So, I have to tell you something…

I’m back after a seemingly long break and this time it’s personal.  This is a difficult post to write mostly because I don’t want to alarm or worry anyone unnecessarily but I feel I owe it to those who know me and those who follow me on Twitter avidly about why my mood has been up and down like a yo-yo over these past few months.

During the summer, I received some worrying news from the doctor.  I’m not a fan of sitting in the waiting room and it’s highly unusual for me to put in a personal appearance at the GP’s as it would seem I am blessed to have a good health.  However, the moment I am not sure about something, I won’t ignore the signs.  I always tell myself that it’s better to face the truth sooner than when it turns ugly later and much to my relief, things have always turned out OK.

But one day in July turned out to be the darkest day for me when I received a call from my GP reporting an unusual sighting from a routine test.  He was referring me to hospital immediately for further tests and told me the matter was serious.  I have never been in hospital for any kind of treatment or operation, I am never ill so this news terrified me, more so when I decided to delve deeper into what was wrong with me.

I couldn’t be bothered to concentrate on work and I couldn’t give a toss that I was going on holiday.  When I told my parents and my closest friends, it was impossible to fight the tears but the way my parents reacted was incredible.  I knew they were worried but on the outside they put on a strong front which had a calming effect on me.  I found talking about it was a great way to release the stress and anxieties, even when it led to bursting into tears.  I must admit, I walked around like a zombie for the first month or so as I came to terms with the reality of what I was facing.

Work was hard as was putting on a brave face in front of colleagues and not allowing this thing to get in the way.  I lost interest in the blogs I write for, fell behind with finishing off some photography work and had no motivation for the baking I loved doing so much.  Goals I was in the middle of setting myself went out of the window and the future didn’t matter, all I could think about was here and now.

The hardest part came after the initial blow and that was the long wait for my test results from the hospital.  This took almost three months and I can tell you it was horrible.  I read up as much as I could on the internet until it got to the point where I had to stop myself contemplating the worst.  At the same time, I did learn a lot and was effectively prepared for all eventualities. I was confused too.  I couldn’t understand why this had to happen to me.

When the big day finally arrived (and this sounds stupid), I found the walk to the hospital from the tube station agonising and it was difficult to stop my eyes from welling up.  I was called in by the consultant (by which then I had composed myself) and he gave me the news.  I don’t want to talk about exactly what’s wrong because it is a very sensitive matter and just opening up about this experience is a big deal for me but I will say this much – I felt immense relief that finally I had some solid answers and I knew what I was dealing with.  I also felt very lucky and thankful that I had been given the best possible outcome and in a way, I was glad I had been prepared for the worst for the truth was much easier to handle.  I am sure people will speculate but coming from the person who knows best, I can best describe it as a glitch.

I do feel like I’ve been given a second chance but also, I can’t stop thinking about how I was led onto this path.  Had I not decided to get checked out by the doctor, I’d have carried on living my life, totally unaware of what was brewing inside me.  I don’t even know why I went, I guess it was a gut instinct.

You don’t realise your own strength until you’re given a mighty whack in the face and this was my mighty whack.  I was a wuss when it came to needles but now I had no choice but to put up and shut up.  I had psyched myself up and was ready to take on whatever I was expected to go through so when my consultant asked when I wanted to start treatment, I didn’t hesitate to say ‘immediately’.  The sooner I started, the sooner this nightmare would be over.  As a patient you do have the choice to say no but when treatment is offered, why would you decline it?  Besides, I didn’t want to take any chances with the future where I knew the consequences could be much worse if I left it untreated.

I have begun treatment which is for a few months and as with any medication, it’s not a walk in the park.  I have good and bad days, and the last few days have been pretty crap to say the least.  I have an incredible nurse looking after me who’s truly an angel.  We get on so well and he is so wonderful, I do believe such care is half the reason why I am in good spirits.

I have been feeling very low emotionally and drained physically, and unfortunately it’s beyond my control when it’s down to the drugs.  It’s pretty intense but you know what, I am determined to get through this.  The thing is, I can’t do this alone.  It’s the support and encouragement from my family and friends who are cheering me on at the finishing line that is enabling me to put up with this gruelling process.

At times when I’ve lost it, I’ve been touched by messages of support from strangers and friends on Twitter.  I do hope I don’t come across as some kind of mentalist!  When you see me, I am fine and happy, and I don’t think for a second about the ‘glitch’, which is a far outcry from the time when I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Unfortunately I do get moments of sadness and frustration  usually when I’m alone and I feel tired and frustrated.  I had to cancel my weekend plans recently because I was too exhausted and consequently, I haven’t stopped crying but today as I write this, I am buoyantly content.  So, I am taking each day as it comes.  I don’t deserve an award for bravery, I know there are others dealing with much worse matters and to me, they’re the heroic ones.  I’m just grateful I am managing to handle this without casting a shadow on others and being a pain in the backside.

Now I don’t wish to scare anyone into thinking they might have something.  I have written this post to share my experience, to explain why I had been unhappy and why my mood has affected my actions.  I also hope that by writing this I may encourage people not to put things off when they get a letter in the post from the doctor for a check-up or when they sense something isn’t right.  Believe me, if there is something wrong, the earliest it is detected, the better it is for you and if it’s a false alarm, then you don’t have anything to worry about.

I’d like to thank everyone who’s endured my eratic tweets and moans of misery, and for not deserting me when I probably drove them mad.  It’s not over yet but I can say I’m on the road to recovery.  There will be times when I will struggle and I can only apologise in advance but I promise you it’s not forever and I will always be indebted for your help, support and understanding.  (Hope I didn’t go on too much!)

Sticks and stones…

If you follow me on Twitter, you may have caught wind of a barrage of tweets unleashed last night.  This post is to explain why as many of you were left horrified and/or confused.

First, have a look at this. (Granted the Daily Mail is beneath contempt sometimes with its right-winged views and readers’ opinions but just focus on the story.)

Now international boxing star Amir Khan is an avid tweeter and from a young age, he’s spoken of his roots and religion, proud to be British and a muslim, a great role model amongst all the negativity which surrounds the religion and its followers.

However, stories emerging of him tweeting from the holy city of Makkah in Saudi Arabia while he ought to be concentrating on his pilgrimage and during the month of Ramadan left me a little flummoxed.  His argument is he’s sharing this holy experience with his legion of followers, many of whom aren’t muslim.  What I don’t understand is the act in which he is doing this.

If you’ve been fortunate enough to visit this place (as I have), cameras are banned.  (Photographing in public is not allowed in Saudi Arabia especially of women.) Security search you on arrival and if you’re found to be carrying these (or God forbid, something worse), you will either have your possessions confiscated or you will be ejected.

When undergoing Umrah or Hajj you are supposed to leave all your worldly goods behind and focus on the rigorous and demanding yet spiritually rewarding experience.  Sneaking a camera phone in is surely breaking the rules and it certainly spells out you don’t have pure intentions at heart.

Also, taking pictures when other pilgrims are trying to fulfill their religious duties causes inconvenience and annoyance with the offenders pushing their way through or just slowing the crowd down, possibly physically harming not to mention it’s an invasion of privacy (others in the background getting photographed without their permission).  It ruins the sanctity of these holy places and I believe it even invalidates the purpose going on a pilgrimage to Makkah and Madinah.

So when my attention was brought to a tweet posted by a person called Saj Mohamed (part of Amir Khan’s entourage and evidently a very close friend) responding to people condemning him for tweeting pictures from inside the holy city of Makkah when photography is strictly prohibited, I was quite frankly filled with disgust, noteably the tone and language he used in his message:

“Go screw urselves” – nice.  I must say I was amused someone told him to get a proper job and stop riding on the tailcoats of Khan.  His response struck me as arrogant and patronising, and I reminded him he ought to be concentrating on the task he’s set out to do, not turning this into a holiday photo album/self-promotion act.  And this is the response I received:

What a charming, young man.  Considering I didn’t make one derogatory remark at him or insult his appearance, I am somewhat bewildered he went to the trouble of dissecting my clothes, hair and skin tone.  My picture is in black and white and not that it’s relevant, I am wearing a floor-length dress.

Retweeting is a wonderful thing as is screen-grab so while Mr Mohamed has swiftly deleted all insulting tweets such as the above (and the following one) as a result of self-embarrassment and quite frankly, looking like a douche with no backbone to his argument, I can show you the evidence:

Mr Mohamed lacks many things – decorum, respect, humility and good manners.  He is very good at something – completely missing the point.  I am touched many people sent angry tweets in my defence, far more people than the 3 single supporters who bombarded me with attacks on my appearance and character. My favourite ones are from this delightful example of a lady:

If the name Saj Mohamed rings a bell, it’s probably because of this.  Katie Price is a woman who has built her fame and success from taking her clothes off.  She’s also a celebrity Mr Mohamed has not been ashamed to be linked to so that’s alright.  Double standards, much?

Work It Out

Last week I cancelled my gym membership after two and half years.  Initially I thought I’d freeze it for a couple of months and sort out my busy schedule but after realising I had been slacking in attendance for the past six months (five visits on average per month instead of the usual three a week), I thought paying £66 was horrendous (that’s approximately $108 at the current exchange rate).

But another issue emerged that made me question how some gyms are corporate giants in making money rather than promoting health and fitness.  It turns out the gym I go to is charging different fees to everyone. 

My friend asked about joining the same gym as me a few weeks ago, because her sister and mother already attend and they bluntly told her the fee was £75 a month.  Her sister pays £40.  And that isn’t off-peak (some gyms offer day-time only fees).  When she questioned why the huge difference, they replied, “It’s customer loyalty”.  Her sister started off paying £40 – there was no loyalty to begin with!  I’d been loyal for a long time.  The most I was offered was one month free if I signed up for 12 months, which I’d get at the end of the year!

The gym is also part of a massive chain so my friend wanted to know if she could use her expensive membership at a branch near where she works but no.  That’s not allowed any more even though the gym she wanted to join is listed as one of the luxury gyms in this group.  I’ve been told there are branches in the city of London which charge less than this one in the suburbs of North West London!

Let’s face it, most gyms never advertise their rates, they ask you to ‘enquire within’ but a lot of people don’t realise this is a clue to negogiate.  They’ll try to fool you with saying they’ll waiver the joining fee if you sign on the dotted line but in truth, they probably don’t charge one to begin with. 

I’ve signed up for an induction at a new gym a short walking distance from my house.  Apparently the joining free is £149 (excuse me?!) but seeing as my mum already goes there, they’ll let that one slide by.  How lucky am I.  The regular fee is £44 per month although mum pays £38 as she is an old member having joined last year.  I told them I can’t commit to the gym for 12 months and would rather trial it for six months.  I was told this could be done but I’d have to pay up six months in advance.  However, I could pay per month if I agreed to 12 months. 

I’m starting to feel trapped again.  No flexibility.  Gyms are like mobile phone networks – once you’re in a contract, there is no way out without paying a high price.

Instead I’m considering hiring a personal trainer for a few weeks to show me the ropes before I go it alone.  I won’t feel obliged to pay him/her for a 12 month fixed-term contract and I’ll be sure I’ll reach my goals for the kind of fitness I want to achieve, which sadly I’ve not seen any evidence of after two and half years of sweating and slogging my guts out at the gym.

Foodism

I’m coining a new term called ‘foodism’.  I’m assuming nobody has come up with that.  If you’re foodist (not a ‘foodie’), you’re a person who has made up their mind they don’t like certain types of cuisine without having tried them first.  You’re being foodist if you express disgust at the sight and smell of edible delights others are trying to enjoy and make offending remarks at the same time.  Your foodist jibes are narrow-minded and you’re being selfish for imposing your pointless and unwanted views on unsuspecting individuals.   Do you see where I am going with this?

This morning I was feeling peckish so I went to the canteen and bought a fried egg between two slices of toast.  As I was poised to take a bite, a colleague quipped, “What you got between that – fried egg? URRRGH!”  I rolled my eyes and ignored the comment.  Apparently the smell of a fried egg sends them into convulsions.

It’s not the first time I’ve had to stomach petty remarks over eating by this person.  I once brought in spicy chicken for lunch in a tupperware box, put it in fridge and whenever the door was opened, the air was filled with a whiff of spices, causing said person to contort their face and moan. 

I accept some people will only eat simple, often tasteless food as anything out of their comfort zone is too challenging.  It’s usually these spoilt-sports who out-vote the majority when it comes to picking a restaurant for the Christmas lunch because they refuse to eat anything but traditional British grub like a roast or sausages.

I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve had difficulty with picking appropriate food from a limited menu for others’ satisfaction.  My dietry requirements boil down to a hell of a lot more than how hot the food is.  I don’t eat pork or other derivatives from the origins of the animal such meat comes from for religious beliefs.  I can only eat meat that’s been slaughtered as halal but not to cause too much fuss, I am happy to choose a vegetarian or fish option. 

I like a huge variety of cuisines and am grateful to be living in a country which is richly diverse in bringing food from every country imaginable so I’d like to think I have a broad taste and usually I will find something I like.  Also I am grateful more businesses are catering for halal and vegetarian food and moving with the times so eating out has certainly become more enjoyable and exciting but while progress is being made in that respect, some people are still stuck in the dark ages, and their ignorance gets on my wick. 

I respect people who can’t stomach strong flavours for health reasons and although it can prove challenging, there are ways to get around the problem.  Sometimes I won’t be keen on a restaurant choice by a group of friends but if the majority are in favour, I won’t and never have dug my heels in.  I see this as an opportunity to socialise and catch-up so choice of restaurant takes secondary place.  I also understand it’s fair to allow the majority to rule.  That’s the point of a democracy, right?

I don’t complain my colleague brings in ham sandwiches and puts them in the fridge with my halal chicken.  I have a right to complain about that, don’t I?  It’s offensive to me that my lunch should share the same space as a ham sandwich but to be fair, the sandwich is wrapped up and there is no contact with my food so I keep the peace but not only that, I don’t taunt or make snide quips. 

I have no qualms if people want to stick to roast dinners and fish and chips on rotation, but kindly keep your trap shut when I want to have a stir-fry or a curry.  It’s rude to chew with your mouth open.

Is writing letters dead and buried?

Recently I seem to have been writing letters of the complaining nature.  What’s new there, I hear you say.   Well, that’s not the point I’m raising here.  What could be dubbed as an ancient form of communication as emails, text messaging and smart phones  take over, I ask if the art of letter writing has been killed off.

It is an art as it takes skill, practice and knowledge to construct a letter.  I know because not only did my parents teach me how to write formal letters, I also learned at junior school and from text books (Usborne, I salute you for your amazing illustrations and bite-size guidance – I still have the book!) and today, I thank them for their help.

Writing a letter is time consuming.  From planning it to posting it but it’s an incredibly powerful form of expression and believe me, it makes others sit up and pay attention.  Just the letter below to Lucky Voice is an example.  To be honest, I’d given up on them responding so they definitely surprised me but had I not taken the time to write to them, they’d have not heard my voice and not taken action to improve their services.

But I think I am in the minority.  I don’t think people these days feel strongly about writing letters, certainly not the ‘yoof’ of today.  Many don’t vote.  I’m not sure if it’s because people can’t be bothered or don’t know how to present a letter in writing.  I genuinely believe a lot don’t know when to use ‘yours sincerely’ and ‘yours faithfully’ and email is lazy not to mention too general.  There’s no guarantee the person you wish to address it to will read it or that it will end up in the junk mail folder.  Writing a letter by snail mail shows how much thought and consideration has been invested.  Send a letter by recorded delivery and there’s no denial from the other side that it got ‘lost in the post’.

I’ve been using a computer at home for 15 years but prior to that, I wrote my letters by hand so having a computer should make the job a lot quicker and easier plus there’s spell-check!

I’ve got two more letters in addition to this – one’s to a major retailer who responded in a day and is presently investigating a personal matter and the other will be winging its way to the head office of a car manufacturer in the UK and in Germany very soon.

The car one is a complaint at three separate car dealers who tried to hoodwink me into buying a car through methods I strongly disagreed on and who also tried to dodge the law in terms of tax payment on the car.  It infuriated me how they thought they could pull the wool over my eyes and thought they were smarter than me.  Car salesmen are on a par with estate agents and a lot of my friends can’t stand dealing with either so they avoid them at all costs and after my recent experience, I don’t blame them.  Sadly I am sure they fool a lot of customers who end up signing off more than they can pay but I want to make sure they get reprimanded and don’t mistreat future clients who walk through the doors of their showrooms.  Buying a car should not be stressful but God, did these three drive me round the bend.

Sometimes I don’t feel like compiling a long letter and on those occasions I have to push myself to do it or nothing will happen.  I am slacking with the car letter sadly.  I should have written and dispatched it about 6 weeks ago but it’s a complicated one and I’m days away from collecting my new car from a dealer who deserves nothing but praise so I’m not sure if it will have the impact that I was hoping for.  Never mind, I am still going to send the letter.

Provided you are polite, it really makes a huge difference  and I would urge you to put pen to paper whenever you feel strongly about something.  If more do, who knows what massive changes will happen but if you don’t, nothing will.  OK, I don’t write a letter when the trains are cancelled and I wish I did sometimes but perhaps I should next time they decide to cancel trains going to my destination for no reason other than the driver didn’t show up for work while I get hypothermia, freezing my bits off in low temperatures on a platform out in the open with no shelters open to sit inside for an hour and a half like I did at West Hampstead just before Christmas.  It took me two hours to get home instead of 30 minutes.  The bastards.

(I dedicate this blog to my best mate, Mojo who also feels strongly about letter writing and does know when to use ‘yours sincerely’ and ‘yours faithfully’.)

How to kill a karaoke night

Last year (well, almost a month ago) I hired a karaoke room to celebrate my birthday.  I’d never done karaoke before so was particularly excited as were my friends.  We went to Lucky Voice in Soho and unfortunately they knew how to spoil a good night.  They knew how to spoil a birthday night.

Below is the letter of complaint sent to their head office on 22nd December 2009.  I’m still waiting for a reply:

Lucky Voice Customer Service
Lucky Voice Group Limited
Eastcastle House
27-28 Eastcastle Street
London
W1W 8DH

Dear Sir/Madam,

I recently hired a room at Lucky Voice Soho to celebrate my birthday with a few close friends.  The reservation was made two months ahead for Friday 18th December at 10:30pm for two hours.  Not only was this my first visit to Lucky Voice, it was my first karaoke experience too and needless to say, everyone was very much looking forward to it.

The sales team were very prompt in dealing with my online query although I felt slightly pressured to make a booking immediately and pay £85 deposit.  A couple of days later, I received a voice mail on my phone from a representative at Lucky Voice, enquiring as to whether I was going to book a room, adding that if I booked by a certain time, I would be entitled to a discount.

When I returned her call to explain I’d booked a room but wondered if the offer applied as it was within the time frame mentioned, she bluntly said no.  I don’t understand this as I was being prompted to make a reservation with the incentive of receiving a discount (I think it was 20%) but then refused.  I politely asked if my booking could be amended as it was my birthday on the actual day of the booking but this was turned down.

In spite of this, I disregarded the matter and a week before, I called Lucky Voice to amend the room booking to which they very kindly downsized the reservation from originally for 8 people to 6 people, and informed me I could pay the outstanding fee of £45 on the night.

On Friday 18th December, I arrived with my friends 15 minutes early and was asked to wait in the bar until the room was ready.  We were told someone would collect us and take us to our room.  We waited until 10:30pm (the start of our room hire) and when nobody came to find us, we approached the reception desk.  It is only then we were taken to the room.

A minute was spent showing us how to select the songs and how to order drinks. I have to admit that my first impression of the room did not match the images used on Lucky Voice’s website – the room was badly lit and it didn’t appear to have been cleaned after the previous users had vacated it.  There were no facilities like a cloakroom for us to leave our coats and if there was, we weren’t told about it so instead we had to leave our belongings on the floor.  The room was also extremely hot with no ventilation facilities and one of the microphones wasn’t working properly.

Half an hour before our session was due to end and midway during a song, a woman came into the room to remind us we had “25 minutes left” and that we still had “£60 worth of drinks to purchase” in the time left.  In the evening we’d only bought three soft drinks and none of us were drinking alcohol.

This caught us by surprise as at no point were we told we were obliged to spend a minimum of £60 on drinks in addition to the room hire.  She claimed it was in the terms and conditions and that she was “just doing her job”.  After a few minutes she returned, informing us that they were prepared to drop the drinks issue ‘as a goodwill gesture’ and that we ought to feel grateful for this.

Frankly her attitude was appalling not to mention her rudeness at bursting into the room and at one point she had paused the music to speak to us in a condescending manner.  Five minutes before our session was coming to an end, she returned to make sure we were ready to leave.

Perhaps this is the attitude your staff adopt in dealing with clients who are heavily intoxicated, in which case we were all insulted.  She made no apology for interrupting us and as a result, had spoilt the rest of our night and my birthday.  We weren’t in mood to continue after our enjoyment was killed, which was a terrible shame as we had been looking forward to this evening for so long.

We also feel we didn’t receive the full two hours we had booked.  We were taken into our booth after 10.30pm and made to leave before 12:30am.  At least 15 minutes was wasted in the process.  Considering we had arrived early, we should have been briefed of the rules and how to use the equipment instead of sacrificing our paid session to accommodate these.

When leaving the venue, I disclosed our unhappiness to the lady at reception whose response was unsatisfactory.  While she apologised, she reiterated Lucky Voice had certain terms and conditions with regards to the purchase of drinks and that this was not clearly explained to us at the time of the booking and upon arrival.  She said she would relay the information to the marketing team but as far as I can see, this isn’t about improving marketing skills for Lucky Voice, it’s simply learning to treat your customers with respect.

As a goodwill gesture, she offered to email me an offer to come back to Lucky Voice and receive discounted room hire.  I’ve yet to receive such an offer.

Upon examining the terms and conditions, nowhere does it specify we are obliged to purchase drinks of a minimum total price.  Only clause ‘f’ states “We have a minimum spend of £10 per person after 9pm on Saturday which is applicable to all room bookings and based on the capacity of the room booked.”  It was a Friday night.

I suspect a considerable amount of income for Lucky Voice comes from the alcoholic drinks bought hence the pressure put on us to pay up but for parties who do not drink at all, there is no alternative choice.  I did not notice a non-alcoholic drinks menu so not only did your staff bully us, we also felt discriminated too.  Funnily enough, we did enjoy ourselves without getting drunk.

Perhaps you might think about integrating a system whereby people are reminded how much time has elapsed on the screen instead of someone barging into the room and ordering you to leave and if you insist drinks must be purchased, you ought to make this abundantly clear at the time of booking, in which case customers should not have this held against them.

I notice you welcome feedback on your website and are strongly concerned to be informed directly of any unhappy experiences, which is why I have taken the time to write to you personally although I should add that as a journalist, I am in a position to voice my concerns in a wider capacity.*

Yours faithfully,

*Well, this blog for a start.

Airing your dirty laundry in public

I am disgusted at girls who can’t be discreet about their underwear.  Is it laziness or are they living life through an imaginary lens in a Vogue cover shoot?  In spite of more lingerie retailers on the high street offering a spectrum of colours and a variety of solutions to your supporting cast’s needs, some girls are still dumbing down the act of wearing underwear correctly.

Pet hate number one: bra straps on public display.  Simply grotesque!  For example under a sleeveless top like this young girl ordering her portion of chicken in Nando’s.  Funny how her chicken wings were bulging out of this ill-fitting top (ugh!).

Because of the cut of the garment or if it’s one of those vests, the straps can’t be hidden and it’s not always advisable to go without.  Fair enough.  The solution to this?  Wear a bra with removable straps that can either be taken off or criss-crossed over thus being concealed under your top.  It’s not rocket science.

Unfortunately my example has shown to all the customers in Nando’s that she wears a polka dot bra that is more than likely the wrong size (the bra is hooked up too high).  Of course the ghastly top adds insult to injury but had she chosen a more appropriate item of undergarment, she wouldn’t look so trailer trash.

Pet hate number two: mis-matching underwear, namely wearing a twin set which don’t match but clash, which also ties into the point above if they’re visible to the naked eye.  Lingerie makers don’t manufacture colourful bras for fashionable reasons, they’re for your own good so try to match your clothes to the closest colour you have.  Matching underwear is not for the priority of others to see or ahem, for special occasions but to be prepared for every eventuality whether it’s a strip-search at airport security or being treated by paramedics after you’ve been run-over will work in your favour.  Don’t take a chance and think it’s acceptable to wear grey knickers (which used to be white) with a knackered old bra.

So this is coming from a girl who has every colour in the rainbow in her drawers but essentially you should have the basic bra colours – black, white, nude and red.  Oh yes.  Don’t wear a white bra under a semi-sheer black top for example.  Lots of women do.  It’s cheap and you look like a gormless, colour-blind numpty.  You’re supposed to ooze class.

If you are clueless as to how to keep your unmentionables in their original vibrant shades, use this Godsend of a product called Colour Catcher, which prevents the colours running in the wash plus your underwear will last longer.  Look at me giving you useful tips here!  Pay attention!  And no, I’m not Bree Van de Kamp/Hodge.  She’s a fictional character.

Pet hate number three: thongs are wrong. Good God, whoever decided they were fashionably acceptable is hopefully out of a job.  Just what is so comfortable about a cheese grater up your arse?  And letting it casually stick out above your jeans is not sexy, it’s awful!  Women still do it!  So what if you saw it first on a hip-hop video and decided to mimic Missy Dollar Sign from the Bronx?  They’re high up on the scale of looking like tits in a trance, do you care to go the same way?  There is a very good reason why underwear is called precisely that.  It’s supposed to remain under your clothes.   Keep it hidden and keep it classy!

Beggar’s Belief

This weekend I schlepped into town to meet my friend for dinner.  The meeting point was Edgware Road, notoriously occupied by affluent Arabs so you can imagine my horror in seeing people begging for spare change.  If it was a case of walking past them, I’d have thought nothing more but to actually be accosted at your table by a child of no more than 9 started to grate me.  I politely told him to go away and at one point, one of the waiters told him to take a hike.

He kept coming back but only to me!  Why?  I’m not sure if he understood English or had selective hearing for he ignored my questions and relentlessly kept asking me for money while saying God will bless me for my charity.  I noticed he was wearing an Evisu denim jacket so I asked him where he got it from because if there were any cheap ones going, I was definitely interested – genuine of course, no imitations.

Of course he didn’t respond; it was as if he was on auto-pilot.  I left the restaurant and walked towards the tube station with my friend.  Then the little brat reappeared.  I barked, “Where’s your mum?!” I was actually expecting him to follow me onto the tube and in a way I admire his persistence but at the same time, he was a royal pain in the derriere.  Hath he no sharam?

I really hope there aren’t silly people who give money to these ‘professional beggars’.   None of them are living in poverty (certainly not this little fella in his designer jacket) so ignore them or give them verbal abuse.

Enough with the PDAs

Not this kind of PDA!

PDA.  Not Personal Digital Assistant or a palm held computer.  No, PDA means “public displays of affection”.  And there’s an overload of it!

It’s hard enough not knowing where to look when a couple in front of me in the tiniest kebab shop are getting frisky (there is nowhere to hide in there!) so when I retreat to the comfort of my own home and to my computer, I don’t expect to be followed by excessive PDAing on the world wide web too.

The places I am referring to are social-networking sites like Facebook and MySpace.  You can’t escape from this urgency  of couples who feel it’s totally necessary to take their intimacy beyond the normal constraints of their relationships to an incomprehensive level and onto the public forum.

The mushy sweet twittering is unbearable (“I looooooooooooove yoooooooooooooou!” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx”).  So are the naughty innuendoes, usually referring to nocturnal activities but indulging in cyber foreplay is just plain disrespectful.

For months (and out of no choice because it was unavoidable), I followed one couple’s saucy banter on their respective pages although the girl was more outspoken than the boy.  In one case she didn’t hold back in describing a sex act he had supposedly performed on her.  Do what you like, say what you like – that’s what telephones, texting and emailing is for.  Do this online and you only get the likes of me rolling my eyes and shaking my head in disbelief that you could be such a tit.  I’m not a cold, callous bitch (that title rightfully belongs to my mate, Miss Scorpionette), I just find the whole thing irritating and cheap.   Why do some people have to do this?  Are they insecure?  Do they have to advertise to singletons like myself that they’re better than me and that I’m missing out?  No way, I have pretty shoes to play with!

But back to the couples who can’t control their wandering hands and their sloppy tongues in public.  The kebab couple could have waited till they got home because they weren’t teenagers with nowhere to go, they were grown-ups in their 30s.  However there was the possibility they’d have rubbed each other’s naughty bits with their red hot chilli sauce covered fingers.  Then again I don’t care.  It would have taken place behind closed doors.

I am now reminded of a horrific experience about 10 years ago when my friend and I were squished on a bus to Hackney, less than a foot away from a couple whose libidos should come with a health warning.  I can’t confirm what was going on exactly but from the corner of my eye I could see him shoving his hands down her front or back…I don’t know!  It was gross and they were ugly too.  They also kept looking at everyone on the bus for a reaction – like they got off on it or something.  As my best friend put it, “We’re not getting turned on.  If you’re desperate for a shag, GO HOME!”

Get laid in your own time!

Why are we waiting?

I’ve just come back from the new juice bar in my local area and I’m fuming.  I had to wait 15 minutes to be served.  This isn’t the first time it’s taken this long, it happens every time I go.  I discovered this little place two weeks ago and unfortunately have developed a liking for their juices.  I’ve not tried the milkshakes yet.  As I type this, I am sipping The Jamaican – lychees, pineapple, guava and coconut. £4.25 as well!

So why am I royally pissed off?  It’s not so much the staff dealing with making the concoctions but more the customers who are teenage girls with poker straight hair, UGG boots and layers of make-up and heavy eye-shadows.  It’s just a sodding juice bar so why get dressed up for it?  They never order juices but the full-fat milkshakes available in various chocolate bar flavours.  Quite how they can afford to part with £3.65 a pop is a mystery.  My pocket money never stretched that far.

So tonight there were three miniscule poptarts, making idle chit-chat with the (let’s face it) skinny boy at this shake bar.  This is my sixth trip in two weeks and I can confirm this is accurate because that’s the number of stamps I’ve accumulated on my loyalty card.  Next time I get a freebie!

Exotic looking flip-flops worn to impress. Bit much!

I plugged in my iPod because I could not stomach listening to their pathetic attempts at chatting the boy up.  I rolled my eyes a bit and then sat on the stool to emphasise my annoyance.  I’m aware I live in a middle/upper class area (yeah, get me!) but I didn’t realise it was sexually deprived too.

When it’s not hormonely charged up fillies getting their shakes, it’s whinging kids with their mummies or daddies, nagging for a Peanut Butter Nutter or a hoodied chav on a date with a shockingly stunning girl.  It depends on my rotten luck really.

So after the trio of rampant little girls with a unanimous crush had vacated the area, there were two more to deal with.  Slightly older, fully developed and in particular a personal dislike to them for they parked up in the car wash place next door (erm, trespassing surely!) and consequently took their places before me in the queue.  I only caught the face of the rough one, who perhaps should have worn make-up though I can’t confirm if the other was marginally better or slightly worse.

This time I unplugged my earphones to eavesdrop.  I caught “Bluewater” and “Brent Cross” in the conversation somewhere and I think the young chap was either confirming he had worked in these places in various eateries or the girls were his stalkers.  They seemed to know a lot about him and I think they even asked his name which he refused to give.  To be honest, he looked quite relieved to serve me, which let me tell you, took a minute.

This bar would get a lot more business if there was less gobbing and more juicing but I guess it can be intimidating to be surrounded by a pack of wolves – sorry, females – in a very small corner shop.  Come to think of it, it will probably be quicker to milk the cow than to get a shake at this place.  Shall I stop with the cliches?  No!  Let’s come up with some more!  Err…

Look, I busted my gut in a spinning class tonight.  Looking forward to a delicious fruit smoothie seemed like a good enough reward for my hard work.  I should not have to put up with nuisance customers who can’t schedule their libidos to explode in a time that doesn’t eat into mine.  Imbeciles!  It won’t be long before I bark “Get laid in your own time!” at them.