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.

Is he really going out with HER?

As Joe Jackson famously crooned, “Is she really going out with him?”.  In reverse I ask myself the same question.  Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, a deep personality wins hands down over a shallow appearance and let’s just face it, Beauty and the Beast are all around you so I’m not going to enter into the tiresome debate of why pretty boys are paired up with ugly birds.  It happens, accept it and get over it.

What I have been pondering over and to some extent, in utter dismay, are men partnered with women who look more like their mothers than lovers.

I hadn’t seen an old face for many years and it was a major surprise to learn he had got engaged.  It’s not like he was old either, still in his 20s.  He’d told me a little bit about her but when she walked through the door, nothing he had told me could have prepared for what I saw.  She was very tall and big-boned, and no I don’t mean she was fat – far from it but she wasn’t skinny either.  She was in proportion to her height and next to him, they looked right because he is a big lad.  What amazed me was how motherly she looked!  She wasn’t in her 20s like him but closer to her 40s.  Unfortunately a case of PDAing overtook him and he started giggling like a love-sick teenager, whispering something I care not to know and touching her repeatedly.  In front of me.

While I chatted to her, thoughts of her looking more like a prime piece of rump than a chicken wing refused to vacate my mind and I kept wondering what he saw in HER.  She didn’t have the Demi Moore factor so the only thing I concluded was wealth because she was minted!  Homes in London and Sydney and working high up in the banking world, it wouldn’t surprise me if she rolled herself in bank notes.  Yuck, what an awful sight that would be.  He isn’t short of a bob or two but she is most probably higher up in the career ladder while he’s barely off the ground.  Thanks to her, he’s travelled to some exotic locations and had some expensive holidays.  A well kept man.

The thing is, the banking industry is full of deeply attractive people and many of them are young, beautiful things.  It’s not like he was short of fish in this huge ocean so why did he want her?  She could crack walnuts with her huge thighs too.  What?  She didn’t exactly have a nubile, young figure.

It also struck me that considering his young age, she was his first serious relationship so he had barely any long-term experience with younger models.  Did she corrupt him?  Did she dig her claws into him and before he knew it, he was under her spell?  Na, I can only think of the Oedipus theory – how some men look for a motherly figure in their partners.  They grow up being mothered, smothered, fed, watered and nurtured by their mummies and when the right girl comes along, she’s got big boots to fill.  And big boobs too.  Bitty?

I love to cook and I adore baking.  I can prepare a three-course dinner complete with intricately folded napkins and co-ordinated with matching crockery, cutlery and glassware.  I can change a duvet cover in 30 seconds and I separate laundry into four categories: colours, whites, hand-wash and dry clean.  And as much as I loathe it, I know how to operate an iron and I own a Dyson.  I’m everything a mother could do for her golden boy and I’m a size 8 too.

I’ve always earned my own money and the only man in my life who’s paid for everything was my daddy.  Of course I am referring to when I was growing up because I don’t expect my father to foot the bill for my expenses (he’d have a corony if he saw my credit card bills.)  Sadly I don’t have a queue of men asking for my hand in marriage.  I don’t want to wait 15 years till a young whippersnapper decides he sees his mother in my eyes but I can’t bear to see young, fertile males being swallowed up by big mamas.  Oi, you overripen plums, pick on someone your own age!

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!”

How hard is it to find a parking space? Very!

Parking is one of the perils of being a driver and a symptom of road rage too.  Recently it took me 20 minutes to secure a space in Bicester Village’s outlet car park in Oxfordshire.  Lately, however my annoyance has turned to morons who can’t simply station their motors into the allocated space clearly marked by a thick line painted in a rectangular box.

In the underground car park of my gym, there were two culprits who took the liberty of using two spaces to park one car each.   (Please see the helpful images I snapped to illustrate my point.)

Quite why I didn’t think to complain to reception so they could bellow out the registration plates over the tannoy is something I kick myself over.  For crying out loud,who do these stupid idiots think they are?  I don’t have power-steering in my car, THEY do!  It should be chuffing easier surely!  What utter tits.

Now I am going to stick my neck out here and accuse these drivers of being female.   I’ve had the most number of confrontations with female drivers who can’t park or drive properly and recently one stupid cow rammed into the back of my mum’s car because she didn’t see mum already waiting at a junction to turn.

On all these occasions, I struggled to find a space to park.  To think there could have been three extra spaces available if these toss pots could be bothered to align their vehicle correctly.

This is my dream car! How dare someone not know how to park this beauty!

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.

Wax on, wax off

I’m scared of my beauty therapist.  She has such sharp eyes that I can never get away with anythingI visited her for my regular waxing treatment but during the period of four weeks that I have to wait before the next strip, temptation was too much and I gave into the razor blade.  I figured she wouldn’t notice but immediately she commented and I felt like I’d been told off. I was warned not to do it again because it disrupts the regrowth and can cause ingrowing hairs or something, which in turn means that come waxing time, there might be a few stubborn and stray hairs that she can’t remove.

Fortunately I managed to grass up one of her colleagues who did an awful job of messing up my eyebrows when my therapist was ill the last time.  The bond I’ve formed with her means there are some things I am just too embarrassed for her to do.  Like bikini waxing.  I can’t let her see me in such a state.  I’ve only overcome the trauma of her seeing me in my bra and scrutinizing every pore on my face.  It’s alright for her.  She’s always fuzz-free, perfectly smooth and she gets all her treatments done for free.

Any kind of beauty treatment you have adds up and as much as I would love someone else to expertly wax my legs (they use some kind of magic wax formula which enables the hair to grow back very finely), it hurts my bank balance every time.  My recent trip cost £16 and all I had done was my underarms and eyebrow threading.  Ouch!  A facial (which is divine) is £50!  I’m in the wrong career…

In all the years I’ve been visiting her, she hasn’t once asked me what I do for a living.  Even when one of the magazines I write for are kept in the salon.  The same goes for my hair stylist and colourist.  They never ask me about my job, only if I had a good week and true to my job, I extract information out of them about their lives.  So far they’ve talked to me about Ugg boots and Las Vegas.

On a recent trip to a MAC make-up store, the sales girl managed to disclose she was a trolley dolly for Richard Branson’s high-flying air carrier and originally from Sydney.  Meanwhile I was trying to figure out how she’d changed her work permit from cabin crew to war paint artiste.  Of course she too didn’t ask me anything.  I guess that’s why I have started this blog page.

The Hair Bear Bunch

I won’t beat around the bush – arf! – why is there a surge of hairy-backed beasts?  What happened to the shame felt in displaying a carpet velcroed to the back?  Why do I see a price-list solely for male grooming at my regular beauty salon but clearly no potential clients going in for treatments.

I am repulsed by the number of men with hairy backs frequenting the swimming pool and jacuzzi.  Sometimes up to nine sit in the tub, having a mothers’ meeting for what seems like half an hour.  Thank God they don’t moult. *shudder*

Last week it was the Turkish convention complete with thick moustaches.  Sexy.  Now you can imagine little me feeling extremely intimidated to join the clan, not to mention freaked out so instead I run to the women only steam room, half annoyed that these blokes are sitting in the jacuzzi for half an hour, chatting away (and they say women talk too much).  In such circumstances, it’s better to bear witness to naked female flesh (and obviously far less fuzz).

I also had to share a lane in the pool with a hump-backed hairy whale who, every time he passed me on the opposite site, grunted like Moby Dick during the mating call.  It’s ghastly!  I know karma can bite you on the bum and I fear ending up with a Yeti as my other half but I am not afraid to administer a wax strip or two, as one or two of you know so well.

How NOT to look good naked

Just go to the changing rooms at my gym.  Here you will find women parading around starkers, whether they’re liberally applying body lotion on their bits or leaving a pile of clothes on the spot they’re standing on before dashing to the shower.

I’ve been going to the gym for the past five weeks.  I swim twice a week, almost pass out from spinning every Monday night and begrudgingly do a few exercises on the gym floor.  I pay twice as much as I used to at the leisure centre I used to go to for I am guaranteed exceptional quality of facilities and service of the grovelling kind.  I don’t pay to see wobbly bits and overgrown lady gardens in my eyeline.

No place is deemed ‘naked flesh free’  as I’ve discovered (apart from the mixed Jacuzzi and sauna) .  I’ve been trapped in the steam room with a woman who removed her towel from around her waist (but kept the one wrapped around her head) and I’ve had to shuffle away from another who was getting changed too close next to my locker by bending over.

But one place I thought stood no chance of indecent exposure was when I went to blow-dry my hair after I’d got dressed and packed my bags.  There was a woman in her 40s, perched on a stool in her bathrobe, applying her make-up. Very badly.  I began to blast hot air down the hair shaft of my locks (very important, ladies) and seconds later, she slipped out of her bathrobe and sat in front of the mirror topless (but not bottomless – I suppose that was one saving grace).  Bear in mind there are wall-to-wall mirrors in this part of the changing rooms so her rack was reflecting off all of them.  I mean, how rude!  And how disgusting!  Did she think she was the star in a saucy peep show?  Then she started to rub lotion reeking of a strong pungent smell into her baps and frequently turned to look in my direction as if I was spying on her!  Go on, call me a prude but some things should remain sacred.  In this case, the public ought to be protected against such disturbing sights.

Unfortunately the women who choose to flaunt their flesh are precisely the kind of women who shouldn’t.  It would also seem a lot haven’t heard of a bikini wax.  One of these days, I am going to drop my towel in protest.