I bumped into a school friend last night who excitedly told me that he had been working as a waiter at the Olympics opening ceremony and had served the Queen, Kate and Will and lots of foreign dignitaries. It lead me to think about my own one time brush with fame during my first and last ever waitressing job, which was, in true me style, traumatic.
At the age of 14 a friend asked me to help out at her dad's garden party. My job, was to hand out Pimm's to the guests, and help out where I was needed. It seemed like an easy job, and I was to be paid the handsome sum of £20, a fortune for a 14 year old in 1999, the goodies I could purchase were endless in my mind and I gratefully accepted my first ever paid job.
I turned up at the event location, dressed in my best waitress outfit- white shirt that didn't really fit properly and some charming polyester black stretch trousers from M&S (I think they were my mum's), finally, and most crucially, a pair of plain, black, heels.
I remember it being a lovely day, and all the guests were sat out in the garden mingling. I remember the polyester trousers being uncomfortable on my skin and my unruly hair being more unruly than usual. I was handed a tray of Pimm's, and I gingerly started to walk around the garden, stopping shyly at each glamorous guest and offering them a glass. I walked up to a blonde lady, who I vaguely recognised. I stood quietly next to the group she was talking with, and whilst waiting for them to acknowledge me, I tried desparately to place her. After waiting for a few minutes, I stepped forward to gently interrupt their conversation and too late realised my left heel was in fact stuck in the grass. Instead of the discreet and swift hiatus to their conversation I was hoping for, I jerked forward, spilling the remaining glasses of Pimm's from my tray all over the blonde lady. Looking at her shocked face it suddenly clicked who she was. Dido, the singer, who was, at that time massively successful having featured on the single 'Stan' with Eminem. At this point, she was the famous, shocked and sticky Dido and she looked less that impressed that her beautiful floaty summer dress was covered in mint, strawberries and Pimm's. Even more mortifying was the friend's mother, who had organised the whole event, asked me quietly to leave after I'd help clean Dido up.
My first job was unpaid, I think of it as work experience, the catering industry was not and never will be, a good idea for me.
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
Sunday, 29 July 2012
Dancing Queen
In the spirit of the Olympics, I thought I'd talk about the only sport I ever do, dancing, albeit in a club after a few rounds of drinks, it's about as sporty as I get. I love dancing. The only condition to this is it has to be dark. I'm painfully self conscious dancing around in daylight, but as soon as I walk into a club, have a drink and hear a good song, I'm like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever (but female obviously). This love of clubbing has got me in trouble more than once. Like the time a fellow clubber stepped on my little toe with her stiletto, dislocating it and I wish I could remember the number of times I'd fallen on my ass in the middle of the dance floor.
The worst scrape I've ever got myself into in a club happened at Heaven, a gay club near the Embankment. Now, I realise I talk a lot about gay clubs, and I'll admit, I went through a stage of going to gay clubs quite a lot, to satiate my inner dancer, as no one cares what you look like dancing in there. Needless to say, this was the last time I went to a gay club.
It was a normal girls (and gays) night out at the beginning of the night, false eye lashes precariously glued on, stinking of fake tan and hairspray and caked in make up, and that was just the guys. We negotiated the doormen (by pretending we were lesbians) and walked into the sweaty club, the music was pulsating, drinks were flowing and I could feel my twinkle toes tingling ready to take the stage. After about an hour of tearing up the dance floor (!) we decided to join the more flamboyant dancers on the stage. Myself and a friend started to climb the stairs up to the platform, the lure of the dancing spotlight calling. A little too late I heard my friend warn me about a hole in the stairs. I felt my left leg slip easily through the hole and the weight of the stage with 30 or forty people on it, bear heavily down on my leg and my ass landed with a thud on the floor. The indignity of this situation was beyond awful, and was perpetuated by the kind, but skinny, men who tried, unsuccessfully, to pull me out of the hole. Unfortunately, a lack of upper body strength on their part, and an unwillingness on my part for them to pull a muscle meant that I was stuck there for at least 5 minutes.
The affect of this fall wasn't felt until later in the night, walking home from the night bus, my leg felt funny. I ignored it, figuring it was my shoes causing me pain. A few weeks later, I was informed that the fall had burst a disc in my back, I was on crutches for around 6 weeks. Now, crutches are probably the most useful medical aids I have ever acquired. Without a word of a lie, I will tell you that they have twice got me upgraded on flights abroad, and I would recommend anyone purchase at least one, for long haul flights if they can't afford the business class ticket, crutches are definitely cheaper and a long term investment.
During this time, I had been interviewing at a company for 3 months. I was a graduate, in one of the worst recessions the world had ever seen and I was desperate for a job, not to mention the company was fantastic. I'd had 14 interviews and had pretty much been told I had it in the bag. I was with a friend in Primark, when I got a call from the recruiter from the company, the call I had been waiting for for two weeks. I adjusted myself on my crutches and discarded the cheap polyester tat I had been tempted to waste money on and hobbled out of the shop to take the call. It was bad news, the headcount had been cut, and they were unsure when the next opening would come about, but they'd be in touch. I called my dad in floods of tears, and he told me he'd meet me outside the Churchill hotel and drive me home. I got to the hotel and slumped on the floor, mascara running down my face, my crutches strewn on the pavement. A kind American lady crouched down next to me and asked me if I was ok. I said 'not really if I'm totally honest', and she said 'Do you need some money'.. I looked up and she was offering up two crisp £20 notes. Now, I wouldn't normally accept money from a stranger, but, I was unemployed, frustrated and quite frankly, at the time, it seemed like a great idea. I gratefully accepted her gift, and carried on sobbing until my dad came to pick me up.
It was only then it occurred to me, the lady had given me money because of my crutches, the crutches had been purchased because of my misguided dreams of dancing prowess had gone very wrong, I had therefore, inadvertently just been paid for my first dancing job.
I used this realisation to think about my career options quite carefully. I decided it was too painful to pursue a career as a dancer, I would have to injure myself and hope to find a sympathetic soul to make any money, as I am a crap dancer really. I decided I was definitely too proud to continue my fledgling career as a begger (although I went back and purchased the polyester tat I had earlier discarded with the lady's gift), so went to work in retail instead- but that is another story.
The worst scrape I've ever got myself into in a club happened at Heaven, a gay club near the Embankment. Now, I realise I talk a lot about gay clubs, and I'll admit, I went through a stage of going to gay clubs quite a lot, to satiate my inner dancer, as no one cares what you look like dancing in there. Needless to say, this was the last time I went to a gay club.
It was a normal girls (and gays) night out at the beginning of the night, false eye lashes precariously glued on, stinking of fake tan and hairspray and caked in make up, and that was just the guys. We negotiated the doormen (by pretending we were lesbians) and walked into the sweaty club, the music was pulsating, drinks were flowing and I could feel my twinkle toes tingling ready to take the stage. After about an hour of tearing up the dance floor (!) we decided to join the more flamboyant dancers on the stage. Myself and a friend started to climb the stairs up to the platform, the lure of the dancing spotlight calling. A little too late I heard my friend warn me about a hole in the stairs. I felt my left leg slip easily through the hole and the weight of the stage with 30 or forty people on it, bear heavily down on my leg and my ass landed with a thud on the floor. The indignity of this situation was beyond awful, and was perpetuated by the kind, but skinny, men who tried, unsuccessfully, to pull me out of the hole. Unfortunately, a lack of upper body strength on their part, and an unwillingness on my part for them to pull a muscle meant that I was stuck there for at least 5 minutes.
The affect of this fall wasn't felt until later in the night, walking home from the night bus, my leg felt funny. I ignored it, figuring it was my shoes causing me pain. A few weeks later, I was informed that the fall had burst a disc in my back, I was on crutches for around 6 weeks. Now, crutches are probably the most useful medical aids I have ever acquired. Without a word of a lie, I will tell you that they have twice got me upgraded on flights abroad, and I would recommend anyone purchase at least one, for long haul flights if they can't afford the business class ticket, crutches are definitely cheaper and a long term investment.
During this time, I had been interviewing at a company for 3 months. I was a graduate, in one of the worst recessions the world had ever seen and I was desperate for a job, not to mention the company was fantastic. I'd had 14 interviews and had pretty much been told I had it in the bag. I was with a friend in Primark, when I got a call from the recruiter from the company, the call I had been waiting for for two weeks. I adjusted myself on my crutches and discarded the cheap polyester tat I had been tempted to waste money on and hobbled out of the shop to take the call. It was bad news, the headcount had been cut, and they were unsure when the next opening would come about, but they'd be in touch. I called my dad in floods of tears, and he told me he'd meet me outside the Churchill hotel and drive me home. I got to the hotel and slumped on the floor, mascara running down my face, my crutches strewn on the pavement. A kind American lady crouched down next to me and asked me if I was ok. I said 'not really if I'm totally honest', and she said 'Do you need some money'.. I looked up and she was offering up two crisp £20 notes. Now, I wouldn't normally accept money from a stranger, but, I was unemployed, frustrated and quite frankly, at the time, it seemed like a great idea. I gratefully accepted her gift, and carried on sobbing until my dad came to pick me up.
It was only then it occurred to me, the lady had given me money because of my crutches, the crutches had been purchased because of my misguided dreams of dancing prowess had gone very wrong, I had therefore, inadvertently just been paid for my first dancing job.
I used this realisation to think about my career options quite carefully. I decided it was too painful to pursue a career as a dancer, I would have to injure myself and hope to find a sympathetic soul to make any money, as I am a crap dancer really. I decided I was definitely too proud to continue my fledgling career as a begger (although I went back and purchased the polyester tat I had earlier discarded with the lady's gift), so went to work in retail instead- but that is another story.
Monday, 23 July 2012
Good online, not so good offline
I love internet shopping. No crowds, no queues and no hunting for the right size. You can sit, in your pyjamas with a cuppa, hunting for that perfect dress. When it comes to sales, I'd rather pay full price than search through piles of dross to find a trodden on, slightly tired looking bargain. But sales online are a pleasure, you can peacefully fill your basket with lots of cut price treasures, and even more exciting, it means you get post! I never get post any more.
I see internet dating similar to internet shopping. In a city of 8,174,100 people, it seems both necessary yet strange that one has to turn to the internet to find a partner, but when you filter it to 195,000 people who live in London and are Jewish, the genepool suddenly becomes more limited. Still, despite attending a Jewish day school, spending a year in Israel, going to a university with the highest population of Jewish people in Europe and attending numerous 'jew do's' I still find myself painfully single and it has become increasingly difficult to meet new friends, nevermind anyone brave enough to spend more time with me. Thus, I have taken to the internet in my quest to find a boyfriend. I do find it a strange concept, and oddly similar to internet shopping. You put your credentials out there, and wait to be picked. You are ruthlessly picky with your expectations of people- you almost have a shopping list.. well educated, good sense of humour, doesn't live with their parents, has interests beyond computer games and football... the list is endless but it also sets your expectations of people before you've ever met them which can feel unnatural.
So far, I've had a few observations which I wanted to share with you all.
1) Honesty is the best policy.
I went on a date last week where the guy clearly lied to me, claiming he felt ill as soon as he saw me and then scuttling away after an hour and a half.
Now, this was a bit odd for me. I wasn't trying to seduce him, our conversation wasn't too stunted, and I'd made it clear that I liked meeting new people, even if we're not destined to be together, after observing body language that was only slightly more open than a clam. All in all, I'll admit there was no chemistry but was it really that bad that he had to bugger off after an hour and a half? Is it really so unappealing to have a drink with someone if you don't fancy them? It's not ideal to find yourself tipsy, hiding in the toilets of a bar waiting for the ordeal to finish and him to leave the bar.
Also, if you actually intend to meet up with someone rather than simply hiding behind the anonymity that the internet offers, don't tell someone that you're 6ft tall when you're actually 5ft. You will be found out.. unless you go on a date wearing heels, or stilts. This actually happened to me a few years ago. He's been nicknamed Dobby, both for his striking resemblance to the house elf and his large bat like ears. Harsh I know, I'm not exactly a super model, but I wouldn't have minded if he hadn't have totally lied about his height.
Dobby was actually responsible for one of the worst dates I've ever been on. He offered to send me his university dissertation 'to show me how it was done as he achieved 98%'...he shouted at me as my phone was ringing and ordered me to switch it off or put it away and he spent an extensive amount of time talking about green methods of IT. It was dull, to the extent I told a blatant lie to get out of there (yes I'm a hypocrite but it was 3 hours in and getting painful), walked with him to the station and hid behind the potatoes in Sainsbury's so not to have the awkward situation of saying goodbye to him at the station.
2) Chemistry is important, morals are more important.
My first internet date was with a guy who has since been named 'Ginger Sex Pest' (GSP).. it's a fairly self explanatory nickname, but I'll break out the different elements of the name for the sake of transparency.
I don't feel compelled to explain the Ginger part saying that... I went through a three week stage where I wanted to date a ginger guy.. then I realised procreating with a redhead would almost definitely mean ginger children given my mum and my grandmother are both natural red heads- nothing wrong with redheads, I'd just prefer the element of surprise.
GSP was so keen to meet me that he decided to move our first date from the Sunday, in a pub to the Saturday, when I was drunk, watching Britney Spears at G-A-Y. He turned up and immediately started attempting to grope me... I was less than impressed as I was missing Britney so gently tried to coax him into the club, rather than miss out on Ms Spears' dulcit tones. He declined my offer of joining me and my friends in the club.
The next day I was in limbo. Were we to meet that day or not? Needless to say my questions were answered around an hour before our date. He enjoyed our chemistry and he thought we had the potential of a great future relationship, he was concerned however, that I had too many gay friends. Therefore, if I could consider cutting down the number of gay friends I had, we could meet up for a second date. I didn't reply.
3) Ambition is attractive..even if you're not.
'Puffin' (due to his nose/beak) was actually not an internet date, but one I met on a night out. I couldn't remember exactly what he looked like, but agreed to meet up with him on a Sunday for lunch. When I first saw him, I wasn't attracted to him at all, but I wanted to get to know him as we'd got on well texting and chatting on the week leading up to our date.
Now, ambition is really important to me, that doesn't necessarily mean career-wise, but wanting to go out and meet new people, experience new things, see new places..etc. Unfortunately this guy had no ambition.. even more unfortunately, he also had no personality, sex appeal and a limited intellectual capacity, so, the date was fairly doomed from the start. My favourite part of it was when he told me about his job. He'd told me during the week that he was a 'trader'.. that could mean anything of course, but I wrongly assumed he was implying he worked in finance. What I later found out was that he meant was that he was a scrap metal trader (an obvious misconception on my part). When I asked him what that entailed, he informed me.. in the dullest monotone voice you've ever heard: 'In the morning, I go out in the van and buy scrap metal, and in the afternoon, I sell it. My friends think it's funny that I get home at 2pm, but I think they're jealous because I get to watch Hollyoaks'. The conversation dried up after that.
Alongside the ones I met up with were the countless others who I've chatted to and not met up with, the one that went missing and was found wandering naked in a forest a few days later, the guy that had a foot fetish (even if I were into that, I have terrible feet), the guy that wanted to pay me money to publicly humiliate him (don't I do that enough to myself for free) and the guy that continuously sent me messages containing only Italian madrigals (it wasn't that that put me off him but his unkempt beard).
There are the bearded guys, the bald guys, the short guys, the guys who went to uni, the guys who dropped out of school at a young age. The worst offence, worse than no ambition, rudeness, lying about your height, and any of the other things I've experienced is a simple matter of grammar. I find the over use of the word 'lol'.. positively repellant. It's like a verbal tick.
'Hi lol'
'How are you lol'
'Are you having a good day lol'
'lol'
'Lol'? Really? Are you really laughing out loud? it seems somewhat disingenuous to me, if not unimaginative.
Saying this, at least the guys in my first dates taught me something about what I'd like in a boyfriend... someone who is at least an inch taller than me, someone who doesn't revel in the fact his job allows him to indulge in the viewing habits of a student, someone that isn't homophobic... the guy last week, taught me nothing. In fact, he was so dull and unmemorable that I haven't even graced him with a nickname, I'm not sure which scenario is worse. What I am sure about is that sometimes, even as a painfully single person, it's clear internet dating sometimes holds the same appeal as internet shopping, it's easier to browse from the comfort of my sofa, than pick up someone's trodden on reject.
I see internet dating similar to internet shopping. In a city of 8,174,100 people, it seems both necessary yet strange that one has to turn to the internet to find a partner, but when you filter it to 195,000 people who live in London and are Jewish, the genepool suddenly becomes more limited. Still, despite attending a Jewish day school, spending a year in Israel, going to a university with the highest population of Jewish people in Europe and attending numerous 'jew do's' I still find myself painfully single and it has become increasingly difficult to meet new friends, nevermind anyone brave enough to spend more time with me. Thus, I have taken to the internet in my quest to find a boyfriend. I do find it a strange concept, and oddly similar to internet shopping. You put your credentials out there, and wait to be picked. You are ruthlessly picky with your expectations of people- you almost have a shopping list.. well educated, good sense of humour, doesn't live with their parents, has interests beyond computer games and football... the list is endless but it also sets your expectations of people before you've ever met them which can feel unnatural.
So far, I've had a few observations which I wanted to share with you all.
1) Honesty is the best policy.
I went on a date last week where the guy clearly lied to me, claiming he felt ill as soon as he saw me and then scuttling away after an hour and a half.
Now, this was a bit odd for me. I wasn't trying to seduce him, our conversation wasn't too stunted, and I'd made it clear that I liked meeting new people, even if we're not destined to be together, after observing body language that was only slightly more open than a clam. All in all, I'll admit there was no chemistry but was it really that bad that he had to bugger off after an hour and a half? Is it really so unappealing to have a drink with someone if you don't fancy them? It's not ideal to find yourself tipsy, hiding in the toilets of a bar waiting for the ordeal to finish and him to leave the bar.
Also, if you actually intend to meet up with someone rather than simply hiding behind the anonymity that the internet offers, don't tell someone that you're 6ft tall when you're actually 5ft. You will be found out.. unless you go on a date wearing heels, or stilts. This actually happened to me a few years ago. He's been nicknamed Dobby, both for his striking resemblance to the house elf and his large bat like ears. Harsh I know, I'm not exactly a super model, but I wouldn't have minded if he hadn't have totally lied about his height.
Dobby was actually responsible for one of the worst dates I've ever been on. He offered to send me his university dissertation 'to show me how it was done as he achieved 98%'...he shouted at me as my phone was ringing and ordered me to switch it off or put it away and he spent an extensive amount of time talking about green methods of IT. It was dull, to the extent I told a blatant lie to get out of there (yes I'm a hypocrite but it was 3 hours in and getting painful), walked with him to the station and hid behind the potatoes in Sainsbury's so not to have the awkward situation of saying goodbye to him at the station.
2) Chemistry is important, morals are more important.
My first internet date was with a guy who has since been named 'Ginger Sex Pest' (GSP).. it's a fairly self explanatory nickname, but I'll break out the different elements of the name for the sake of transparency.
I don't feel compelled to explain the Ginger part saying that... I went through a three week stage where I wanted to date a ginger guy.. then I realised procreating with a redhead would almost definitely mean ginger children given my mum and my grandmother are both natural red heads- nothing wrong with redheads, I'd just prefer the element of surprise.
GSP was so keen to meet me that he decided to move our first date from the Sunday, in a pub to the Saturday, when I was drunk, watching Britney Spears at G-A-Y. He turned up and immediately started attempting to grope me... I was less than impressed as I was missing Britney so gently tried to coax him into the club, rather than miss out on Ms Spears' dulcit tones. He declined my offer of joining me and my friends in the club.
The next day I was in limbo. Were we to meet that day or not? Needless to say my questions were answered around an hour before our date. He enjoyed our chemistry and he thought we had the potential of a great future relationship, he was concerned however, that I had too many gay friends. Therefore, if I could consider cutting down the number of gay friends I had, we could meet up for a second date. I didn't reply.
3) Ambition is attractive..even if you're not.
'Puffin' (due to his nose/beak) was actually not an internet date, but one I met on a night out. I couldn't remember exactly what he looked like, but agreed to meet up with him on a Sunday for lunch. When I first saw him, I wasn't attracted to him at all, but I wanted to get to know him as we'd got on well texting and chatting on the week leading up to our date.
Now, ambition is really important to me, that doesn't necessarily mean career-wise, but wanting to go out and meet new people, experience new things, see new places..etc. Unfortunately this guy had no ambition.. even more unfortunately, he also had no personality, sex appeal and a limited intellectual capacity, so, the date was fairly doomed from the start. My favourite part of it was when he told me about his job. He'd told me during the week that he was a 'trader'.. that could mean anything of course, but I wrongly assumed he was implying he worked in finance. What I later found out was that he meant was that he was a scrap metal trader (an obvious misconception on my part). When I asked him what that entailed, he informed me.. in the dullest monotone voice you've ever heard: 'In the morning, I go out in the van and buy scrap metal, and in the afternoon, I sell it. My friends think it's funny that I get home at 2pm, but I think they're jealous because I get to watch Hollyoaks'. The conversation dried up after that.
Alongside the ones I met up with were the countless others who I've chatted to and not met up with, the one that went missing and was found wandering naked in a forest a few days later, the guy that had a foot fetish (even if I were into that, I have terrible feet), the guy that wanted to pay me money to publicly humiliate him (don't I do that enough to myself for free) and the guy that continuously sent me messages containing only Italian madrigals (it wasn't that that put me off him but his unkempt beard).
There are the bearded guys, the bald guys, the short guys, the guys who went to uni, the guys who dropped out of school at a young age. The worst offence, worse than no ambition, rudeness, lying about your height, and any of the other things I've experienced is a simple matter of grammar. I find the over use of the word 'lol'.. positively repellant. It's like a verbal tick.
'Hi lol'
'How are you lol'
'Are you having a good day lol'
'lol'
'Lol'? Really? Are you really laughing out loud? it seems somewhat disingenuous to me, if not unimaginative.
Saying this, at least the guys in my first dates taught me something about what I'd like in a boyfriend... someone who is at least an inch taller than me, someone who doesn't revel in the fact his job allows him to indulge in the viewing habits of a student, someone that isn't homophobic... the guy last week, taught me nothing. In fact, he was so dull and unmemorable that I haven't even graced him with a nickname, I'm not sure which scenario is worse. What I am sure about is that sometimes, even as a painfully single person, it's clear internet dating sometimes holds the same appeal as internet shopping, it's easier to browse from the comfort of my sofa, than pick up someone's trodden on reject.
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Barbed Wire Girl
There are some memories of my childhood that inspire nostalgia and put a smile on my face. Family holidays, spending hours doing handstands in the swimming pool with my brothers until my fingers shriveled up like prunes. Birthdays- opening a sea of gifts on my parents bed, Christmas (despite being Jewish)- with loads of family and friends squashed around the dining room table, the smell of my Great Grandmother's perfume that will always remind me of going to her flat off Baker Street, eating sugar covered jellies and performing shows with my cousins for parents, aunts and uncles, hastily pulled together in a day, believing we were the most talented people on earth.
Saying that, this wouldn't be a blog post without acknowledging that there are some memories of my childhood, that are best left in the 20th Century.
1997 was a pretty bad year for me. I had hit that awkward gawky stage, before ghd's changed my life and allowed me to smooth out my unruly mane of hair. I had an unfortunate incident where I'd got one of my mother's hairbrushes stuck in my hair and had cut it out, leaving me with an uneven short patch of hair right in the middle of my head. My braces, which were clear due to my mother wanting subtle orthodontic work, had different coloured elastics making them stand out whenever I smiled (hormones precluded me from being happy very often of course). Finally, and most unattractively, I had a slew of pimples all over my forehead. I was pretty much a typical 12 year old- unfortunate. Alongside what I couldn't control, were my attire, which ranged from bright orange Nike jumpers, stylishly paired with adidas popper trousers, to my (fleeting) goth phase, which I never really committed too, but flirted with wearing baggy trousers and tight t-shirts with (seemingly) racy slogans plastered across the front. Not pretty.
It's worth noting, in the Jewish religion, the age of 12 is special, as a girl is Bat Mitzvahed. This means, you stand up in synagogue in front of all your friends and family and they acknowledge your path from childhood to adulthood. In my opinion, it's the worst time for this to happen- the photos are a glowingly bad example of this unfortunate year and will forever remind me that I willingly wore a bottle green crushed velvet dress to one of the seminal moments in my life.
Anyway, I digress.
One day in 1997, my family and some family friends went for a walk in the country and for a pub lunch. Walking is not my activity of choice and I'm not the biggest fan of nature, so the only appealing component of this day was lunch. After we had eaten, I trudged moodily behind my family, quietly berating my parents for dragging me on this walk and trying not to get my trainers (bright blue Diadora... cringe) covered in mud. We walked into a field and in front of us was a wild horse, minding its own business and eating some grass. The idyllic English scene bypassed me, instead of seeing a beautiful, peaceful animal I saw a rabid beast with fire in its eyes, instead of seeing lush countryside, I saw mud and despair.
It turns out, I was right about the horse and out of nowhere, he started running at us. My father, quickly herded his clan out of the field, through some woodland to the safety of the next field. The only thing between my family and safety was a barbed wire fence.
I can only speculate what happened next as 14 years later, my memory is slightly muddied, but from my memory, my dad pulled open the fence enough for us all to climb through, my mum and middle brother went through first and my father passed my baby brother through the gap, following after. Then it was my turn. Now, I think it's clear from past posts that I'm not the most dainty of people, and this occasion goes a long way to exemplify this character trait. As i climbed through the fence, my father released the fence, with my left leg still hovering in the gap. It pierced my jeans and I fell to the ground, flailing around the mud like a beached whale, screaming, my leg still impaled on the barbed wire. I lay in the mud for what seemed an hour (but in reality was about 3 minutes), my family standing over me, amused (to say the least). In fact, I recall my family finding it really funny, and actually laughing at me (there may well have been pointing).
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Unlucky in Life, Unlucky in Love
I don't consider myself too different from many girls. Slightly too neurotic, care way too much about what people think about me, and ultimately, just want to be loved. I'm a single girl in a sea of smug attached people. Every day, a new friend excitedly proclaims that they are engaged, attached for the rest of their life. I'm not going to lie, this scares the hell out of me, I just want someone to help me carry stuff out of Ikea and maybe go to the cinema with... neurotic and demanding I am, but ultimately, it's the simple things in life that are appealing.
In my quest to find this knight in shining (blue and yellow) armour, I have kissed many frogs. Most of whom have turned out to be poisonous frogs who suddenly lose their ability to text/call/email/write/communicate in any way shape or form. This happened recently, after a holiday fling. Another one bites the dust. Rather than curling up on my sofa, red eyed and reaching for the Ben and Jerry's, I decided to go and find a rebound. Just someone to take my mind off of things.
That night, I attended a friend's house-party- a heady mix of Jaegermeister, beer pong and power ballards left me stumbling around quite tipsy, straight into the arms of a colleague's housemate. I briefly remembered severely disliking said housemate on a previous occasion, but apparently, instincts and intuition are lost under the influence of Jaegermeister and I found myself kissing him. I came to in a cab, with him passed out on me. With an impending sense of dread I paid for the cab and decided to let him sleep at mine. At this point, I'd spoken to my best friend, and was fairly positive that I wanted nothing further to do with this boy, but for the sake of saving face in front of my colleague, I didn't want to leave him to wander the streets of North London unattended, it didn't seem like a nice thing to do.
I stopped off at my local bagel bakery and brought him a pastry to line his stomach, he was pretty far gone. We got out the cab and I turned around to see him throwing the pastry in a hedge. Unperturbed, I coaxed him into the flat and made him a cup of tea, congratulating myself on my patience and desperate to get him out of the front door as soon as humanly possible. I showered (alone) and came back into my room to find him sleeping on my side of the bed. I took a deep breath and pushed him onto the other side of the bed. Turned the light off, climbed into bed and tried to sleep, feeling wildly uncomfortable.
I suddenly felt the housemate jerking next to me and making some unattractive gagging sounds. I asked him, mildly panicked, if he was going to throw up. He answered in the affirmative and I jumped out of bed, gazelle like, stubbed my toe and tried to remove him from my clean white sheets as quickly as possible. He wouldn't move. He physically refused to get out of my bed, despite the fact he was about to be reacquainted with his dinner. So I ran into the kitchen to grab whatever I could for him to throw up into and I heard him heave. He threw up red wine sick all over my white cupboard, beige carpet, white bed, white sheet, floral cushions, EVERYTHING. At this point, my patience dissolved and I saw red. Screaming profanities I threw a clean t-shirt at him marched him to the shower (alone) and scrubbed up the sick from every surface I could find it on.
Upon returning from the shower (which I later found out he had been sick in as well) he started to hurl abuse at me. As far as I was concerned, I had done nothing but be nice to this vile creature. I had cleaned up his sick, made him tea, bought him a pastry, paid for a cab home and he now had the audacity to call me names. I bit my tongue and turned over away from him so not to have to look at his face.
About five minutes later, I again felt the bed jerking. I inquired whether or not he was going to be sick again, he informed me that he wasn't and that he was in fact, playing with himself. Disgusted, I insisted he stopped. All I wanted to do was shower and scrub any inch of skin that he might have touched raw. I did not sleep well.
I woke up, two hours later, to see him wandering gormlessly around my flat. He clearly had no idea where he was, what had happened to him the night before and was panicking that he was late for work. I decided, in order to ensure that he did not get lost and wander back into my life for directions, to drive him to a station. I logically decided that he owed me a bagel (I was suffering from a hangover as well) and a coffee after the performance of the night before.
He changed and sat innocently on my bed, put his head on my shoulder and uttered six words that will forever haunt me:
"Did I at least shag you?"
"No," I replied, "If you were the only man on earth and our procreation would ensure the continuation of the human race, I wouldn't shag you."
I drove him to the station and we made uncomfortable chit chat.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Straight to hell...
Dear Readers,
I apologise for my extended absence from writing, needless to say the urge to humiliate myself (apparently globally- hello South Korea!) has been suppressed, but due to an immense amount of peer pressure, and a plethora of new stories, I've decided to restart my blog.
I'm going to admit it, I hate tourists. The Olympics is going to be hell for me. I'm not saying I'm not grateful for them aiding our failing economy, nor does this indicate innate xenophobia, it's just, they walk SO slowly. They congregate in the most inconvenient of places, in front of the entrance to the tube, at the top of escalators, at the bottom of escalators, usually in places that I can easily fall over them, and believe me that happens.
Yesterday, Covent Garden was particularly rife with tourists. Groups of kids in matching t-shirts wandering around aimlessly, being herded by a lone frustrated looking adult with a clipboard. There must have been about six groups of them, which made my six minute walk to the station over fifteen minutes. Needless to say, I was looking forward for ruthlessly heading towards the first available seat and getting lost in a book. Tube time is quiet time, everyone knows it's an unwritten rule of the tube at rush hour, no talking and if you have to talk, talk quietly so everyone else can recover from their day. Unfortunately, I was followed onto the carriage by a large group of American tourists who talked loudly and ignorantly for my entire journey home, frazzling my nerves and distracting me from my book.
By the time I got back to my stop, I was not happy, but a tourist free suburban mecca beckoned and I stepped out of the station excited for a quiet, obstacle free walk home.
Out of nowhere, I was ambushed by a large group of tourists, wearing matching t-shirts, with the same bedraggled, clipboard wielding adult leading them. At this point, I saw red. Why do these large groups insist on hindering the progress of my journey today? I angrily started to wade through the crowd, ruthlessly pushing stationary people out the way. As I tried to move past one person I noticed that he had a logo on his bright orange t-shirt. It said 'Scottish Autism' on it. I looked around and realised that the bright green t-shirts had 'Down Syndrome International' written on them.
Yes, I had lost my patience with people who have mental disabilities and yes, I am going straight to hell.
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