: Follow Your Gut
This is familiar. It’s 10:44am on a Friday and I’m already bored, sat at my laptop, still wearing my pyjamas and wondering where it all went wrong. Again. Yep, it’s that old familiar friend we like to call ‘unemployment’. Except this time I can’t complain too much, as the predicament I find myself in is self-inflicted.
Six weeks ago I thought I’d hit the jackpot big-time. Having landed my ‘Dream Job’ at a top-ten creative Ad Agency in London my vision of moving to the Big Smoke and becoming an uber-successful, respected media-type was finally coming to fruition, 2 ½ years after graduating.
Sadly things did not go the way I had hoped.
I will not go too far into the gory details, but let’s just say sometimes the idea of something is a far cry from the reality of it. Ever seen ‘The Devil wears Prada’?!
From day one the niggling doubts had already surfaced and began to gnaw away inside my head. Why was I still at the office at 7pm without having taken a lunch break on my first day? Was this ‘normal’?! By day three there were the first tears and an HR intervention. By the weekend the paranoid nightmares had begun (“Did I send the client that urgent document?”, “OhMyGod, you didn’t organise that meeting with the MD...or did you...?”, “Shit, tomorrow is the international conference call and I have no idea what to say!” etc...)
Exhaustion had set in by day five and there were more tears as I gradually realised that everything I thought I had wanted in a job was wrong. But then things seemed to get better... but not for long.
As with most things, it is always advisable to follow your gut instinct. I knew from the start that things weren’t right and yet I was so stubborn and determined to make it work out that I drove myself into the ground, until denial was simply not enough to cover the cracks anymore.
By the fourth week I had a panic attack on the tube on the way in to work – purely through stress and anxiety at the mere prospect of even having to go in. That night I cried and cried until I fell asleep – again purely through the worry of what to do – I couldn’t possibly throw this opportunity away and yet I couldn’t possibly stay. The next day after some firm words from my mum, boyfriend and friends I plucked up the courage to voice my feelings – this just was not working out the way I had hoped and through the pressure I was putting on myself my anxiety had increased tenfold.
The next day I handed my notice in – but with the promise of having a discussion with the Client Partner (my most senior manager) upon his return from holiday on the Monday about changing the role in an attempt to make me stay. Of course this was hugely flattering and yet it made my decision even harder for me. How could I possibly leave now?
The rest of the week was tearful and I had become a total recluse, instead of holding my head high as I walked to the station I dragged my feet, eyes facing the ground. I stopped wearing mascara because I knew that there would inevitably be tears. I didn’t want to eat or talk to any of my friends – just wanted to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world. All this over a job!
This probably sounds ridiculous to some of you – and I realise that in the great scale of things this was a minor glitch on an otherwise relatively clean sheet. And yet this work drama became all-consuming – I was at the office for 10 hours a day, commuting an hour and quarter either side of that, going straight to bed and having nightmares only to get up and do it all again the next day.
I finally summoned the courage to email my boss and say ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ on another tearful Saturday where it had simply gone too far and I knew that something had to be done. I immediately felt rejuvenated and relived. Simply by having taken control of the situation my whole outlook had changed – other jobs would come along and the bottom line was about happiness, not slaving away and struggling for years doing something detestable.
My decision was validated as I handed over to my replacement – as she clutched her face between her hands with that oh-so-familiar look of utter terror and imminent freaking out. For the first time in almost 5 ½ weeks I felt happy and my normal self as I walked out of the doors and didn’t look back.
So... back to the unemployed part... It’s not so bad – I already have an interview for a temporary role which should tide me over while I decide exactly what I want in a job and where I want to be. Recent events have shown me that it’s not about the name of the company you work for, nor the salary, nor the location that makes a job great. It’s about being comfortable, enjoying the work and actually wanting to be there.
The moral of the story? Follow your instincts and count your blessings – there is always someone who is far worse off than you. Life’s a bitch and whether it’s in your job, your relationships or your family life there are always going to be tough times so make the best of the hand you’re dealt with and always, always go with what feels right for you.
(I’d give Jerry Springer a run for his money!)
Over and out.
Six weeks ago I thought I’d hit the jackpot big-time. Having landed my ‘Dream Job’ at a top-ten creative Ad Agency in London my vision of moving to the Big Smoke and becoming an uber-successful, respected media-type was finally coming to fruition, 2 ½ years after graduating.
Sadly things did not go the way I had hoped.
I will not go too far into the gory details, but let’s just say sometimes the idea of something is a far cry from the reality of it. Ever seen ‘The Devil wears Prada’?!
From day one the niggling doubts had already surfaced and began to gnaw away inside my head. Why was I still at the office at 7pm without having taken a lunch break on my first day? Was this ‘normal’?! By day three there were the first tears and an HR intervention. By the weekend the paranoid nightmares had begun (“Did I send the client that urgent document?”, “OhMyGod, you didn’t organise that meeting with the MD...or did you...?”, “Shit, tomorrow is the international conference call and I have no idea what to say!” etc...)
Exhaustion had set in by day five and there were more tears as I gradually realised that everything I thought I had wanted in a job was wrong. But then things seemed to get better... but not for long.
As with most things, it is always advisable to follow your gut instinct. I knew from the start that things weren’t right and yet I was so stubborn and determined to make it work out that I drove myself into the ground, until denial was simply not enough to cover the cracks anymore.
By the fourth week I had a panic attack on the tube on the way in to work – purely through stress and anxiety at the mere prospect of even having to go in. That night I cried and cried until I fell asleep – again purely through the worry of what to do – I couldn’t possibly throw this opportunity away and yet I couldn’t possibly stay. The next day after some firm words from my mum, boyfriend and friends I plucked up the courage to voice my feelings – this just was not working out the way I had hoped and through the pressure I was putting on myself my anxiety had increased tenfold.
The next day I handed my notice in – but with the promise of having a discussion with the Client Partner (my most senior manager) upon his return from holiday on the Monday about changing the role in an attempt to make me stay. Of course this was hugely flattering and yet it made my decision even harder for me. How could I possibly leave now?
The rest of the week was tearful and I had become a total recluse, instead of holding my head high as I walked to the station I dragged my feet, eyes facing the ground. I stopped wearing mascara because I knew that there would inevitably be tears. I didn’t want to eat or talk to any of my friends – just wanted to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world. All this over a job!
This probably sounds ridiculous to some of you – and I realise that in the great scale of things this was a minor glitch on an otherwise relatively clean sheet. And yet this work drama became all-consuming – I was at the office for 10 hours a day, commuting an hour and quarter either side of that, going straight to bed and having nightmares only to get up and do it all again the next day.
I finally summoned the courage to email my boss and say ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ on another tearful Saturday where it had simply gone too far and I knew that something had to be done. I immediately felt rejuvenated and relived. Simply by having taken control of the situation my whole outlook had changed – other jobs would come along and the bottom line was about happiness, not slaving away and struggling for years doing something detestable.
My decision was validated as I handed over to my replacement – as she clutched her face between her hands with that oh-so-familiar look of utter terror and imminent freaking out. For the first time in almost 5 ½ weeks I felt happy and my normal self as I walked out of the doors and didn’t look back.
So... back to the unemployed part... It’s not so bad – I already have an interview for a temporary role which should tide me over while I decide exactly what I want in a job and where I want to be. Recent events have shown me that it’s not about the name of the company you work for, nor the salary, nor the location that makes a job great. It’s about being comfortable, enjoying the work and actually wanting to be there.
The moral of the story? Follow your instincts and count your blessings – there is always someone who is far worse off than you. Life’s a bitch and whether it’s in your job, your relationships or your family life there are always going to be tough times so make the best of the hand you’re dealt with and always, always go with what feels right for you.
(I’d give Jerry Springer a run for his money!)
Over and out.
Monday, 9 February 2009
We never Learn, Part Deux
It happened again. And, yes we should have known better. But apparently the Pavlovian dog response doesn’t apply to right-thinking humans. If I were to refer you to the post “We Never Learn” you’ll begin to see where I’m going with this.
So, picture the scene. It’s a cold evening in late January and in order to celebrate payday as well as the end of this dismal month, my friends and I decided (and I quote) “to go somewhere different for once”. How foolish of us. A few other local towns were cautiously tossed into the hat as potential destinations for our evening of silliness, Sambucca and dancing. But a decision on the location had not been reached even as I drove to our host’s house to get my ‘glam’ on for the night ahead. Inevitably, after a delicious Korma dinner, laziness (undeniably my biggest vice) got the better of us and we decided to take it back to the old school, (yep you guessed it), Guildford again.
Upon arriving at Wetherspoons, (which has actually been a ‘Lloyds’ now for at least three years, but I refuse to acknowledge this change) we were slightly mortified to find ourselves in the (how do I put this euphemistically?) bracket of the minority, “mature demographic”. In other words, the rest of the clientele resembled nursery children who’d found their mother’s make collections and gone wild! Some of the people were so infant-like, that to say that we felt like we were babysitting wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Nevertheless, we purchased our pitchers of luminous-coloured cocktails (healthy) and plonked ourselves down on a battered old sofa in a quiet(ish) corner.
A mere ten minutes later a boy (to describe him as a ‘man’ would be an outright lie) with a face so youthful I almost congratulated him for discovering the elixir of eternal life, invited himself to sit with us. “Here we go”, I thought. Emma was his victim of choice. Unimpressed within milliseconds, Emma visibly geared herself up to tell him where to go, when he whipped out a pack of cards. We all sighed simultaneously and attempted to get on with the conversation we were having before being rudely interrupted. However, Babyface was apparently having none of this. “Do you believe in Magic?” he probed in Em’s direction. “UUUUGH! That has got to be the worst ‘line’ I have EVER heard” she retorted.
Eventually, after a few pitiful attempts at impressing us the penny dropped and he gave up. As he rose to locate his next unsuspecting victim he uttered: “It was nice talking to you, even though you were incredibly rude!” Of course! How rude of us to cut to the chase (saving him the effort of continuing to waste his breath) and inform him that we weren’t in the slightest bit interested in his “trick”. How terribly inconsiderate of us, to want to continue our private conversation without the irritation of having a pre-pubescent dullard giving us earache. My mistake.
Shortly after this episode we collectively decided it was probably for the best to let the kiddies play together with their own kind, and we departed.
As we clattered up the piss-strewn high street in our tottering heels, an icy wind bit at our ankles whilst we collectively shivered/winced. “Why are we here?” I imagined was the thought running through all of our minds. Nevertheless, onwards and upwards. As we approached our next destination a flurry of gleaming yellow jackets materialised in front of us and the noise of a crowd grew louder. Now normally, an intelligent bunch of 22 year old girls would have alarm bells that should begin to ring when faced with ten police officers and bouncers outside the establishment that you intend on entering at 10.30 at night. Nope, not us. So in we went.
One thing I did manage to remember from the last time we entered this dungeon of doom was to avoid the dreaded VK at all costs, or pay the price of forever losing your tastebuds. Instead of purchasing overpriced bottled-sugar sweat we headed for the loos (an ancient female ritual whose sanctity must not be taken lightly.)
Amongst the clientele dans le WC were the obligatory gaggle of round-bellied, ample bosomed, Ann-Summers-outfit-clad hen do party. One of them was crying. Already. Another sat in a pile on the floor. I glanced down to mind where I was stepping, haphazardly avoiding the girl whom had chosen to land in a heap right in my path, and as I entered a cubicle I came across a pile of what could only be described as green ectoplasm. Unfortunately, I hasten to add that I doubted highly that anyone within a fifty mile radius of this dive would have the intellectual capacity to conjure up any form of chemical or biological substance, unless it came from within their bowel. Which this putrid little blob evidently had done. I decided my bladder could wait, so we made our way to the dancefloor.
After a good twenty minutes of shoving, elbowing and eventually finding a suitable pervert-free spot to dance we settled into our groove and started letting our hair down. After about bout half an hour of vigorous boogie-ing I went to get some water from the bar. As I returned to the group, I found them giggling hysterically and pointing. It turns out, while I’d been gone a gangly, pock-faced youth had started grinding on innocent little Charlotte, who obviously had not taken great delight in this act. When she turned to shoo him away apparently he had taken the rejection badly and spat the word “virgins!” at the girls before stomping off in a hissy fit. Possibly the best and simultaneously worst insult I have EVER heard!
By this point it was definitely time to call it a night. To make the evening even more joyus, on the way down to the taxi rank we encountered two balding squadies who yelled “girls!” in our direction, to which Row responded with “No shit, Sherlock.” They didn’t like that one bit and within milliseconds we’d gone from sexually desirable objects to (and I quote) “F***ing dogs.” Delightful.
By the time we finally got in a cab, the bulbus-nosed driver who was decidedly bigoted and slightly racist (“You can tell he’s Asian because look at the way he’s got his wheels in my lane. You can bet any money he’s gonna cut me up”) actually came as a relief and perhaps even came across as comparatively a good catch.
I think next time I’ll just stay in. Or drink a hell of a lot more!
Monday, 17 November 2008
Sponge
I recently made the executive decision to stop driving to work. Despite having put significant time and effort into writing a dissertation about Climate Change a mere few months ago (hypocrisy is apparently my middle name) , I usual love the ten-minute cruise into town in Roxy, my trusty, cherry-red Saxo. Well I don’t quite ‘love’ it, in the way that one ‘loves’ chocolate, or Disney musicals, or cats. But I do quite enjoy blasting out some mega-tunes on the commute, to gear me up for the day ahead.
My love for this daily ritual began deteriorating steadily after having to part with NINE POUNDS (count ‘em) a day for the privilege of parking upon arrival at my destination. If I’m going to be pumping coinage to the equivalent weight of a bar of gold into a battered machine that will probably reject half of them or deny their insertion, then I expect a darn sight more than... well whatever it is I am getting from this seemingly pointless activity! It’s not even as if I’m guaranteed security against pesky hoodies or nifty-fingered loiterers, as emphasised by the delightfully-reassuring ‘vehicles left at owners’ own risk’ signage. Yes, paying for parking is quite a bugbear of mine.
As if having to fork out for the parking in the first-place wasn’t enough to dampen my eight thirty AM spirits, I can’t say that I revelled in the daily walk past the building site, (which by the way seems to have been under construction for the last millennia without threatening any sign of completion, let alone bearing any resemblance to a ‘building’). They’ve probably just decided ‘You know what lads? Let’s just take it easy for a while. I mean, it’s not as if anyone has the money to buy property at the moment anyway!’
So, as a result of my general dislike towards early morning bankruptcy and sexual harassment, I have begun taking the bus to work. Ah yes, the fondly dubbed ‘peasant wagon’ as my friends like to call it. A little harsh if I might say so, but I see their point.
In many ways the bus is just as (if not more) unpleasant than the car-park fiasco. The fact that I have to be outside of my house at the bus stop forty-five minutes before I have to be at work regardless of the fact that the journey takes ten minutes is one reason. Or how about the indescribably irritating habit that numerous youths have of blasting their music from their phones’ tinny speakers for the entire world to hear? And not forgetting the vile inhabitants, such as one particularly nasty piece of work I encountered last week. His taunting of an innocent bystander was too much for my pre-caffeine sedated state and as a result of his ignorance he ended up on the receiving end of a full-on verbal attack courtesy of moi. Yes, the general smell, texture of the scratchy faux-velvet seats and unclean-feel of the mode of transport are amongst other reasons not to bus-it.
However there is one overwhelming advantage to taking the bus, and that is the opportunity to become a sponge.
When I am on the bus I literally zone-out from my worry-riddled, thought-filled head and absorb my surroundings. I find myself attentively people watching, eavesdropping on conversations and making social observations. (This, I now realise, is probably the reason I launched into my tirade aimed at know-it-all-smart-arse boy last week!)
Everyday the same school children get on. Inevitably one of them will start to play music from their phone. But I can forgive them. Perhaps it is because it seems so recent that I myself was catching the bus to school on a daily basis. I remember the rituals, like whose seat ‘belonged’ to whom and the consequences of this unwritten rule being compromised. I, after about a two year period of initiation, starting from the very front of the bus and gradually working back as your age, confidence and resultant status in the playground grew, sat on the back row of seats most days. It is fascinating and heartbreaking to observe this common and apparently ever-popular teenage ritual occurring before your very eyes.
Another observation I made at the bus stop was the hilarious manner in which older people struggle to use a mobile phone. One particular man produced a fairly outdated model from his jacket pocket and looked at it with such confusion that a passer-by would be forgiven for mistaking him as having just discovered a cheque for a few million quid just casually screwed up in his coat. The moment was classic and one I assume too familiar to numerous teens whose parents still struggle to operate even the simplest of devices.
As I sat at the stop listening to my IPod on shuffle (is it just me that can never decide what to listen to?!) observing the world and its people go by I realised how insignificant I was. It reminded me of a time a few weeks earlier where I’d become inspired to write on my blog, but had never gotten round to it. I was taken ‘out into the field’ at my new job, to see what the Sales Execs that contact me in the office actually get up to. It involved making some calls in local shops and our first stop was in a place you wouldn’t know existed unless someone told you it was there. It was one of those estates that time and the rest of the world had forgotten. And it got me thinking about how much of a bubble I live in. Ignorance can be bliss, but sometimes, like in moments like this I needed that wake up call to make me realise and appreciate the things I do have. This estate was obviously in quite a deprived area (one that I didn’t even know was there, despite it being practically on my doorstep). I remember feeling sudden pangs of guilt that, due to my up-until now ‘unemployed’ status, I had cancelled my monthly donation to the Red Cross. This may seem extreme, but I do have a big conscience and sometimes even the smallest of jolts can knock it. I felt selfish and superficial and above all embarrassed by my ignorance.
I guess the point I’m trying to make is that we all need to open our eyes a bit more and start behaving with more courtesy and compassion for the people around us and people less fortunate than ourselves. It’s all too easy to turn a blind eye. But sooner or later your bubble might burst and when it does you’ll be thankful for that sponge who decided to take the bus today.
My love for this daily ritual began deteriorating steadily after having to part with NINE POUNDS (count ‘em) a day for the privilege of parking upon arrival at my destination. If I’m going to be pumping coinage to the equivalent weight of a bar of gold into a battered machine that will probably reject half of them or deny their insertion, then I expect a darn sight more than... well whatever it is I am getting from this seemingly pointless activity! It’s not even as if I’m guaranteed security against pesky hoodies or nifty-fingered loiterers, as emphasised by the delightfully-reassuring ‘vehicles left at owners’ own risk’ signage. Yes, paying for parking is quite a bugbear of mine.
As if having to fork out for the parking in the first-place wasn’t enough to dampen my eight thirty AM spirits, I can’t say that I revelled in the daily walk past the building site, (which by the way seems to have been under construction for the last millennia without threatening any sign of completion, let alone bearing any resemblance to a ‘building’). They’ve probably just decided ‘You know what lads? Let’s just take it easy for a while. I mean, it’s not as if anyone has the money to buy property at the moment anyway!’
So, as a result of my general dislike towards early morning bankruptcy and sexual harassment, I have begun taking the bus to work. Ah yes, the fondly dubbed ‘peasant wagon’ as my friends like to call it. A little harsh if I might say so, but I see their point.
In many ways the bus is just as (if not more) unpleasant than the car-park fiasco. The fact that I have to be outside of my house at the bus stop forty-five minutes before I have to be at work regardless of the fact that the journey takes ten minutes is one reason. Or how about the indescribably irritating habit that numerous youths have of blasting their music from their phones’ tinny speakers for the entire world to hear? And not forgetting the vile inhabitants, such as one particularly nasty piece of work I encountered last week. His taunting of an innocent bystander was too much for my pre-caffeine sedated state and as a result of his ignorance he ended up on the receiving end of a full-on verbal attack courtesy of moi. Yes, the general smell, texture of the scratchy faux-velvet seats and unclean-feel of the mode of transport are amongst other reasons not to bus-it.
However there is one overwhelming advantage to taking the bus, and that is the opportunity to become a sponge.
When I am on the bus I literally zone-out from my worry-riddled, thought-filled head and absorb my surroundings. I find myself attentively people watching, eavesdropping on conversations and making social observations. (This, I now realise, is probably the reason I launched into my tirade aimed at know-it-all-smart-arse boy last week!)
Everyday the same school children get on. Inevitably one of them will start to play music from their phone. But I can forgive them. Perhaps it is because it seems so recent that I myself was catching the bus to school on a daily basis. I remember the rituals, like whose seat ‘belonged’ to whom and the consequences of this unwritten rule being compromised. I, after about a two year period of initiation, starting from the very front of the bus and gradually working back as your age, confidence and resultant status in the playground grew, sat on the back row of seats most days. It is fascinating and heartbreaking to observe this common and apparently ever-popular teenage ritual occurring before your very eyes.
Another observation I made at the bus stop was the hilarious manner in which older people struggle to use a mobile phone. One particular man produced a fairly outdated model from his jacket pocket and looked at it with such confusion that a passer-by would be forgiven for mistaking him as having just discovered a cheque for a few million quid just casually screwed up in his coat. The moment was classic and one I assume too familiar to numerous teens whose parents still struggle to operate even the simplest of devices.
As I sat at the stop listening to my IPod on shuffle (is it just me that can never decide what to listen to?!) observing the world and its people go by I realised how insignificant I was. It reminded me of a time a few weeks earlier where I’d become inspired to write on my blog, but had never gotten round to it. I was taken ‘out into the field’ at my new job, to see what the Sales Execs that contact me in the office actually get up to. It involved making some calls in local shops and our first stop was in a place you wouldn’t know existed unless someone told you it was there. It was one of those estates that time and the rest of the world had forgotten. And it got me thinking about how much of a bubble I live in. Ignorance can be bliss, but sometimes, like in moments like this I needed that wake up call to make me realise and appreciate the things I do have. This estate was obviously in quite a deprived area (one that I didn’t even know was there, despite it being practically on my doorstep). I remember feeling sudden pangs of guilt that, due to my up-until now ‘unemployed’ status, I had cancelled my monthly donation to the Red Cross. This may seem extreme, but I do have a big conscience and sometimes even the smallest of jolts can knock it. I felt selfish and superficial and above all embarrassed by my ignorance.
I guess the point I’m trying to make is that we all need to open our eyes a bit more and start behaving with more courtesy and compassion for the people around us and people less fortunate than ourselves. It’s all too easy to turn a blind eye. But sooner or later your bubble might burst and when it does you’ll be thankful for that sponge who decided to take the bus today.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
A few phrases that get my goat!
1. “That gets my goat”
Excuse me?! Does a clothes-munching farm animal escape its petting-zoo-confines, rapidly bound towards you, like a trusty canine companion from a 1950’s family movie the minute something winds you up? I simply can’t understand how comparing something that annoys you with a glorified sheep makes any sense!
2. “No offense, but...”
It’s the “but” that really bothers me. Demonstration: “No offense, BUT (actually whatever I’m about to say is more than likely to cause you offence, thus the prefix ‘no offence’, so I’m going to say it anyway and couldn’t care less if it offended you).
3. “Do you know what I mean?” (At the end of a sentence that requires no retort)
Um, yes. I do know what you mean. I do speak English, thus the conversation we were partaking in so far going so swimmingly. It’s as if the culprit suddenly worried that they may have been speaking in Japanese in an absurd Freudian-slip and just wanted to check that stupid little you had understood. I know the phrase is uttered rhetorically, but if the question requires no answer then why waste your breath?! Oops... guilty!
4. “World class”
I realised the stupidity of this phrases whilst watching an utterly boring documentary about floods (yawn). An engineer described the Thames Barrier as a “world class flood defence system”. Let’s clear a few things up here. The Thames Barrier is in the world, oui? Therefore, surely, by default it is of a class calibre enough to automatically be classified as “world”. Just me?
5. “Figure of speech”
Is a figure of speech. And a very cocky, know-it-all one too!
Stay tuned for the next episode of “phrases that piss me off!” Until then...
Excuse me?! Does a clothes-munching farm animal escape its petting-zoo-confines, rapidly bound towards you, like a trusty canine companion from a 1950’s family movie the minute something winds you up? I simply can’t understand how comparing something that annoys you with a glorified sheep makes any sense!
2. “No offense, but...”
It’s the “but” that really bothers me. Demonstration: “No offense, BUT (actually whatever I’m about to say is more than likely to cause you offence, thus the prefix ‘no offence’, so I’m going to say it anyway and couldn’t care less if it offended you).
3. “Do you know what I mean?” (At the end of a sentence that requires no retort)
Um, yes. I do know what you mean. I do speak English, thus the conversation we were partaking in so far going so swimmingly. It’s as if the culprit suddenly worried that they may have been speaking in Japanese in an absurd Freudian-slip and just wanted to check that stupid little you had understood. I know the phrase is uttered rhetorically, but if the question requires no answer then why waste your breath?! Oops... guilty!
4. “World class”
I realised the stupidity of this phrases whilst watching an utterly boring documentary about floods (yawn). An engineer described the Thames Barrier as a “world class flood defence system”. Let’s clear a few things up here. The Thames Barrier is in the world, oui? Therefore, surely, by default it is of a class calibre enough to automatically be classified as “world”. Just me?
5. “Figure of speech”
Is a figure of speech. And a very cocky, know-it-all one too!
Stay tuned for the next episode of “phrases that piss me off!” Until then...
Sunday, 28 September 2008
We Never Learn
Why is it so easy to make the same mistakes over and over and over again?!
Fret not, I’m not referring to anything remotely important, where actual feelings of remorse and regret are incurred. I’m simply talking about those niggling little things that we do, that we know before we’ve even done them, are going to be looked back upon with slight unease and questionability. Those moments in time where the levels of human willpower are thrown into question.
Allow me to clarify. Last night was my dear friend Chop’s (don’t ask where the name comes from) twenty-third birthday night out. Needless to say the obligatory fancy dress theme of Cowboys and Indians was taken extremely seriously by al those involved (myself included).
The evening followed the usual pattern. A pattern, that over a five-or-so year long commitment to partying, has been established amongst my close friendship group. And this is where the mistakes begin.
Why, for example, do we still deem it necessary to ALWAYS go the same nightclub (for about four years now), despite all having expressed hatred towards the place!? And why once we’re in there do we complain about the state of the grotesque toilets?! We know that they’re a health and safety hazard because they always have been and always will be. Despite a recent refurbishment I believe the toilets to actually be worse now than pre-modernisation. The lavatories resemble chrome urinal bowls with a horse-shoe shaped piece of what can only be described as butcher’s-slab plastic screwed precariously on top. On one particularly occasion there was an actual infestation of flies in the ladies. It was at that point that we collectively decided to call it a night. I can honestly say I’ve used more pleasant facilities in a third world country.
And it gets worse. Sadly for this regrettable, yet frequently-occurring action I have no one to blame but myself!
I refer to the Apple VK.
For those lucky enough to have never tasted this fine elixir let me illustrate to the best of my abilities the kind of experience drinking one of these concoctions produces.
Packaged in a putrid green bottle, it could be mistaken for a bottle of Becks at a distance. However, saying that is comparable to saying that Jodie Marsh could be mistaken for a well-dressed, conservative, natural beauty from a distance. You see where I’m going with this.
The beverage is served with two straws (something which has always baffled me! You know the old one straight and one bent classic. What’s the point?!) Upon parting with your hard-earned three pounds, the inevitable first sip approaches... (*I’m actually cringing as I type*).
The taste. Imagine mopping the brow of a Sumo wrestler who has just finished a fight on the hottest day of the year, wringing the liquid from the cloth into a blend of 1 parts apple juice to six parts sugar and a squeeze of vinegar and you’re getting close.
The rate at which a white layer of fuzz that one of these brews can create on even the freshest of tongues (I am obsessed with cleaning my teeth and brushing my tongue) is breathtaking. Literally.
There’s more.
Without being arrogant, my friendship group is made up of some uber-hotties. We’ve got blonde-haired, blue-eyed, butter-wouldn’t melt Emma. There’s Charlotte with her perfect complexion and lean, tall physique. Chop with her smoky eyes, cheeky smile and ample bosom. Red-haired Row, who is effortlessly stylish and exudes petite pixie-ness. And there’s porcelain-skinned Laura with her gorgeous dark hair and enviable figure.
Needless to say, as a group we attract a fair bit of attention, especially when in fancy dress. Fair enough. But when the admiring glances cross over into the territory of actual physical groping, accidentally-on-purpose bashing into us and full on grinding, we are less than impressed.
Last night’s gaggle of undesirables that the club tossed our way were of the calibre you would expect in the X-factor’s reject room. You know, the ones that only get shown on TV because they were that bad.
These kind of men come in various varieties and I am seriously considering writing a guide which helps identify them from a distance. Like a nature guide to poisonous snakes. One of our newly acquired admirers had some questionably tight jeans on and repeatedly danced his way backwards into our circle, using his derriere like a battling ram. He also had halitosis, which I found out much to my disgust as he uttered the words a girl never wants to hear from this kind of species: “my mate wants your number”. Wow. If he’s anything like you, just try and hold me back! I politely declined.
Another adopted the 90’s-raver dance combined with full on body smack-downs into each member of the group one after the other. He was a persistent little bugger and still came back for more even after Row had given him numerous shoves in the opposite direction and an earful sufficient enough to scare most grown-men away in tears.
Then there was the inevitable, “can I wear your hat?” guy. Some people just don’t get the fact that if you ask for something twenty-eight times and the answer is always “No”, it is unlikely that on go twenty-nine it will miraculously become a “yes”!
It wasn’t just men though. One particular sizeable woman, who’d had a few too many VK’s and was clutching some free ‘champagne’ (aka Lambrini) like a baby would it’s milk bottle, decided to reverse into Charlotte and then verbally attack her for bumping into her. That was the final straw.
Yet despite all of these hiccups, the night was considered to be an all-round success. After all, Emma was still alive despite having been drinking for two days solid without sleep, no one had been physically injured, no one had cried and Chop the birthday girl was still in her element.
But this is the beauty of being an irrational woman. It’s perfectly OK to go out and do things that we know are going to be unpleasant/annoying/leave your mouth tasting like fur, as long as you can look back on them and laugh. Which I do. Mostly.
Fret not, I’m not referring to anything remotely important, where actual feelings of remorse and regret are incurred. I’m simply talking about those niggling little things that we do, that we know before we’ve even done them, are going to be looked back upon with slight unease and questionability. Those moments in time where the levels of human willpower are thrown into question.
Allow me to clarify. Last night was my dear friend Chop’s (don’t ask where the name comes from) twenty-third birthday night out. Needless to say the obligatory fancy dress theme of Cowboys and Indians was taken extremely seriously by al those involved (myself included).
The evening followed the usual pattern. A pattern, that over a five-or-so year long commitment to partying, has been established amongst my close friendship group. And this is where the mistakes begin.
Why, for example, do we still deem it necessary to ALWAYS go the same nightclub (for about four years now), despite all having expressed hatred towards the place!? And why once we’re in there do we complain about the state of the grotesque toilets?! We know that they’re a health and safety hazard because they always have been and always will be. Despite a recent refurbishment I believe the toilets to actually be worse now than pre-modernisation. The lavatories resemble chrome urinal bowls with a horse-shoe shaped piece of what can only be described as butcher’s-slab plastic screwed precariously on top. On one particularly occasion there was an actual infestation of flies in the ladies. It was at that point that we collectively decided to call it a night. I can honestly say I’ve used more pleasant facilities in a third world country.
And it gets worse. Sadly for this regrettable, yet frequently-occurring action I have no one to blame but myself!
I refer to the Apple VK.
For those lucky enough to have never tasted this fine elixir let me illustrate to the best of my abilities the kind of experience drinking one of these concoctions produces.
Packaged in a putrid green bottle, it could be mistaken for a bottle of Becks at a distance. However, saying that is comparable to saying that Jodie Marsh could be mistaken for a well-dressed, conservative, natural beauty from a distance. You see where I’m going with this.
The beverage is served with two straws (something which has always baffled me! You know the old one straight and one bent classic. What’s the point?!) Upon parting with your hard-earned three pounds, the inevitable first sip approaches... (*I’m actually cringing as I type*).
The taste. Imagine mopping the brow of a Sumo wrestler who has just finished a fight on the hottest day of the year, wringing the liquid from the cloth into a blend of 1 parts apple juice to six parts sugar and a squeeze of vinegar and you’re getting close.
The rate at which a white layer of fuzz that one of these brews can create on even the freshest of tongues (I am obsessed with cleaning my teeth and brushing my tongue) is breathtaking. Literally.
There’s more.
Without being arrogant, my friendship group is made up of some uber-hotties. We’ve got blonde-haired, blue-eyed, butter-wouldn’t melt Emma. There’s Charlotte with her perfect complexion and lean, tall physique. Chop with her smoky eyes, cheeky smile and ample bosom. Red-haired Row, who is effortlessly stylish and exudes petite pixie-ness. And there’s porcelain-skinned Laura with her gorgeous dark hair and enviable figure.
Needless to say, as a group we attract a fair bit of attention, especially when in fancy dress. Fair enough. But when the admiring glances cross over into the territory of actual physical groping, accidentally-on-purpose bashing into us and full on grinding, we are less than impressed.
Last night’s gaggle of undesirables that the club tossed our way were of the calibre you would expect in the X-factor’s reject room. You know, the ones that only get shown on TV because they were that bad.
These kind of men come in various varieties and I am seriously considering writing a guide which helps identify them from a distance. Like a nature guide to poisonous snakes. One of our newly acquired admirers had some questionably tight jeans on and repeatedly danced his way backwards into our circle, using his derriere like a battling ram. He also had halitosis, which I found out much to my disgust as he uttered the words a girl never wants to hear from this kind of species: “my mate wants your number”. Wow. If he’s anything like you, just try and hold me back! I politely declined.
Another adopted the 90’s-raver dance combined with full on body smack-downs into each member of the group one after the other. He was a persistent little bugger and still came back for more even after Row had given him numerous shoves in the opposite direction and an earful sufficient enough to scare most grown-men away in tears.
Then there was the inevitable, “can I wear your hat?” guy. Some people just don’t get the fact that if you ask for something twenty-eight times and the answer is always “No”, it is unlikely that on go twenty-nine it will miraculously become a “yes”!
It wasn’t just men though. One particular sizeable woman, who’d had a few too many VK’s and was clutching some free ‘champagne’ (aka Lambrini) like a baby would it’s milk bottle, decided to reverse into Charlotte and then verbally attack her for bumping into her. That was the final straw.
Yet despite all of these hiccups, the night was considered to be an all-round success. After all, Emma was still alive despite having been drinking for two days solid without sleep, no one had been physically injured, no one had cried and Chop the birthday girl was still in her element.
But this is the beauty of being an irrational woman. It’s perfectly OK to go out and do things that we know are going to be unpleasant/annoying/leave your mouth tasting like fur, as long as you can look back on them and laugh. Which I do. Mostly.
Friday, 5 September 2008
Everything Must Go!
Due to my apparent ‘un-employ-ability’, despite having a degree (cheers economy!), many of my days of late have been occupied by rearranging the furniture in my room and as a result of this upheaval, a strange yet common phenomenon has come to my attention.
The phenomenon of ‘stuff’.
And lots of it!
As I root around the room that has remained relatively unaltered since before I went to Uni, I’m constantly coming across and array of utterly pointless items that for some unknown reason I have decided to keep.
And the worst part of it is wondering why I even had these items in the first place, let alone deemed it necessary to store it away in some dusty drawer for nearly ten years. For instance, amongst my top ten ‘why the hell do I own this?!’ collection was a sticker of Wolf from Gladiators, seven keys to doors/padlocks that I was unaware existed, a clay sculpture that I made at school in year seven, twelve empty perfume bottles, fifteen photos of my ENTIRE class on a year six excursion to a country manor in period dress and a yellow plastic beaker with my name on it which I got at nursery school! Yet despite all of these bizarre objects ranking highly, my absolute favourite item of utter uselessness had to be an unused paper Starbucks cup. Why of course! A must have for every home!
I can’t imagine what was going through my mind when I last did a purge, came across these items and actually thought, (within some degree of logic and reason), that they would even be of use to ma again! Of course there is the sentimentality of such items and the memories attached to them, although most of them are probably made up memories. What I mean by this is when one looks at a photograph of them self at an age where it is highly unlikely that any ‘real memories’ can still exist (for the sake of argument let’s say age four), fake ones replace them based on our parents’ stories or what we would like to think happened. Perhaps it is just me whom does this... Anyway I’ve completely sidetracked.
Back to the stuff. The worst part is it’s not just my bedroom that is under this curse. The entire house is full of literally pointless objects! Why, for example does my father have the cardboard box which his laptop came in stacked away in the spare room along with a telescope he’s never used, an exercise bike so dated I’m sure it’s from circa 1952 and three television sets?! If you think that’s bad then venturing into his office is a whole other dimension and gives a new meaning to the word ‘junk’. Is it really necessary to have three clarinets, six brand new, unused canvases of varying size and a fox skull in an office? Methinks not.
My musing upon all of these useless, material belongings and subsequent obliteration of all things pointless has prompted me to try to understand why it has only began to bother me so wretchedly now. I have come to two conclusions.
One: because I am in a period of strange, slow and tedious transition from the joys of irresponsibility towards the burdens of gritty reality (and at the moment a fairly bleak looking future - the inevitability of never being able to own my own home, massive debt, no job etc...), it would seem that I physically need to rid all of this baggage that I’m so desperately clinging on to in order to move forward. Yes, in some respects I am still a sentimental fool who can’t bring herself to throw away photos or birthday cards from four years ago. But the rest is just metaphorically holding me back.
My second conclusion is perhaps more reasoned and logical than the first. Maybe, just maybe, all of this doomsday media propaganda about the eventual and inevitable demise of oil, increasing globalisation, climate change and the rise of Communist China as an industrial superpower has made me realise that as a society we really do need to change our wasteful, consumerist ways.
More than half of the junk that I banished to the bin was made of plastic. It must be more than a happy coincidence that I’m reading a chapter in Michael Moore’s ‘Dude, Where’s My Country?’ about the western world’s dependency on Arab oil, as well as hearing non-stop about Obama’s and McCain’s stances on offshore drilling and alternative energy. I think we have just come to a point where we all need to say ‘enough is enough’ and stop all of this wasteful accumulation of stuff. If the climate change threats are to be believed, slowing down production and consumption of foreign oil and Chinese plastic goods may be our only saviour. The problem then lies with the cost to our already bleak global economic outlook ... At a time like this I don’t envy politicians one little bit! Watch this space...
The phenomenon of ‘stuff’.
And lots of it!
As I root around the room that has remained relatively unaltered since before I went to Uni, I’m constantly coming across and array of utterly pointless items that for some unknown reason I have decided to keep.
And the worst part of it is wondering why I even had these items in the first place, let alone deemed it necessary to store it away in some dusty drawer for nearly ten years. For instance, amongst my top ten ‘why the hell do I own this?!’ collection was a sticker of Wolf from Gladiators, seven keys to doors/padlocks that I was unaware existed, a clay sculpture that I made at school in year seven, twelve empty perfume bottles, fifteen photos of my ENTIRE class on a year six excursion to a country manor in period dress and a yellow plastic beaker with my name on it which I got at nursery school! Yet despite all of these bizarre objects ranking highly, my absolute favourite item of utter uselessness had to be an unused paper Starbucks cup. Why of course! A must have for every home!
I can’t imagine what was going through my mind when I last did a purge, came across these items and actually thought, (within some degree of logic and reason), that they would even be of use to ma again! Of course there is the sentimentality of such items and the memories attached to them, although most of them are probably made up memories. What I mean by this is when one looks at a photograph of them self at an age where it is highly unlikely that any ‘real memories’ can still exist (for the sake of argument let’s say age four), fake ones replace them based on our parents’ stories or what we would like to think happened. Perhaps it is just me whom does this... Anyway I’ve completely sidetracked.
Back to the stuff. The worst part is it’s not just my bedroom that is under this curse. The entire house is full of literally pointless objects! Why, for example does my father have the cardboard box which his laptop came in stacked away in the spare room along with a telescope he’s never used, an exercise bike so dated I’m sure it’s from circa 1952 and three television sets?! If you think that’s bad then venturing into his office is a whole other dimension and gives a new meaning to the word ‘junk’. Is it really necessary to have three clarinets, six brand new, unused canvases of varying size and a fox skull in an office? Methinks not.
My musing upon all of these useless, material belongings and subsequent obliteration of all things pointless has prompted me to try to understand why it has only began to bother me so wretchedly now. I have come to two conclusions.
One: because I am in a period of strange, slow and tedious transition from the joys of irresponsibility towards the burdens of gritty reality (and at the moment a fairly bleak looking future - the inevitability of never being able to own my own home, massive debt, no job etc...), it would seem that I physically need to rid all of this baggage that I’m so desperately clinging on to in order to move forward. Yes, in some respects I am still a sentimental fool who can’t bring herself to throw away photos or birthday cards from four years ago. But the rest is just metaphorically holding me back.
My second conclusion is perhaps more reasoned and logical than the first. Maybe, just maybe, all of this doomsday media propaganda about the eventual and inevitable demise of oil, increasing globalisation, climate change and the rise of Communist China as an industrial superpower has made me realise that as a society we really do need to change our wasteful, consumerist ways.
More than half of the junk that I banished to the bin was made of plastic. It must be more than a happy coincidence that I’m reading a chapter in Michael Moore’s ‘Dude, Where’s My Country?’ about the western world’s dependency on Arab oil, as well as hearing non-stop about Obama’s and McCain’s stances on offshore drilling and alternative energy. I think we have just come to a point where we all need to say ‘enough is enough’ and stop all of this wasteful accumulation of stuff. If the climate change threats are to be believed, slowing down production and consumption of foreign oil and Chinese plastic goods may be our only saviour. The problem then lies with the cost to our already bleak global economic outlook ... At a time like this I don’t envy politicians one little bit! Watch this space...
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