The Saturday 9am

One of the things I am really struggling with while working is finding the time (and money) for self maintenance. The weeks creep up on you so quickly that one day you’re a hairless beauty swanning round in a skirt and open-toed kitten heels, and the next you’re wearing a hideous pair of last winter’s boots to hide your unpainted toenails, and donning a pair of 200 denier tights to trap the hairs desperately trying to escape through the holes.

This week, my current hairstyle (if you could call it that) had become so offensive that I was forced to settle for that one slot in every hairdresser’s diary which is reserved for serious cases only: the Saturday 9am. I had to take it, I had no choice. It was for the good of all the unfortunate souls in my day-to-day community who had endured my appalling hair long enough. However, it was most definitely not for the good of my unsuspecting hairdresser, whose face dropped at the sight of me dragging a hungover shadow of my former self into the salon, sinking into a chair, and propping Marie Claire between my eye line and the unforgiving mirror in front of me.

But when she approached I made the fatal mistake of removing my shield. And the sight was far worse than I could have imagined. Clusters of pink blemishes appearing on my chin (made worse by poorly applied foundation), bags as deep and grey as a slate quarry, and eyes the size of button holes due to my inability to face liquid eyeliner at 8am with a hangover. My only comfort was that the cold morning had brought with it a layer of fog which meant that I would remain unseen by anyone standing over five meters away. If only the fog could have decided to hang a bit lower, perhaps just below chin level.

Luckily, my hairdresser was sympathetic, and one of the few who do not feel it imperative to jabber on at their victims for 40minutes solid. We chatted for a while about X Factor and volumising mousse, among other intellectual topics, and about 20 minutes later I felt I was coming to terms with my hideousness suitably well. Until she started blow-drying and another flaw was staring me in the face. Not only were my roots over 2cm long, they were in fact tri-colour. Between the solid line of my natural 'mousy' colour and the Scandanavian Blonde which I apply monthly, was a section of tell-tale faded blonde, which gave away just how long I had left my roots the last time. The only way I can describe to you my traitorous three-colour hair is to liken it to a carpet swatch. You know, the ones which get darker in gradients and, despite the fact that they fall in the same colour range, each section is quite obviously different to its neighbour.

But the ordeal was nearly over, so I gritted my teeth, plastered on a contented smile and focused my attention back to Britney’s re-invention. I tried desperately to remain sympathetic to her downfall, but I couldn’t help thinking: craziness aside, perhaps shaving her head wasn’t the worst idea. At least she’d never have roots.

Lost in Austen

Staying on the period drama theme, I would like to comment on the traitorous ending to the ITV Drama series ‘Lost in Austen’.

As is the case with many a series, the finale was its downfall. The director seemed to have mistakenly assumed that long standing Pride and Prejudice fans would be open-minded enough to enjoy a manipulation of the Elizabeth/Darcy ending that they hold so dear. Everyone knows that Mr Darcy has to end up with Lizzie. However, this series concluded with Lizzie running off to Hammersmith and Darcy locked in an embrace with time-travelling Amanda Price from 21st century London. To quote the man himself, it will not do.

And it was such a shame, because up until then the series had been fab. Imaginative concept, good casting, and although the Mr Darcy did not hold a torch to Colin Firth (a feat that no man should ever attempt), he was suitably rugged and smouldering to pull off a wet t-shirt. Which, as we know, is the most pivotal part of the story.

Oh well, I guess we can’t have everything. But a note to future directors: don't mess with Austen.

Further to my Previous Post...

In response to my previous post, it seems I have a contradiction on my hands. It is interesting that mentioning anything remotely feminist seems to be the one motivation for the males of this world to revolt and finally become interested in something we have to say (and ironic, that we should use feminism to achieve the one thing we have been willing men to do since the Suffragettes came to town). Goodness, I'm becoming cynical in my old age.

Anyway, as I was saying, I seem to have come across a counter-arguement. So, in respect for balanced reporting, and for the male species, I feel it is only fair to examine it. My first challenge came from numerous outraged male friends, who are adamant that they always holds doors open and mind their manners in the presence of the fairer sex. And the second came from the reliable London Metro, with a slightly different sentiment. The small opinion piece from which this emerged was entitled: 'Manners or Sexism?', and consisted of male readers' opinions on appropriate train etiquette. One particular entry read the following:

"I have stopped being a gentleman to strangers as you no longer get any thanks. I used to always let women take the last seat on the train and regularly didn't get so much as a smile. When there's pushing to get on a train, nine times out of ten it's a woman who's responsible. So, the reason there are fewer gentleman is because there are no longer any ladies." (J Bebb, Surrey)

I must admit, he has a point. But I would ask you, Mr Bebb, to make allowances for situation. We are enduring public transport for heaven’s sake! Evaluating our behaviour while we are starting to feel and smell like a pack of sardines is hardly fair. Now, if you put a drink in our hand and tell us that you prefer women without make up, you will find us much more genial.

It is also important to consider that the reason you did not receive a smile is that we may simply not have noticed your gesture. I spend 98% of my commute actively trying to block out the fact that I am riding a train at all (which is pretty hard to do whilst getting on and off, which accounts for the 2%). And as for the pushing….we have to push harder: we’re smaller! A woman needs guts to force her way off a packed train and avoid spending her morning enjoying the graffiti-embellished sights to a from London Waterloo, until rush hour eases.

This said, I do think that J Bebb makes a relevant observation, albeit a somewhat exaggerated one. The world could do with far more pleasantries, regardless of gender. So I put to you this compromise. Ladies, don’t let the London rage get the better of you, and gentlemen…please, please, please prove me wrong. I can't believe that chivalry is dead quite yet.

Oh to be Elizabeth...

With every new exposure to period drama, I am increasingly convinced that I would have belonged very well in Jane Austen's England. Aside from the lack of women's rights, and the unjust system of social hierarchy, the 17th Century would have been a wonderful time to have lived. Only if you moved in the higher circles, obviously. And didn't have to marry a horrendous man for his £10,000 a year.

Oh, to live the life of ladies. Ladies who were encouraged to read, to write, to sing. To spend their time enjoying beautiful scenery and wholesome company. These pleasures were their life, rather than things to be sacrificed because of their lives.

And wouldn’t it be fantastic to live in a society where dance skills were not only obligatory; but a virtual necessity? There would have been no drug-driven maniacs brandishing glow sticks at Miss Elizabeth Bennett. Everyone was expected to be accomplished, to appreciate the arts. As opposed to today's offerings, which consist of drunk uncles butchering 'My Way' on the karaoke, and light switches being passed off as 'Art' at the Tate Modern. Back then, music came from instruments, not mixing decks. People sung in tune, with melodies and harmonies and symphonies. And with nobody suggesting that I ‘Smack my bitch up’ or ‘Superman that hoe’.

And believe it or not, people actually spoke to each other. They valued one another's company and kept engagements. Rather than screening phone calls from family members, or cancelling dates with a last minute text. And because they spent their time reading and writing, rather than watching Jeremy Kyle, the majority of them were well read. Or if not, at least literate.

And the men. The men were gentleman. Even the scoundrels were confined by manners when out in society. You certainly wouldn't get some drunk chav spilling his Stella over you and grabbing your backside, whilst grunting obscenities into your ear. No, in Jane Austen's England they were all poise, charm and manners. Even the ugly ones, which advantageously rendered them much more attractive. There was courtship, stolen glances. Men had to ask a father's permission for his daughter's hand, before they asked the lady herself (which really is just common sense, because let's face it, there can be no more rigorous screening filter than a daughter's father).

Yes, I think the 1800's would have been a most delightful time to be a lady.

It's here...

Well, it's officially Autumn. How do I know? Because a conker impacted my head this morning, while walking to the bus stop.

I had walked past it, but something made me turn back and pick it up. And after clasping it in my cold palm for a second, I realised what it was. Childhood. At a time when my life is moving so fast...it was incredibly comforting to close my eyes, feel the wind lift my scarf, and become that nine-year-old tomboy again, collecting conkers in my dungarees.

But when I opened my eyes, a surge of sadness hit me harder than the conker had. So much time has passed. And I am never going to feel like that again...To be so carefree that my only concern was who was going to sit in the go-cart, and who would have to pull. I call it a 'go-cart'; My brother and I would slot a plank of wood through the collapsed, metal frame of an unused pram and drag each other around on it, using a skipping rope as reins. To us though, it was a go-cart.

Mid-thought, life interrupted me; just as is always does. And as usual, the bus was packed.