22 going on…30 apparently

So it turns out that my Mother giving me anti-wrinkle cream for Christmas wasn’t a completely unfounded gift idea.

Last Thursday was my 23^rd birthday. I was once informed by some male colleagues that 22 is the last age a woman is considered young and sprightly. Harsh, I know. But there appears to be some merit in the assertion. Because judging by three fairly traumatising and quite frankly inescapable comments made to me recently, I appear to have aged 8 years in the past 365 days.

The first comment I could have quite easily passed off as childhood naivety. Brownies (children, not chocolate) are quite frequently supervised by parent volunteers - therefore, when I began helping out on Tuesdays it was only natural for them to enquire as to whose Mummy I was. However, after smiling pleasantly and informing the blonde, freckled darling that I wasn’t anybody’s Mummy, she pulled an expression of quite clear confusion then asked “Are you Alice’s Mummy?” Hmmm. Apparently not convinced.

Then, just three days after this first dent to my self-esteem, I was further beaten down when my colleague, astounded on discovering that I was 22, said she’d thought I was 28. Brilliant.

And the final blow came last week, during a seemingly-harmless discussion with the kids in my class about families. It went something like this:

“Miss Hamill, are you married?”

I smile. “No, I’m not married.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I have a boyfriend.”

Mild confusion spreads across the faces of the group huddled at my feet. “So why aren’t you married?”

My smile falters. “Well.....”

“Mrs Oxford has a baby. Do you have any children?”

“No, I don’t have any children”. At this point the group are looking decidedly sceptical.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t, alright! Who are you, my Mother!?” I obviously did not say this but you get the idea.

In hindsight, what I really should have done in answer to these comments was invite the offenders round to my flat – a brief tour of which should demonstrate quite adequately that I really shouldn’t be allowed to fend for myself, let alone a husband or children. Highlights include my wardrobe, which still doesn’t have any doors; My kitchen cupboard, which currently consists of one clove of garlic, some easy-cook rice and a fairly-questionable tube of tomato puree; And, more poignantly, this...

This was a cactus. Enough said.

So to sum up, things are not looking good on the ageing front. And the only counter-argument I had left to cling to – that none of these people REALLY knew me - failed spectacularly on my birthday as I gazed over my lovely collection of presents which included a biscuit tin, five hardback classics and a knitting kit from my Mother, complete with needles, yarn and a sewing bag. The girls did buy me some sexy underwear but I think it was more of a hint than anything.

A Remote Dream

Anyone who read my post dated 27^th October will probably be unsurprised to learn that although our front room entertainment system is vast, it is lacking a few basics – most notably a functioning right-hand speaker, a second scart lead and a remote control for the DVD player.

Now, I am aware that the next statement may seem a little obtuse in comparison to, say, living in the slums of Mumbai or detonating bombs in Afghanistan, but life without a remote control can be hard. Gone are the carefree days of fast forward, rewind and – dare I say it – menu. Say goodbye to soaring effortlessly through episodes of Sex and the City at just the touch of a button and to feeling safe in the knowledge that should you need the loo mid-scene, pause is always there to lend a helping hand.

Yes my friends, we are living a poverty-stricken life of play, stop and power. Don’t get me wrong, we also have search, but in a cruel twist of fate it only works to skip through scenes, leaving us brutally divided from an entire world of exhilarating bonus features and sing-along options.

But there’s one more, truly devastating, outcome of this sad affair. One element of our media consumption which I truly believe we take for granted are the hurdles a person needs to overcome before reaching the wonder of the feature film. There are of course the audience-appropriate trailers, the copyright WARNING which (even with the privilege of a remote) is frustratingly impossible to skip, and of course a vital reminder of that moral panic which looms over us all – video piracy.

But before reaching any of these trials there’s one screen, one obstacle, more immovable than them all, which – without the aid of a remote – one has little chance of defeating. Yes, it’s the language selection screen. And if, in a moment of political correctness, the production team have decided to default alphabetically, your film is rendered forever unwatchable unless you’re fluent in Albanian or occasionally Arabic. On that note, a word to the blonde, don’t make the same faux pas I did...there’s no need turn off yet another film because it’s defaulted to Australian.

And so it has become that, as none of us have Albanian, Arabic or indeed Australian heritage, there’s now a forlorn collection of DVDs collecting dust on our bookshelf, indefinitely confined to a life of worthlessness. One loss in particular brings such acute pain to my heart that it hurts to say the words. All I can bring myself to write is a truly heartfelt admission of love and deepest regret that, for now, my dear Mr Darcy, your shirt must remain undampened. But I will forever live in hope that one glorious, sunny day we will be reunited in the grounds of Pemberley and the world will be right once again.

Tango, Uniform, Victor, What now!?

For the average human being, there’s no telephone conversation more bewildering than when the caller, when asked for their surname, starts hurling random and disconnected words at you as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. You may have come across it - the conversation sounds something like this...

“And could I just take your surname, Sir?”

“Certainly, it’s Sierra, Mike, Yankee, Tango, Hotel, Echo.”

Silence.

I don’t think it’s politically incorrect to tell you that the first time this happened to me, it took a good few seconds before I realised I was not in fact dealing with a turrets sufferer. The official term for this indecipherable torrent of words is the NATO phonetic alphabet, designed originally for increased accuracy over radio transmission, but now used mainly to terrorise telesales staff.

It’s like a secret code, bestowed only upon those over 65 or employed in the military, which not only allows the user the privilege of communication over long distances and under poor signal, but also the wonderful smugness that entails coming across someone who is uneducated in “the code”.

And of course, what makes it worse is that whenever we are forced to use this ridiculous alternative to spelling out, every single word we can think of is either inconceivably immature or totally inappropriate. And it happens every time! As incomprehensible a phenomenon as crop circles or Bruce Forsyth...

You’re asked to spell out ‘Thompson’ and all of a sudden there are simply NO WORDS beginning with the letter ‘T’. Your mind’s racing, heart thrashing, grasping desperately for something, anything! Then out of nowhere a chaotic array of juvenile words flash before your eyes...‘tits’, ‘tofu’, ‘toilet’...NO!!...‘toast’....OH SHIT!...‘toggle!’, ‘testicle!’......'TAKE THAT!!’

After five seconds of agonising silence, you’re forced to settle for ‘torch’, and breathe a sigh of relief. Until you turn back to the task at hand and are hit with ‘H’. Bollocks!...‘hymen!’, ‘hermaphrodite!’, ‘whore!’...THAT’S NOT EVEN AN ‘H’!!

Incidentally, the NATO phonetic alphabet is actually formerly known as the international radiotelephony spelling alphabet. That’s India, November, Tango, Echo...

Go figure.

My Shining Moment

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, good and beautiful people of the jury...it’s happened.

(For a little background, please refer to my post dated 11^th January).

It was a typical scene in the Hamill household. The soothing tenor of Jeremy Clarkson humming in the background; my father, king of the Times crossword, working steadily through the current conundrum; Mum ignoring the phone for the third time while singing “I’m not home” and searching the TV guide for something horticultural after the 9pm watershed, and Ali sprawled casually across the single chair which completes our not-quite-retro furniture set, watching James May strap a Mini to a hot air balloon and twirling his ceaselessly vibrating mobile in one hand. While observing this scene and wondering exactly how long it’s been since I received a text from someone other than my mother, Dad set down the paper and sighed those oh-too-familiar words “Well I’m stumped.”

Knowing better than to let myself believe I had a hope in hell of answering the two remaining clues, I reached across for my cup of tea and the Business section (and by ‘Business’, I quite clearly mean ‘Entertainment’), letting Mum continue the inevitable questions. My assumption appeared to be correct when clue number one was the missing word from the title of a lesser-known piece of political theatre to emerge from the 70s. But as Dad recited the second clue, the room melted away, the heavens opened, and a glorious beam of light engulfed me, accompanied by the nurturing voice of Morgan Freeman saying “Gemma Hamill, this is your moment.”

Bringing me back to reality, Dad repeated the clue: “19^th Century author, most famous for her semi-autobiographical novel depicting the trials of the March family.”

I took a calm and extended sip from my cup, slowly turned the un-read page of my paper, and without even an upwards glance, announced “It’s Louisa May Alcott.”

Thank you ladies and gentlemen, and good night!

Evidence that I’m going a little mad

As some of you may know, after three years of intense study, sleepless nights and almost-sectioning to gain a first class degree in Media, I have now decided to go into teaching. And because fate apparently isn’t quite through with using me as his sex-toy, he’s decided to deal me this realisation just after the submission deadline for this year’s teacher training. Which is how I’ve now found myself in a gap-year-esque state of voluntary work experience and countless, soul-destroying hours of googling “temp work”.

Now, previous to my current state of unemployment, I was under the impression that the most high-risk time of year for weight-gain was Christmas. I was wrong. You’d be surprised just how much a person can find to eat in a house that hasn’t seen a proper food shop for three months. Especially when that person has spent the last five days imprisoned within the same four walls with only Facebook and an electronic - albeit very friendly - “Recruitment Advisor” called Alan for company.

So, in an attempt to delay the inevitable onset of madness (and consumption of an already-open pack of hot crossed buns lying on the side) I’ve reworked a well-loved Christmas Carol - and pretty much destroyed it - for your sing-along pleasure. But don’t worry, I won’t give up the day job. Oh, hang on.

So please find below the words and, if you’re feeling particularly rediculous, a link which will take you to the background instrumental, courtesy of YouTube. Go on, you know you want to try it...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmEpVUSQ2JY

The 12 days of Job-Hunt

On the first day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

A litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the second day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the third day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the fourth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the fifth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the sixth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the seventh day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the eighth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the ninth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the tenth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Ten chocolate pancakes,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the eleventh day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Eleven fists of Frosties,

Ten chocolate pancakes,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the twelfth day of job-hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Twelve week-old scotch eggs,

Eleven fists of Frosties,

Ten chocolate pancakes,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

Like yourself that little bit less...for just £1.80!

A few weeks ago, on returning from Boots, I set out in pursuit of something pink and glossy lying around the office to peruse while eating my customary Meal Deal. Little did I know that by locating the desired object, I was condemning myself to eating only the salad portion of my BLT sandwich and binning my much-loved Gordon’s Frusli bar.

Long, blonde hair curled seductively around her jaw line, a pout worthy of Marilyn, and the type of skin-tight black dress we’d sell our boyfriend to be able to wear. Christina Aguilera doesn’t seem to have aged a day since she emerged on the music scene at the wholesome age of 18, but having been steered lovingly through our angst-filled teenage years by classics like What a Girl Wants and Come on Over, we can’t hate her too much for it.

Until she appears on the cover of Cosmopolitan next to the quote “I feel sexiest naked”.

Brilliant! Thanks Christina. Just because us plebeians can’t afford personal trainers, dieticians and authentically-Indian yoga instructors, doesn’t mean we deserve to know just how fabulous YOU feel about your peachy bum and cellulite-free Barbie thighs. And what is Cosmo playing at? Surely this is not an effective way to sell magazines?!

I can just picture next month’s teaser:

Regular women of Britain! Yes, you, in the toiletries aisle downgrading to Tesco own-brand shampoo. Here are just some of the fabulous things you can look forward to in this month’s Cosmo...

- Never-seen-before photos of your ex’s new girlfriend, complete with a exciting game of spot all the ways she’s more attractive than you.

- The top 10 places in London to be handed a Lose weight, feel great leaflet.

- Exclusive interview: Your mother reveals all – the boyfriends who’ve left you, the birthdays when nobody turned up, and the truth about those pants...

- A letter from your GP wishing you a happy 25^th birthday and inviting you to have a smear test.

- A handy list of all the Indian takeaway services in your local area who know you by voice recognition.

- £5 off your next purchase of anti-wrinkle cream.

- And for a limited time only, a FREE copy of Dee Pressing’s Alone and living with cats.

I think I’m onto something.

Oh HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS, of course!

Why is it that, no matter how intelligent the person, as soon as someone gives up on a crossword, we are overwhelmed by an innate and impatient need to complete it?

The predecessor could be Leonardo Da Vinci. Issac Newton. Carol Vorderman. And it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. The bartender opposite would still wait in greedy anticipation for the moment to pounce and, on cue, clear his throat, nod casually at the discarded page and grunt “’Gis a look then”. I would defy even Miss Hilton, on seeing her lunch companion reluctantly admit defeat, not to lift her chin and pronounce “I sat through, like, two terms of college actually Mr Hawking. It was hot.”

And we do it because, for that one shining moment, we are certain there must be something we know that none of our peers are privy to - Some unique life experience, a la Slumdog Millionaire, which will race to the aid of the sad, incomplete puzzle. As soon as we sense a defeat looming, all the topics we specialised in at school, college and university flash through our heads, as we suddenly feel like our whole lives have been building up to this one moment.

Which is why we are horribly and inevitably dejected on discovering that we actually know bugger all. Those years in education, the places we’ve seen, all of it has been wasted because we can’t unearth another word for ‘foliage’. And only after exhausting every emotion – hope, determination, anger, then total certainty that there IS no other word, do we throw in the towel and blame it on The Times for being so unreasonably difficult.

Destroy It Yourself

I have no qualms with admitting that while I’ve been blessed with reasonable intelligence from my generous parents, this advantage is nicely counter-balanced by the fact that I’ve been denied a fair amount of common sense.

This particular handicap is something of a burden in day-to-day activities such as crossing roads or making a good first impression, but it doesn’t usually result any serious harm. However, when faced with a world of DIY, I can’t deny my loved ones the right to feel a little anxious.

One such situation arose two weeks ago when Suz and I were faced with resetting the boiler in our new flat. The sensible option would of course have been to wait until we could find a knight in shining armour who was up to the task, but a combination of feminism and the horrifying prospect of going out in public with greasy hair lead us courageously into battle with the house’s electrical circuits.

After a good 20 minutes of stabbing various buttons, as directed by a set of instructions which might as well have been written in hieroglyphics, there was still no sign of life from inside the boiler’s impenetrable exterior. So, after deciding that it probably wasn’t “just really quiet”, we opted for the traditional remedy of leaving it alone for half an hour to see if that did the trick.

When that sure-fire plan didn’t work, we decided this really was a job for the professionals and phoned the helpline who were of course helpfully unavailable due to the fact that it was 5pm on a Sunday.

15 minutes later, fuelled by sheer panic at the idea of a cold shower at 6am, the scene was a little less rational and a little more dangerous. I was sprawled horizontally with my back on the freezing cold kitchen surface and my head in the underside of the boiler, about to flip a red switch labelled ‘Loop valve’ – while Suz had located two screwdrivers and was reading a warning which said TURN OFF ALL ELECTRICAL ACTIVITY BEFORE DISMATLING THE BOILER COVER. It was during this scene of chaos that I had a glorious brainwave, left Suz debating whether to loosen the first screw, and began my hunt for the fuse box.

After flipping a number of switches to a less than productive end, I slumped back to the kitchen but hesitated just outside the door. On the wall, to the right of the light switch was a square box the size of a placemat. In the centre of this was a circular rotating dial, to the left was a list of descending numbers and at the top was a label which read ‘Thermostat’.

Professional Females Flee Granny-Robbing

Picture the scene. Three twenty-something ladies, seriously hungover, mildly hysterical and trying to descend the stairs at Earlsfield station, ladened with an entire entertainment system.

We looked like we’d just robbed an old lady’s front room. Shaking with silent laughter and barely able to walk for needing the loo, we glanced at each other through tear-streamed eyes. I lead the getaway party with my cousin’s digi box in one hand and a Sainsburys bag containing a mess of cables in the other. On my tail was Emily, clutching a HD Samsung DVD player while attempting to dodge the oncoming station traffic. And finally, bringing up the rear was Suz, hidden behind a bulky ‘90s Panasonic TV, unable to see the steps in front of her and desperately grappling for the banister, with the weight of her oversized bag weighing down her one free arm.

All we needed were a pair of black tights to wear over our heads and we’d have made some pretty convincing criminals.

And God said, Let there be Broadband

After two weeks in our new flat without TV, internet, a kettle or a microwave, we were beginning to sympathise with the lifestyle of the Amish. And what’s more – we were quite enjoying it.

We spent our evenings reading and conversing (for those of you unfamiliar with these activities, please refer to the complete works of Jane Austen) and spent many a happy evening cultivating our friendships with fine beverages and good humour. But one evening when Suz began to read the dictionary and we decided it might be fun to take up knitting, the realisation dawned that perhaps we’d spent too long away from 21st century civilisation.

Which meant it was time to face the long postponed task of getting our phone line reconnected.

Now, Suz has endured many traumatic hours on the phone to various Eastern-based call centres in the past two years – including one incident when she was told repeatedly to open a particular web page for instructions on how to get our internet working again, and another when the very nice lady on the phone asked “Can I call you Susan?”. Understandably, she did not respond well to this, given that her name is Suzannah.

So with this in mind, and the fact that Em was leveraging her custom with o2 to get us a deal on broadband, I stepped up to the challenge and called BT.

As expected, it was an excruciating process, involving four different “customer service” operators (one of whom - a chirpy youth named Becky - very kindly cut me off), a rigorous (and I’m sure hugely unnecessary) credit check and one lengthy conversation in which I eventually explained to the charming elderly man on the phone that we already had a phone line which we would simply like reconnecting and therefore would not be needing another one.

After what seemed like two years of my life later, we got there. And in fact, we are due to go live at 8pm this evening. Might want to look out for another blog in the next couple of days...

The Move

Apparently there are three lessons in life that I will simply never learn: nobody wants to hear Christmas songs in October, electrical equipment will not “eventually just fix itself”...and you can never underestimate how much crap you can accumulate while residing in one place for eight months.

It’s the latter of these which concerns me most today. Or, more accurately, three weeks ago - when I awoke to the realisation that in three hours Mum would be here to help us move house and I’d passed out the night before in an alcohol-induced state of certainty that I really didn’t have much to pack.

The only preparations we’d actually made involved picking up three Walkers-branded cardboard boxes from Somerfield, throwing all expired items out of our fridge and writing an extensive list of everything we own, grouped according to box size. Which is why we found ourselves at 8.45am, frantically stuffing bra padding, wet towels and beautifully ironed shirts into black bin bags.

By 10:30am the flat looked like an industrial waste site and we’d already navigated more pitfalls than were necessary. We hit the first of these when I assembled one of the flat-packed Somerfield boxes only to watch it immediately crumple to the floor. Unsurprising, given that there was no tape holding it together. Even after a quick dash for brown tape, it took three attempts to pack our crockery into one precariously assembled box - the final attempt being thwarted when we attempted to move it, to no avail, given that it contained every item of kitchenware we owned aside from two spatulas and a set of scales. Ah.

But after some skilled Tetris-style attempts at filling the boot of Mum’s Renault Scenic, followed by three trips to Earlsfield, we found ourselves in our lovely new front room, dwarfed by a mountain range of suitcases and trying to decide where to point our furniture in the absence of a TV.

The prospect of unpacking is always a little daunting considering the amount of time it took to pack (or the time it would take to pack properly – bin bags and bra flinging excluded). The sensible starting point was obviously clothes or kitchenware – something big which would clear a lot of space. So naturally we began with photo frames and candles. Well, it’s our natural female instinct as homemakers to create a comfortable and welcoming environment. If we’d been men, I’m sure we would have gone straight for the bedroom. Or the bathroom – they can be very precious about their washbags.

I always do that

I think it’s fair to say that, despite the occasional moment of blondeness, I’m a fairly balanced, coherent sort of person. I’d like to think I’m capable of rationale thought and that my actions have roots in logic and reason. But then there are times when you find your body acting completely independently from your brain, leaving a serious question mark hanging over your sanity. Things like watching the stairs and still falling up them, calling your boss ‘Dad’ or pouring boiling water on your cereal. But for me, the action which causes the most concern is what I call involuntary lying.

Have you ever found yourself walking away from a conversation and realising not only that what you’ve just said was categorically untrue, but also – and even more bafflingly - that you had absolutely nothing to gain from the lie?

For example, a while ago I was leaving Waitrose when I realised I’d forgotten to buy toothpaste. As this is something of a necessity, I turned around, located the item and ended up back at the same checkout I’d left 2 minutes earlier. “Me again!” I said brightly “I just forgot something”. And then, for no reason at all, I followed this with “I always do that.” I don’t always do that! In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done that! Truth be told I’m a pretty together person – I’d even go as far as to say I pride myself with superior organisation skills.

So why lie? Not that I’m supporting deception of any sort, but if the benefits outweigh the deceit, a lie does seem somewhat more justified. But in this case it certainly didn’t need to be told, and in doing so I managed to successfully transform myself into walking ‘dumb blonde’ propaganda in the space of a couple of seconds. I might as well have emptied the contents of my wallet onto the desk and asked her to count out the £1.45 I owed for the toothpaste.

But after expressing my concern to the panel, I was completely comforted with reassurance that I’m not alone in this, and that in fact we are all just mad.

I blame the pastries

It’s a common understanding that everyone has their own way of dealing with life events like loss, confrontation or falling over in a public place. I’ve also found this to be true of consoling oneself after a demanding day at work.

The more sensible among us release their tension through sex, wine or ranting to their other halves. I however, more frequently turn to the rapidly-backfiring comfort of food. But not only is this adding a concerning number of centimetres to my already-squidgy areas, it’s also adding an extra 30mins a day to my journey home.

I once read that the average Londoner spends approximately 139hours per year commuting. So, on moving to within a 10minute walk of work, I was naively smug about that fact that I was one of the few lucky exceptions to the rule. This was until the fateful day that I was finally coaxed into Somerfield by a combination of a gruelling day at work and a sign which read “All pastries now just 40p”.

Please don’t judge me here readers – I can usually muster a little more self restraint than to be enticed by an offer on sugary carb-based products, but the night before this particular day I had consumed so much red wine that I almost sent a morning email to a senior male client with ‘xxx’ typed after my name.

Anyway, needless to say it's been downhill from there. Almost every day since then I’ve spent approximately 40mins in Somerfield, trying to decide what I can cook for dinner that will be so overwhelmingly delicious that all of my work trauma will simply fade into non-existence and leave me bathing in a reverent glow of food bliss.

Unfortunately, when one’s brain has been addled by unsuitable levels of alcohol or sleep-deprivation, this decision is not an easy one. In this instance, I find myself either in the fresh produce aisle, staring at things like saffron, Indonesian coconut milk or seared quail, under the inaccurate assumption that I am capable of cooking something remotely complex. Or I’m attempting some sort of hideous Supermarket Sweep effort – flying round the aisles in a panic with arms laden with un-complimenting dishes, picking up and flinging down fishcakes, meringues, tinned spaghetti, and self-raising flour….all because I’m so completely terrified at the prospect of not enjoying my dinner.

And so it continues, and probably will forever. Unless I find a different route home. Or a different job. Or until I am found, slumped in the corner of my kitchen, clutching a glass of wine in one hand and two eggshells in the other, shaking a tear-stained because my Soufflé won’t rise. Surely then it’s time for an intervention?

The Evils of Skiing

There's no denying it - skiing goes against all the basic attractions of a holiday: It's freezing cold, your alarm goes off at 8.30am, and at least four hours of each day involves some pretty strenuous exercise. But that aside, it's actually brilliant fun. However, I have discovered four consistent evils of such a holiday, which I think are worth passing on to better prepare anyone who's thinking of going:

1. Goggles
Nobody, I stress nobody, can pull off goggles. If you're lucky, you'll end up looking like an extra from a WHAM Christmas number one, but the majority of us just resemble a large bug. Or throw on a neckwarmer pulled up to the eyes and you're a Dalek.

2. Arrogant children who are faster than you
This is unavoidable, as they have no fear. And rightly so; they've got half as far to fall as adults do, and their bones will repair twice as fast. But be assured, they will learn. It might involve a strategically placed ski pole, but they will learn...

3. Button Lifts
They take you nowhere and it's virtually impossible to look mature or remain upright whilst on one. Especially when it turns a corner and you become another victim of the crossed-ski pile-up. It's like being back in the playground, having proven yourself inadequate for the see-saw. But regular lifts aren't faultless either - there's always one which looks slow and reliable, until it's about 2 meters behind you, when the bastard gains speed, drops two foot and takes you out from the calves.

4. Ice
There will come a point when you think you're getting the hang of this skiing lark and feel ready to execute some expert posing. When this moment comes, don't EVER take your eyes off the piste. There will always be a patch of ice hidden just below the powder, ready to whip away a ski just when you're at your most smug.

Doomed by Darcy

This is a message to all my nearest and dearest. There is a very strong likelihood that you may not see me again for some time. You will be greatly missed. I, on the other hand, apparently will not. And therefore, I will be contactable only via the knocking down of my front door, dragging me out from beneath a pit of duvets and prising the Ben and Jerry’s from my desperate clasp.

Yesterday, my worst fears were confirmed. Until recently, the main thing seeing me through my current state of singledom was the naive assumption that maybe, just maybe, my knight in shining armour would one day turn up at my workplace and whisk me away in a fantastic Officer and a Gentleman style exit, ready to begin our rose-tinted life together. Admittedly, this is a bit far-fetched, but the sentiment has always been there, leading me to hope that I might not have to endure my days alone in front of the TV with a bottle of wine and the rest of last night’s curry.

But I now have verification that this is never going to happen. It has officially been confirmed. Not by a friend over an emotional and enlightening three bottles of wine. Not by the insensitive, overpaid columnists of today’s glossy magazines. Not even by my Mother (who will always tell me the truth no matter how much it hurts). It has been proven by scientists. Actual professionals. With research and evidence and statistics. And it hurts.

According to a group of researchers in Edinburgh, women like myself who envelop themselves in the beautiful world of Rom Coms are more likely to die sad and alone. Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but they may as well have. Apparently, these sensationalised chick flicks fill their viewers’ minds with unrealistic expectations of love, causing them to sabotage their relationships for not being ‘perfect’.

Unfortunately, I can see their point (hence the duvet-hiding and potential death-by-ice cream). But some of their other findings are just ridiculous, and quite frankly insulting.

For example, and I quote: “Researchers found fans of films such as Runaway Bride and Notting Hill often fail to communicate with their partner.” I resent that. Runaway Bride happens to be one of my all-time favourites and, if anything, I have the longstanding female problem of communicating too much with my partners.

Probably the most extraordinary claim was that: “Marriage counsellors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect”. Who are they kidding? Anyone who had ever had perfect sex please raise their hands. Most of the women I know consider simply achieving an orgasm an accomplishment. And besides, I was under the impression that after about ten or so years of marriage, sex becomes more of a chore than a pleasure…and one which would be happily substituted for a ten-minute shoulder rub and an hour of ITV Drama.

So really, either way I’m screwed. Either I live out my days as a spinster, watching repeats of the Rom Coms that lead to my demise, or as an old married woman whose husband gets more aroused by Jeremy Clarkson speeding round a racetrack than by the sight of me in a lacy undergarment.

Right, that’s it, pass me a spoon…

The Most Beautiful Bride in the World

I used to wonder how one woman could see another in a wedding dress for the first time and proclaim, with such conviction, that she is “The most beautiful bride in the world”: a statement which is both highly unlikely and overwhelmingly cliché. We’ve seen it in films, time and time again…the initial intake of breath, hands clasped dramatically to chests, relatives beaming with pride and grandma scrambling for her travel tissues. But I’d always secretly assumed that in real life the scene would be more rational and downplayed than the melodrama we see on the screen.

I was wrong. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. I allowed myself the naïve assumption that I could withstand the emotion of it all. And thus, I went in unarmed…

The fitting was for my beautiful cousin Hannah who is marrying a wonderful man this September, and I was under the assurance that this was THE dress. So I sat alongside various female relatives in the airy reception area and waited for her to appear (obviously whilst scanning the hangers for my own wedding dress - hypothetical, of course, and assuming that I won’t die sad and alone. Although given my current romantic status, this is an alarming possibility).

She didn’t so much appear, as float: descending down the carpeted hallway, commanding the awed attention of everyone else in the small boutique. The dress was inexplicably beautiful, lovingly detailed and perfectly shaped…but it was the beaming smile on Hannah’s face that had my eyes filling in seconds.

Deck the Halls

I’m sorry, was that Christmas? I appear to have missed it.

It only seems a week ago that I was condemning shops selling tinsel in September and now here we are, four days post-Christmas, lumbered with 94 cards, seven unused crackers and five vats of turkey soup. I didn’t even manage to put the decorations up until the 22nd, and now I’m going to have to dismantle them all again. Ah screw it, they’re staying put – I’m extending Christmas!

But aside from being somewhat fleeting, Christmas in our household was successfully merry this year. Apart from the moment I discovered that Mum had put ‘Time Delay’ wrinkle reducing syrum in my stocking. When I asked her if she was trying to tell me something, the reply was “Well of course not lovely, but you can never start too early”. Fantastic. I’m awaiting a brochure on back pillows to fall through the letterbox any day now. However, I did feel slightly reassured when my brother pulled soap out of his stocking. He didn’t bother asking whether he was supposed to be taking a hint.

On the whole the present selection under our tree this year was brilliant. With the exception of the gifts from our wonderful but mildly insane elderly neighbour, whose idea of Christmas shopping involves a shufty round her house for anything she no longer wants. This year’s treats included two candles with the wicks cut off, and an ornament of two snowmen with wire arms, glued together at the torso. But it’s the thought that counts.

In keeping with our family tradition, Christmas day began with me waking my brother up at an unreasonable hour to open our stockings together, sat on the floor in the hallway. When I first started waking him up on Christmas day, I think he only got out of bed to humour me because I was so excited. Now, I’m still just as excited but I’m also ten years older, and I think next year an 8am wake-up call might genuinely piss him off. The rest of the day consisted of champagne (again, at an unreasonable hour of the morning) followed by steady drinking with family friends until lunch at 4pm. Then of course comes the plentiful array of BBC Christmas specials, at which point Dad falls asleep in his chair and wakes up just in time for our evening film. This year’s movie was Harry Potter.

After this point, we are usually starting to flake so we either go to bed or re-fill our glasses. However, this year we had a family gathering the following day to prepare for (why they choose to do this on a day when we are guaranteed to be hungover I have no idea). This involved re-tidying the house and preparing cheery answers to “So, how’s the job going?”, “Don’t you look like your mother?” (which, given that I apparently need anti-wrinkle cream, is probably more uncomfortably accurate this year than ever), and finally, the dreaded: “So, any new men on the scene we should know about?”. Considering that my aunts and mother spend at least two hours a day gossiping on the phone, they must know that I am still single, and I can therefore never understand if they ask this question out of spite, or because they think it might re-enforce the importance of finding a male.

So, in typical English manner, the only real complaint I have this year is about the weather. I was sure that the freezing temperatures we’ve had to endure was a tell tale sign that we could anticipate a beautiful white Christmas. Oh well. You can’t have everything…but I live in hope.

So, to all of you reading this, here’s a slightly belated but still wholly enthusiastic MERRY CHRISTMAS! And a very happy 2009.

'Tis the season to be...

So this is the first time in seven years that I’ve had to endure singledom at Christmas. I never thought I’d say this, but all the complaining, cynicism and eventual drowning in wine and tears suffered by singles at this time of year is completely justified. Suddenly the things that I used to find endearing while I was blissfully happy, like couples ice skating or gazing into each other’s eyes over coffee, now just makes me want to hurl baubles at them. Or tell myself that he is probably cheating and she must be awful in bed.

It wouldn’t be so unbearable if I could do all the things I want to do to keep my mind off the fact that nobody loves me. But no, everywhere I go is chock-full with happy couples. They’re riding the tube, cuddling in the theatre, walking hand in hand in the park. Even buying books together in Waterstones. I’m not sure if there are more of them this year, of if it’s just more apparent now that I am looking through the eyes of a single. Either way, I’ve had enough.

I am not leaving the house until Christmas is over and all those warm festive feelings that have been flying around are replaced with the empty feeling of depression that arrives every January. I will curl up in front of the fire, consume endless amounts of mulled wine and mince pies, and watch every episode of Sex and the City that reminds you that men are the devil and that the most important relationship is the one you have with yourself.

God Bless

God bless the person who decided to put chocolate in advent calendars.

According to Wikipedia, this was the clever invention of 1950's chocolate manufacturers, who managed to successfully cash in on Christmas and boost their sales immeasurably. But I can't help but think that, while gross profit may have been the original function of sugar-filled calendars, surely their primary purpose today is to give everyone an excuse to eat chocolate before 7am?

Not that I've ever needed one.

There's no escaping it

That'll teach me. After weeks of hearing my peers sniffling and sneezing I foolishly let myself believe that I might finally make it through one Winter without sleepless nights and an endless supply of Kleenex. But in true cruel fashion, Karma has punished me for my presumtuous assumptions and reduced me to my current state of self-pity and Lemsip.

But in fairness to Karma, I probably heightened the situation with a three hour, predominantly uphill walk in the rain on Sunday morning. Which not only left me freezing an drenched, but also with the feeling that I had squatted a small horse. That alone probably deserves the punishment. Who gets up at 10am on a Sunday, and on seeing that it's raining, thinks "Yes, a walk might be just what I need"?

So hear I am, miserable and suffering...any sympathy welcome.