Waging War on the Commuting Couples....

If you are privileged enough to not need to wade through hoards of plebs as part of your expedition from warm bed to cold hard desk each weekday morning then you can probably stop reading now. I have a small rant to let loose which I'm sure many fellow commuters will relate to if, like me, they've been wound up to screaming point by the  tribulations involved in getting from A to Office whilst trying to retain some sanity, a small degree of composure and (oh please God) without breaking a sweat.

My major issue here lies in a particular sub-section of Londoners who make me feel like I would rather not 'Mind The Gap' but instead use it as a disposal unit for these most annoying of people clogging up the transport system: yes, I'm looking at you COMMUTING COUPLES.

Don't even think about it you two....

Let me just start by saying what I have been dying to let out for almost half a year now: "Fuck you, commuting couples. Go home." You have tarnished countless mornings with your sleepy, weepy dough eyed fixations on each other. I've tried to ignore you. I've looked away, read the newspaper, dug my nails into my palms in an attempt to distract myself from the fury you induce. But whatever I try, as soon as raise my head there you are, clinging onto each other with fear as 8.24am looms with the intention of tearing you away from one another for eight, whole, heart aching hours. The sad longing in your faces is too much to tolerate: as if the working day was just a cruel idea conjured up by dark, empty souls who wanted to see early morning lovers torn apart.

If it looks this good (and the train is this empty) then it's ok....

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for the love. I'm the first to fling my arms around my closest of friends as we unite for post-work drinks, and with lucky boyfriends of the past I have had no reservations about sneaking in a little public weekend smooch should the moment take us (following the obvious rules of no tongues, no inappropriate groping and ABSOLUTELY no noises. Bleugh.) My main issue here is that to enjoy any form of physical contact on the tube is simply perverted. In an environment where there is a strong likelihood of having your cheek pressed up against a stranger's armpit whilst the guy behind you 'unintentionally' gets his hand wedged up against your derriere, to flaunt your pleasure at being squashed up against your commuting comrade is just sick. Think of the productivity you could achieve if you perhaps left the house 3 minutes before your partner? You could actually read something en route to work or you could use your un-held hand to text one of the many friends who you inevitably neglect or even just indulge in some independent thoughts perhaps?

Look at how shocked Boris was when I told him about the issue. Poor Boris.

 I'm not just idly ranting here, I actually have a well devised solution of this pandemic: TFL simply need to introduce a 9am watershed on romantic interaction. Perfect. They ban petting in public swimming pools so why not ban necking on the Northern Line? It makes perfect sense - anything that could help London's worker bees to be a little less tense has got to be worthwhile. I bet Boris would love it.

 So, Commuting Couples, snap out of it and stop tripping me up with your combined width when I'm racing though Victoria or the petition will be set into motion. If I'm expected to keep my porridge down in public then I expect you to keep you tongues to yourselves.

 You have been warned.

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Finally!! Sheer - without revealing your ta-tas. Cheers Topshop.

So I'm a big fan of the sheer blouse. To such an extent that when I showed a potential top half purchase to a friend recently they actually cocked their head to one side and came back with: "Yeeeah... but it's not very you... I mean, it's not even remotely see-through."

Something I do have a little trouble with however, is how to do sheer in the daytime. Or the work place. Generally anywhere you would not usually reveal your undies. Or nips, should the climate be approapriate or the flowing of G&T's be guarenteed.This little quandry was instantly remedied when I stumbled upon this little Toppers number, for a snip at £36. Strategically placed chiffon pleating.. thank you, you clever ladies and gents at Topshop, BRAVO.

I WANT TO GET ME ONE OF THEM

Apologies for how frequently I am about to mention vomit.....

I've been cursed with the seasonal lurgy. It caught up with me sometime last week between Euston and Camden on the Northern line. A hot flush and a dizzy spell in your twenties can only mean one thing - it's that time of year again when that bastard mid-week hangover meets the Decemeber chill and the two tussle over your immune system until you almost pass out and face plant the scuzzy tube seat next to you. Or vomit into the fake Louis Vuitton belonging to the woman squashed up against you. That's pretty standard though, those things are fugly and I fully intend to make it my mission to destroy each and every one of them in this city with my seasonal chunder.

Sorry, enough vom talk....

Anyhoo, so I'm ill and finding myself confined to my flat with only a pile of magazines and the www for company. For me this means the joy of an absolute blogathon: something which is usually confined to my eat-and-you'd-miss-it lunch break, I've been scrolling through hours of outfit posts, 'inspirational imagery', belated catwalk reports and in-store tip offs. Lovely stuff. But last night as I clicked the laptop screen shut before shuffling off to bed I didn't feel such gratification from my blog viewing binge. I was actually just pretty pissed off....

Personally, I adore fashion because it's fun. Yep, I know it is the architecture of society, it's one of the most significant ways of conveying the mood of a culture and it encapsulates the aesthetic of generations, but seriously guys, when did it loose its sense of humour? Fashion taken too seriously is just painful - it bites at your ankles and chases you around the room trying to strangle you with a pair of black leather-look leggings. Minimalism is beautiful and exudes control and elegance but if I have to see another photo of a sullen faced (yet beautiful) top-knotted girl in a beige buttoned up shirt I'm going to hurl (AGAIN. And this time all over a beige buttoned up shirt, which I'll take a photo of and post on my blog. HAH.)

Also, I totally get it that a large slice of the allure of the high-fashion world is that it excludes rather than includes: nothing would seem aspirational if it was smiling and dancing and asking for hugs in every other photo. And I suppose those who do embrace fashion in the whimsical, frivolous way get sideways looks on the street because people assume that you are a freaky colour clashing crazeee. But blogging is magical because it gives anyone who has an opinion a voice - even if it only gets heard by one person, at least its out there - so why not use it to make the steely stick thin fashion world a little bit more real and a little cosier? I'm probably getting pissy over a small minority of whats out there. Maybe I just stumbled across the wrong pages. Maybe I'm just too zoned out on pain killers and I've been removed from social interaction for far too long and I'm being a massive grouch..... PERFECT - I'm off to take a photo of myself looking moody, wearing something minimal and sucking in my cheeks. YESS I'M SO IN.

Q: "Surely only mentalists would queue overnight waiting for a shop to open?!" A: "Babe, it's Versace. And I'm British."

Trying to remind myself where  I was in the wee hours.

So over the past 24 hours I have experienced a somewhat life-altering cacophony of revelations. First and foremost, that Donatella Versace's lips do in fact require their own post code. They have their own assistant, entourage and they also own a small chiwawa called Pickles....

More relevantly, I realised that it is actually possible to rationalise sleeping rough all night on Regent Street just to get your hands on a load of Versace Swag - oh the power and the sheer GENIUS of the H&M high street/designer collaboration has proved, once again, irresistible to even the most sane of fashion fans. Its reach actually extends even further beyond the many girls and boys who have been anticipating the arrival of the first ever purse friendly Versace offering, to the somehow-savvy kids who fancied making a tidy sum buying up as many items their backpacks could handle in order to sell off their finds via Ebay hours after the collection was opened to the public and inevitably, very promptly, sold out.

Paul G: A true Gent.

For a mere 11 hour stint I managed to bag a teensy bottle of free Versace yellow diamond perfume (ermm... win...?) shake Donatella's hand and conjure up: "You look amazing.... oh god I feel like crap" to say to her before almost becoming entranced by her mammouth pout and finally elbowing her out of the way in favour of reaching the studded leather section.

I also mustn't fail to mention the wonderful, rather drunken 1am visit from my dear friend Paul which made a couple of hours fly by in a flurry of blueberry muffins, loudly shouted obscenities (Paul, not me, he's a deviant) and the hilarity of trying to explain that this had nothing to do with 'Vivace' and a jumble sale at HMV... oh Paul how I do adore you.


I understand if you are still wholly unconvinced that anyone who chooses to spend 12 hours shivering on the pavement waiting for H&M to open is not more than a few currants short of a chelsea bun. But for me there was method to the madness: even after being unfortunate enough to be photographed as 'one of those hardcore fashion obsessed crazies' at the front of many hundreds of bewildered queueing Versace fans by a hoard of well turned out (and well slept, you bastards) fashion bloggers and journos feeling like I'd decayed overnight into a female version of Blackadder's Baldrick. Not the most flattering moment to be photographed. Or filmed, thank you very much Grazia... [a few of the aforementioned life-altering realisations arise here, including 'Find way to make head less peanut/potato shaped - a fringe perhaps??' and 'For christ's sake try and sound less: whoopsie daises + daddy I want a pony!' Why has it taken me 24years to realise what my own cringe-worthy voice sounds like?! Perhapas a slap of make up wouldn't have gone amiss here either. Lesson learnt. View the vid here. but be warned: I WANT, I WANT, I WANT.....]

Anyway, to sum up the reason for all this silly behaviour: I'm a hybrid of fashion curious shopaholic who can shamelessy admit to enjoying a slice of glossy hyped up fashion 'history' and a shrewd little scally who wants to make a few bucks - because MAN ALIVE anyone with a clue knows that these dresses are going to fly like a golden pheonix on Ebay - and straight to my Paypal account, thank you very much Donatella. As my Dad so wisely put it earlier on the phone, I now have to think of myself as a drug dealer: what would happen if I just took all the drugs?! (Good question, Dad. Maybe I'd have a Versace overdose, wear the clothes day and night until I couldn't remember where Versace began and I ended? I'd ruin my relationships and my career go down the gutter as soon my garish appearance would become too much for anyone to witness.. This could honestly go on and on. I don't even have the energy to go into how hilarious my Dad's choice of analogy is)

I will most likely keep my fave items, or at least the ones which I can actually pull off, but as much as I would LOVE to have bought out the entire collection and proceed to wow at every xmas 'do' in the coming six weeks with a different Versace enemble, I'm desperate to make a buck, can't afford to be a romantic fashion obsessive in this case and dammit* I've put in the hard work of staying up all night on Regent Street so some Rich Banker's Girlfriend didn't have to. Ans that's fine. Maybe not so fine for you Mr Rich Banker, but you can afford it, so shut up. 

Bringing home the Bacon.

After all, there'll always be the opportunity to buy it back, perhaps a little tired and worn, in 18months time when the much anticipated collection ages into mere cast-offs. And then I'll treasure whatever bargains I get my mits on knowing that their spanking new predessors were my meal ticket for a couple of months - and nothing looks better than big old smug smile....

NOW, THE IMPORTANT BIT, HERE'S WHAT I PURCHASED:

Pink studded Silk Dress that Donatella herself was wearing Thursday morning....

THE jacket - it's even better in the flesh... it's velvet and so bright and colourful it could give you a seizure.

Softer than butter Leather dress with gold studs. This dress is basically THE SEX.

AMAZING dust bags free with each item. You could actually just wear one of these they're that puuurdy.

Oh and full on VELVET hangers. Yum.

(*Somewhat irrelevantly, I'd just like to add that I read The Graduate to pass many of the hours... which is perhaps where I've picked up the use of the antiquated curse word 'dammit'. Much better than the 'c' word anyway...)

Life's a bitch and then you.. cry.

Like many girls with a penchant for the finer things in life, I have always had an insatiable love for Mashed Potato. The billowing mounds of buttery goodness have seen me through the toughest of times: providing comfort during my early uni days when life's problems were solved by a bag of Asda instant, the remnants of a pot of Bisto and a kettle; adding a glistening silver lining to many a failed Atkins attempt and, of course, being the crowning glory of so many Sunday Roasts. My relationship with mash has not not always been entirely 'lump free', however.


I was probably a bit of a weeper as a kid: growing up on a field in sunny Sussex, not used to many disappointments in life and perhaps a tad over-sensitive. Frustration and anger sought me out one very unremarkable Sunday afternoon when I was dealt a large helping of unsavoury news: mashing potatoes were OUT OF SEASON?! The moment the news sunk in so did my heart, and hot unwelcome tears began to pump into my face: the now so familiar feeling of my lips and eye lids uncontrollably swelling up as I tried to stop what I knew was inevitably about to erupt. In an attempt to defend my eleven year old self - new potatoes honestly are not comparable to the old classics: there is nothing fluffy or indulgent about a new potato. It's like trying to substitute Scarlett Johansen for Marilyn Monroe. Ludicrous. Still, whatever degree of justification I can scrape together, I did cry over potatoes. I wept, sobbed and snotted through loyalty to a root vegetable. This is what crossed my mind last night as I felt a small embarrassed tear try and prickle it's way to the surface whilst on the tube home, following what I can only describe as an absolute 'shitter' of a day: life can't always be mashed potatoes... sometimes, life will trip you up, kick you up the arse and deal you out an unwelcome helping of newies. But to let it get you down, when there are actual real, relevant problems and issues happening to far less fortunate people in the world, would be equally as ridiculous as I was that fateful Sunday. So I gulped back the frustration and anger and managed to hold it together. At least until I got home, and found a cupboard bare of Bisto. Ah yes, and now for the Gravy metaphor of life.........

Girl...?

So, something really quite peculiar has arisen. Contrary to the title of this blog, it appears that I am no longer redundant! Please join me in playing the link below and doing a wee boogie around the room....

That song is suprisingly long... apparently Kool and The Gang are capable of marathon celebrations!

Just in case you wanted to know how funky I got during the last four minutes and fifty nine seconds... check out the link below, which a friend recently drew to my attention on account of the gent featured having 'stolen my moves'....

Ok, I'm going to stop you-tubing like a 13 year old boy now.

So back to the job thing, unfortunately, there aren't actually any congratulations or well done's in order here, however grateful I am to the lovelies who have given me a good pat on the back for re-joining the realms of the employed (and those who have jumped on board for a few celebratory drinks tonight, yeehaa) because my efforts with bombarding the entire fashion and retail industry with copies of my CV and pleading cover letters didn't really pay off at all - my old job has pretty much just given me my job back.

Crappy anti-climax, I know, but however much I wish there was a more life inspiring story to tell (eg. going travelling around the world and severing all ties to society OR Lorraine Candy deciding she actually loved me bombarding her with adoration on Twitter and having to hire me at ELLE Magazine immediately...) this is an undeniably marvellous thing, and I'm rather chuffed indeed (if a little confused a bewildered) and am looking forward to lunching again with my former colleagues next week :)

As for the blog, I spose I'm keeping at it, if for nothing else then to remind me of the constantly looming threat to my job security which the recession has kindly ushered in. Also, because I love that I've found a new way of ranting and rambling, (I'm sure most people just zone me out now when I go off on one after my second glass of rose) even despite the fact that I've been accused of revealing far too much of my private life: either rendering myself completely 'un-dateable' OR providing the perfect spring board for anyone with stalker-esque tendencies... both are risks I am willing to take.

To continue in my self indulgent blogging, I will have a bit of a recap over the weekend of the things which I have proudly achieved over the past four weeks... or at least some of the things which have made it pretty bloody aweeesome to be temporarily unemployed............

1) HELLO EGGS BENEDICT!!

I really have perfected my skills at making Hollandaise sauce over the past month, which has enabled me to eat an unhealthy quantity of my absolute favourite meal of Eggs Benedict.

Here are my very best instructions if you like serving a heart-attack on a plate for brekkie too:

OK, this isn't mine, this pic's off Google. Mine would look
waaay better ;) I will make it this weekend and photograph
the hell out of it. That is if I manage not to immediately wolf
down the whole thing.

1. Using the heaviest pan possible (so it doesn't get insanely hot in 3 seconds) separate an egg yolk from the white (save the white for later and add it to the other egg you poach, everyone loves a double white) and pop it in the COLD pan with a tablespoon of cold water. Whisk together and turn up the heat just a teensy bit. The trick here is not to just scramble the yolk, or you have disaster-eggs-benny which is heartbreaking.
2. Then, as it goes all frothy and saucy looking, add little bits of butter, bit by bit, waiting for each bit to melt before adding the next. It can take about half a stick of butter (this is clearly not for the calorie timid) and it's best to use unsalted, unless you want to speed up your heart attack ten-fold. 
3. Once it starts looking yummy, you might need to turn up the heat a little bit, as this will make it thicken up and go all dreamy and delicious.
4. Add lemon juice, to taste. I sometime pop in a cheeky drop of vinegar, cos I like my eggs benny to have a twang. 
5. QUICK NOW - Sauce off hob, split an English muffin, get it down the toaster and poach 2 eggs (plus one extra white, you lucky tinker you)
6. I like mine with smoked salmon, cos that's the posh kind of bird I am, but you can use ham, bacon or spinach if you're a veggie. (Interesting factoid: with salmon it's actually called Eggs Royale, with spinach it's Eggs Florentine and with Bacon it's Eggs Benedict - nice eh?) 
7. Now you just need to assemble: Muffin - Salmon - Eggs - Hollandaise - and, of course, Black Pepper.

VOILA - YUM IN YOUR TUM... Ooooh I'm mega hungry now.

I have to head out now, it's the weekend and celebratory drinks certainly are in order.

I can't express how over joyed I feel to have weekends back - everyday might have been a weekend before, but it seriously was getting old. Oh and I have my beloved Friday's back, oh how I have missed you!

HAPPY FRIDAY EVERYONE!!!!!!

Carrot tops...

I have spent much of today slogging through job applications. Just before my eyes started to blur and my brain imploded, I thought I'd take a break and have a little flick through some of my favourite blogs, including The Fashion Spot, which is super for all kinds of news and updates. A couple of separate posts came to my attention about some newly flame haired celebs, so I thought I'd bring them all together for a little ginger snap party here....

MILEY CYRUS

BLAKE LIVELY 

SCARLETT JOHANNSON

After dying my hair to the point that it turned to straw, I've vowed to leave it well alone from now on. But if I was still so reckless and as bored as I am now, I'm sure I would be going ginger. If you fancy having a look at a brilliant hair-do blog, have a look at She Knows.

Some advice for a teenage dirtbag....

I had a birthday yesterday, celebrating my 24th year.... I'm not going to start bleating about being old quite yet, as I realise getting a year older at this stage in my life hardly means I've been handed a one way ticket to granny's ville. In fact, yesterday morning, as I was giving myself an hour long birthday preening effort (it does take a tad longer now... or at least it takes longer after the 3 day pre-birthday celebrations I've indulged in over the weekend) I turned my music up to lift my mood to birthday appropriate level, and what was my first song of choice? Wheatus, oh yes, 'Teenage Dirtbag' - who I had the pleasure of watching LIVE for my 14th Birthday treat when I embodied the title of the song in every innocent 14 year old way possible (using the term 'watching' very lightly here... I was concentrating more on flinging myself about the place in the most serious 'into the music' way possible and 'crowd surfing' over about 20 other teenage punk-wannabes: consequently feeling over-ambitiously badass)

I couldn't help wondering what my 14 year old self would have made of the girl I am now as I turn a year older. Without sounding excessively 'sob sob' over this, I'm sure there would be a few small disappointments to be had by my adolescent predecessor, so I'm jotting down a few pointers to send back in time as a birthday gift to grimey-pigtailed teenage self....

YOU

DOC BROWN

1) First off, I'm sure you must be very disheartened to see that my hair is a perfectly natural, normal shade of brunette. I realise that whilst it is 'well lame' that after finally gaining bundles of adult freedom I have not permanently embraced the allure of shocking pink, green, or dreadlocked hair, I have made a good few attempts at radical do's, only to find that the constant abuse resulted in an eerie resemblance to The Doc from back to the future (hair which is even more uncontrollable than an kid at a Wheatus gig) Also, please realise that whilst your female idols may currently include Courtney Love and the girl with a million piercings who works at 'One Legged Jockey' (the only shop in rural Chichester where you could purchase flared trousers so wide that you could fit three of your friends, each smuggling a bottle of Hooch inside) you will one day discover a love for the shiny, radiant Olivia Palermo, and endeavour from then on to achieve some semblance of willowy grace and tanned limbed perfection. I'm not sure how well this is going at the moment, we're still working hard at reversing some of the damage caused through the teenage years... cheers for that, by the way.

GRACE

DISGRACE

2) DO NOT leave your backpack lying around so that Jessie can find it and Tip-Ex: "Suzie sucks ****s" on it in Year 10. For one, this is untrue, and is not a nice way to be portrayed, and secondly, your parents will go  frickin' mental at you. As I recall you actually get grounded and have to miss at least one school disco. Bad times Suz - AVOID.

I HAD A SHIT FILA BACKPACK BACK IN THE DAY - SPORTSWEAR WAS STILL KIND OF COOL AT THE BEGINNING OF THE NAUGHTIES. IT TOTALLY DESERVED TO BE DEFACED THOUGH...

3) For God's sake, don't be such a bitch. You'll realise around the age of 20 that you were a little bitch during most of your teenage years, and you won't feel great about it. Girl's are bitchy, it's ingrained in our weird, mysterious psyche somewhere, so there will undoubtedly be a few hiccups and fall outs during your school uniformed years, but this does not mean you have to be on high alert for it 24/7 and react like viper at every opportunity. Cut out this along with the stupid competitiveness, especially when it comes to boys - they mostly end up being utter disappointments anyway and certainly are not worth the effort- it should be Sister's before Mister's I'm afraid: girls will teach you far more than any nose-picking boy will. In short, work hard and be nice to people, and you'll feel a little prouder of your former self once you reach adulthood.

4) Everything will be fine. I'm sorry to say, there are a few earth-shattering, disastrous moments ahead which are going to trip you up and kick you in the face and which no amount of warning or advice will be able to prepare you for. You're tougher than you think, you have priceless friends and you will eventually be happier than you ever could have hoped, I promise.

5) Finally, you bag yourself a job in fashion buying almost straight out of uni - wooo-f*ing-hooo! 

NOW START APPLYING FOR NEW JOBS A COUPLE OF MONTHS IN. 

Two words Sugar, recession and redundant. (You may now wish to refer back to point 4...)

TO KATE AND WILLS!!

OOoh I've come over all patriotic this weekend, loved the wedding! Now to recover from the festivities and back to real life.... aaah TO KATE AND WILLS!!

Everybody in the house of love...

I don't know if you've heard, but apparently some bird called Kate and some dude called Will are getting hitched tomorrow? Tee he he.

I couldn't let the big day pass by without spending a second revelling in the joy. I may be an occasional crusader of singledom, but I can't help swoon over a good old dollop of love on a plate and, of course, a frothy wedding dress. Furthermore, this is a wonderful excuse for everyone to take a day to get together and celebrate: an opportunity us spiffing Britons will never turn our noses up at. And, if nothing else, this is a wonderful opportunity for Taiwan to churn out some incredibly tacky crap, which will only make the world a better place to be honest...

Chill with Will and Kate.. ho ho

Love Pez. LOVE WILL AND KATE PEZ.

Pizza on your face!! Oh no, I mean your face on a pizza.

IN CASE ALL THE ROMANCE GETS TOO MUCH

I think my activity of choice for the day is going to revolve around either one of the fabby street parties my dear friends ingeniously came across or a good old house party (the weather's looking grim people, BEWARE) Whatever you do have a wonderful day :)

IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE WILL AND KATE THEMED T-MOBILE AD YET THEN YOU MUST WATCH THIS IMMEDIATELY!!

Post about post its....

I remembered this as I am currently painting my nails all kinda colours of the post-it rainbow!

SIMPLY THE BEST STOP MOTION VIDEO EVER MADE. Watching this makes me joyful.

I did a project inspired by this at uni and covered the living room in my flat in post-its, ahh I had such wonderful tolerant housemates! Enjoy :)

Get nailed...

SPONGE BOB NAILS?! AMAZING.

Today is my final payday from the old job. Boo.. hooo sniffle sniffle. Snnoort.

Very scary, as I'm not sure when the next payday will occur. I'm determined to be a clever girl though and not blow it all in Topshop, so I am just going to indulge my shopaholic urges by purchasing a rainbow of nail varnishes, in awesomely bright shades - thus giving myself something fun to purchase, something good to do and something bright and wonderful to cheer my soul!

If my funds didn't have such a short lifespan, I would be forking out a little more than the price of a bottle of varnish on the most fierce creative manicure money can buy from the one and only WAHnails, which is based in Dalston and now have a nail bar down in good old Oxford St. Toppers. This is much more than a nail bar, next to the unique hair salon BLEACH, they offer mind boggling intricate and amusing designs, which I can only try to replicate myself.

MORE WAHnails DESIGNS

If I was to go with any design, it would undoubtedly be the tuxedos on the left... dressing my nails up like little dapper English gentlemen?! YES PLEASE!!!

I am going to have to settle with good old trusty BarryM this time... probably in the following colours...

Wow, I just wrote a post about nail varnish... and I thought the Banana Muffins made me sound like a prancing girly girl.

I hereby declare my refusal to hang off the fridge door of Love.... (or unemployment, for that matter)

Having had a lot of spare time on my hands over the past  two weeks (GAH! It's been two weeks now...?!) I've worried momentarily on more than one occasion that boredom could be creeping around the corner. Luckily, as soon as I've felt the first tingles of the dreaded 'b' word, I've used a bit of foresight and done something to keep myself occupied - dabbling in blogging, for example, reading, drawing, cycling, sunbathing or calling on one of my life-saving friends. 

Now, I'm sure this is going to tumble out all wrong and I'm inevitably about to make a few highly questionable statements, but the slightly lost feeling of finding myself jobless can, to some extent, be likened to the uneasy few weeks which come in the wake of a crumbling relationship break-up. Most of us are familiar with the pining and the heart wrenching: neither of these are symptoms I'm suffering at the moment of course (although it is a bugger not having a job I'm hardly pining after it) but there is a similarity to be drawn between the two  unfortunate circumstances as both do tend to free up a great deal of your time.

Mrs Haversham blues are at bay.

Don't panic! This is not a story about to descend into doom and gloom quite yet... in fact, I can glady report, ladies and gentlemen, that I'm feeling quite the opposite. Since my last bout of mourning over a lost love, I've had an epiphany worthy of a Carrie Bradshaw closing sentence in that I have no desire in my head whatsoever to be coupled up and playing the relationship game right now. I realise this comes at a time when I'm perhaps not the best catch for potential suitors (anyone saying this to my face, by the way, will get a sharp slap in the face, male or female) I can honestly say, without even crossing my fingers behind my back (actually, I'm typing so not the best example) or secretly crying inside whilst imagining myself as an ancient Mrs Haversham-esque decaying mess, that I am 100% happy and feel at no loose end in not having a significant other to  pour my affections over, just as I am getting by so far being a little misplaced in the world of work.*

[*I must stress at this point that I am not half way through a bottle Chardonnay right now, flapping my free hand around whilst listening to 'Single Ladies' by Beyonce - promise. In explaining my contentment in being single I don't wish to come across as an expletive spitting, man hating, independence citing crack-pot. Although, if I'm permitted to make one futher disclaimer, it would be to also avoid offending any woman who does chose to celebrate her singledom in this way: right on, sister.]

Beyonce with some 'single ladies'

This well cemented contentment was not just an idea hatched by myself after sitting in front of my computer all day trying to see what mine and every fathomable potential boyfriend's children would look like using one of those creepy websites (I did try to do this once to freak a guy out for a laugh, but you have to register and shit, it's far too much hassle just to see a man faint... if you'd like to give it a go though, just click here.) it was actually a very wise and wonderful woman of the world who I had the pleasure of living with through most of my years at uni who guided me towards the light in this case.

We'd just had an idyllic day of sampling some Brick Lane street cuisine, wandering around Spitalfields market and hanging in the sun-drenched park drinking wine. The weather was fabulous, it was a Sunday and life had reached a pinnacle of bloody brilliance. As we are both currently of single status, the subject of our lack of male co-dependants arose in afternoon conversation, and she made the most wonderful statement about her own autonomous happiness: she said that she has enough things to occupy her time without having to concentrate her energy into seeking out another half, and that perhaps the girls who feel this uncontrollable hunger to snare a man are just too bored in their own company. These, I believe, are the 'mental' girls which I have heard so many guys shudder and bitch about lately - I'm pretty sure I was even amongst the 'mentals' once - the girls who are so desperate not to lose the person they've become so dependant on to provide all of the care, interest and drama in their lives that they would literally transform their otherwise normal, likeable selves into mobile phone wielding psychopaths who are capable of reaching every single extreme of aggression from 'zero' to 'crazy drama hungry bitch'.

And so from now on when I get these little inklings of feeling slightly lost, I think to myself about huger pangs: the kind when you're not really hungry but you have a craving for something and you're not sure what it is - so you open the fridge and hang off the door staring into it.... move a bit of cheddar aside to see what's behind it only to realise you don't want the ham which was hiding there (and that yes you can survive without finishing off the family pack of Crunchies which you know is waiting for you in the bottom drawer) NO - you're just bloody BORED. At which point I will now never hesisate to firmly close the fridge door and just go and do something, for christ's sake. It seems to me it's easy to get into the habit of just hanging off the fridge door of your sometimes empty love life, because you want something, but it's not really there. Perhaps there are more people who need to realise they aren't going to find it in the fridge, or in a bar, or by stalking every member of the opposite sex they're friends with on Facebook, and instead go and do something to interest themselves. 

After all, if you're bored then you're boring and if you're boring then no one will ever fancy you, now will they?

THESE LOT CLEARLY ARE NOT GETTING IT

Yummy bloggings....

I celebrated the mild success of knocking out 3 job applications before lunchtime today by indulging in a full few hours of blog trawling. Sweet bliss. One which always guarantees a stream of enviably tanned and stylish peeps to sigh over is the Topshop Blog, Inside-Out. Today I found it had much more to offer than just temptation to spend my final pay packet though, as it enlightened me to yet another totally spiffing tumblr blog: Things Organized Neatly.

http://thingsorganizedneatly.tumblr.com/

This is a pretty self-explanatory blog roll of kitch pics of objects all lined up in rows: viewing pleasure for manic tidy freaks and (slightly) messy creatures like myself. I might have to swim through clothes to get to my bedroom door right now, but at least I can swoon over regimented perfection on tumblr.

http://thingsorganizedneatly.tumblr.com/

 There is certainly something very profound to be said about consumerism, mass production and appreciating the value of an object's appearance rather than it's use here: as well as many questions about whether something quite ordinary can be morphed into a work of art as soon as you photograph, draw or paint it and whack it on an awesome blog. Hmmm....... Enjoy :)

ALL PICS FROM THINGS ORGANIZED NEATLY:  http://thingsorganizedneatly.tumblr.com