So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
Yikes! My friend Mac phoned me over the weekend to tell me that he knows a single man he wants me to meet, he directed him to my blog, Noooooooooooo! “Shouldn’t I’ve done?” Noooooooooooooooo. Now there’s a sure thing I’ll never hear from him. A pattern has emerged regarding my dating life where men’s behaviour turn from Bahamas to Antarctica overnight but at least if relations are opened with an Arcticesque approach, the state of affairs can’t be specious, non? Why do I meet men who come on exceptionally strong, hence propelling my interest, only to then give me a frozen shoulder? It’s so disconcerting, non? Oui and agonizing!
I have no rules when it comes to dating other than if there is no frisson, there ain’t no second date. For those who have been following this blog, you’ll be fully aware that I seem to attract the sensibilities of certain men i.e. the antithesis of my own sensibilities! At this stage I shall say no more on the subject of prospective suitor just in case he is reading this and recognises the situation and leaves the country out of mortification. And I wouldn’t blame him. If reversed I would do the same! Confessional culture is such a captivating medium, however disclosure has severe consequences on the worlds that are being revealed and the liaisons within them. Does one sacrifice one’s relationships, their right for confidentiality, for the sake of authenticity and ultimately an audience? With situations archived to the past veiled revelation is easier to divulge, but when both events and disclosure materialize in real time, inevitably the present, that is one’s real life, is inevitably affected.
Now you may have already guessed the aforementioned friend is not called ‘Mac’ at all, why broadcast his identity? Makes no difference how you read his comment, non? It is not unusual, when asked by strangers, that I fabricate not only my name but also my line of work. For the sake of my own privacy I have feigned roles such as a secretary, magician, neurosurgeon, even a pole dancer. Should our paths never again converge, why not? Exposing one’s self vis-à-vis to strangers is naturally a completely different experience from sharing one’s selfhood framed by personal anecdotes ‘anonymously’ via a mediating channel.
Choice of words is so critical in life and the tone in which they are enunciated so powerful. A former boyfriend once argued that he didn’t ‘get with’ tone. Intonation speaks volumes I responded, but his declarations of love continued flat and empty and that indeed said everything.
If there is one word that does not and will not ever appear in my lexicon it’s ‘fashionista’. Elle magazine is probably the only periodical that can get away with it as they understand the concept of irony. Sadly I had a first hand encounter with this malign word, which prompted me to remove my real name from a lively and insightful article I had laboured over on a fashion designer whose work is conceptually-driven. From the offset the editor had been disagreeable. I had pitched several ideas via email and she had zoomed in on the one idea I knew she would covet. A price was fixed for the amount of words I was to submit and my research begun. Within a week a first draft was submitted and a week later the final copy was emailed. However, when I received the finished text for my perusal I was rendered speechless as to how over-edited the piece was and the insertion of additional material which would be credited to another writer. My original piece was sabotaged beyond recognition but sufficiently appropriated that I didn’t want to surrender all my research to the secondary journalist and attribute her with a full credit, hence I submitted a pseudonym. The word fashionista was a popular term in which to launch each new paragraph, jeepers creepers did I cringe! Well, you would wouldn’t you? The editor asked for my opinion in which I told her they weren’t my choice of words and then emphasised that I would be using a non-de-plume for my own credit. The alias said it all. Inevitably she made me sweat for my cheque but since the agreed fee was in writing, the contractual agreement had to legally be homoured. When the issue was published I didn’t even request a copy.
As I was saying to a friend recently life is so fuelled by hierarchies and shifts of power; in the workplace, in relationships, between friends, even between strangers…
Case point number one – the mobile phone; When the cinema trailer requests its audience to turn off their mobiles, there is no exception to this appeal. However teenagers persistently take calls and text throughout the duration of the film although they think their actions are subversive and clandestine because the apparatus in question is partially concealed by their bag. Five rows away can detect the mobile’s activity, unless one’s peripheral vision is redundant. Mine isn’t. Frequently I voice my disgruntlement (in hushed tones, natch) but it appears futile because although the telephony-culprit momentarily hibernates into the depth of a pocket, within minutes it makes a reappearance!
Case point number two a. – the mobile phone; Mobile phones are potent tools in which to theatricalise one’s behaviour, this is visibly evident in enclosed public spaces particularly in ‘stationary’ spaces i.e. supermarket queues or above ground transport systems i.e. buses. Once an audience has been registered mobile users modify and sensationalise their conversations for the benefit of bystanders. Eavesdropping permitted then? Unavoidable.
Case point number two b. – the mobile phone; Amplifying one’s voice seems to be symptomatic of mobile use, often as a result of atmospheric sound assimilating both with the reception as well as interfering with the ability to hear one’s own voice. For the mobile user it’s all too easy to compete with surrounding noise and talk over it disregarding the ‘external’ perception of one’s vocal volume. Noise pollution indeedy. Guilty!
Case point number two c. – the mobile phone; Equally, one experiences a delusory separateness from one’s immediate environment, and therefore it is all too easy to overlook discretion. Do I really need to know about your boss’ transgressions? Arguable.
Case point number three – the mobile phone; Simply, there is no excuse not to inform company that you are going to be late. This is called universal etiquette.
Case point number four – the mobile phone; As both recipients and offenders of techno etiquette none of us are immune to its machinations. Mobile technology (in both senses of the word) has the ability to expose one’s availability and therefore it can be easily identified whether an individual is ‘reachable’. Consequently, a degree of discretionary ‘incommunicado-ness’ has been relinquished and ‘antisocial’ behaviour can be easily recognised. Furthermore, since it is likely that one is familiar of one’s friends’ techno habits, then it is natural that when on the receiving end of someone you know who vets their mobile screen and filters their incoming calls, they then don’t pick up it can be conceived as a personal affront. Clearly, for whatever reason, there are moments when one’s head space is occupied or one wishes to disengage from the social world but the necessity to maintain contact with public life is somewhat essential and therefore the facility to text is preferable to the physically more demanding activity of speaking which, comparatively, can feel like hard work. So again when one’s text or subsequently texts are disregarded one questions the motives behind the neglect. As much as communication technologies have been constructed to simplify daily life, likewise it posits a whole new set of problems. Super yikes!
More super yikes! Techno etiquette has become such a complex and convoluted topic. The word alone has become a paradigm for the societal conditions we are party to. Technologised society has created its own set of amorphously elastic rules, wherein conventions and expectations emerge often in accordance to age and also depending on which generation of technology has permeated one’s daily life. Call me ‘lady-of’-the-carrier-pigeon-age’ but I still consider courtesy as having value, but I guess techno courtesy is nowadays relative. Apparently TMI is so yesterday!
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Tags: Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Celebrity, Clothing, Conceptual, Cool, Cultural Commentary, Culture, Dating, Dog, Eccentric, Entertainment, Fashion, Friends, Funny, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, London, Love, Magazines, Media, Miscellaneous, Money, Money issues, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random, Random thoughts, Relationships, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Unemployment, University, Urban, Vintage, Work
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
Things j’adore that are not subject to whims or fashions; neologisms, the word marvellous, childish expressions that belong to another era, and to anyone born post-1980, they probably do sound childish and anachronistic; noodle (as in use your…), silly billy, easy peasy, jeepers creepers, bonkers, super duper et al. I am also devoted to Snoopy, The Jetsons, charity shops, books, David Bowie and Boris, my doggy, and they all surface in this blog’s entry (actually the doggy doesn’t but any reason, eh!)
Aren’t libraries just the most marvellous places! No fee to join, recent DVD releases at one’s disposal, the facility to order newly published books at a fraction of their retail price and quelle range of CDs! My iTunes is now fully stocked with David Bowie’s 90s ‘wilderness’ period, which incidentally I think is genius.
For better or for worse my nature favours expedition so rarely do I waste time inputting the music into my computer, subsequently all items once finished are returned immediately. Therefore it was with frustration that out of the blue I received a letter demanding the return of some random CD that probably inhabited my home for a twenty-four hour period at most. My prompt enquiry was met with a response that alluded to a memory defect (mine) or a living environment (also mine) that was so topsy-turvy that said item had possibly been overlooked and was doing a Bin Laden (in hiding, that is, not asserting atrocious assaults). Negatory on both accounts, and since all loans and returns are catalogued in their computer my own track record informed them of what kind of user I was, i.e. consistent. Eventually, the item’s ‘disappearance’ was deemed resolved and my record was cleared, or so I was led to believe. Months passed only then to receive another letter informing me that the CD was now over six months overdue and soon they would be taking further action and sending round the debt collectors to repossess my television (good luck to them it’s a 1992 model!) as the charges now outweighed its original cost by tenfold! Well, that is the impression it gave. And so back to the library I trotted like a little forlorn, and admittedly exasperated, pony. Typically the woman who had dealt with this transaction was no longer working there and had actually not ‘dealt’ with it at all, as there was no evidence about its supposed conclusion on my record. Aspersions were once again cast on my character until finally they actually bothered to track the CD and found it residing on the shelf of another branch! No, of course there was no apology but the deletion of supposed outstanding CD sufficed.
But let’s rewind back to the marvellousity (it’s a neologism smarty pants) of libraries. Because I haven’t had a landline since 2003 it was the library that has, until recently, for the most part facilitated my internet use (and, yes, also the occasional opportunity when my computer has recognised a WiFi signal in my building and quite frankly considering the incriminating horrors one hears regarding people’s internet habits it is foolish not to register a password. N’est pas?) Let’s disregard the unsavoury keyboard and nosey parker neighbours either side of you glimpsing at your Facebook page, libraries are just so undervalued. You can even Skype, albeit in hushed tones and with headphones concealing half the conversation, and sometimes just as well. I thrill at the concept of talking at a computer screen to your friend who is also talking at their computer screen in Stockholm or Shanghai, it collapses the boundaries between private and public interfaces; it is just too 1960s version of the future, I feel like I am starring in The Jetsons! And when I think only a few years ago I was carrying a bulky zip drive as my data storage and now I own pocket-friendly, wireless devices that hold an archive of my history, I thrill some more (oh, I’m an easy girl to please). I now own another pocket-friendly gadget which in this case enables ubiquitous internetting from my own computer, therefore although I am no longer internetting at the library I still maximize its audio, visual and literary contributions; so may I take this opportunity to thank Benjamin Franklin, he the originator of the public library. Benjamin Franklin, along with David Bowie, you are marvellousity incarnate.
Anyway, let me deviate somewhat and regress to an age of innocence; an age of innocence 70s style when one’s age was a single digit and when one’s parents despaired because your Christmas list consisted of all things Snoopy and other toys that were de rigueur with the under 8s i.e. heavily promoted, mass manufactured, costly, ephemeral and a novelty. Although my longing for a Girl’s World (mannequin head that you could give hair and make-up makeovers to – I still want one!) was a mainstay for over two years. Gifts of wooden toys and books were accredited to my father’s propensity for craftsmanship and learning, whilst my mum favoured bunnies with missing limbs and teddies with one ear and a button for an eye. And now I think how marvellous to have been raised with tastes so eclectic. Toy manufacturers currently have a monopoly on nostalgia and all things retro, specifically toys made to look worn and well-loved, but there ain’t no thing like a well-loved toy that has lived a life. Non? Authenticly-certainly!
My mum’s enthusiasm for charity shops, jumble sales, flea markets, school bazaars, summer fetes, Christmas fairs and bric-a-brac stalls has accompanied me throughout adulthood and you’d think that’s befitting considering the nature of my monetary circumstances, but alas non,non,non, because some branded (and some non-branded too) charity shops have recognized the burgeoning marketplace for all things second hand and have misguided their pricing stratas. Generally speaking living within my means often prohibits even charity shop purchases! And on more than one occasion I have seen items in charity shops currently retailing in high street stores priced higher than their original cost! But this blog will end as it started; with enthusiasm, because charity shops are nonetheless too tempting to pass by without popping in, testimony is in my flat, and also my wallet! I’ve even been known to ask friends to stop their car so I could take a peek! I just cannot resist! J’adore, j’adore, j’adore.
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Tags: Dog, Fashion, Funny, London, Relationships, Urban, Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Clothing, Cool, Conceptual, Culture, Cultural Commentary, Dating, Eccentric, Entertainment, Friends, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, Money, Money issues, Love, Media, Magazines, Miscellaneous, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random thoughts, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Unemployment, University, Vintage, Work, Random, Celebrity
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
Often there is a discrepancy between whom one finds attractive and who finds you attractive. To illustrate this explicitly think Zach Braff – yum! – for the former part of this statement and a heavily bearded, Birkenstock-wearing, vagabond for the latter – yikes! – (a description of a generic ‘type’ rather than naming names is more judicious me thinks). No matter that society’s prescriptive instruction requests us not to judge surface value, nonetheless a person’s carriage, demeanour and overall physical presentation of themselves effects (or at the very least contributes) to the reception they will encounter. Non? You know it! Besides like gravitating towards like, visual impressions and the codes that accompany our general deportment subliminally send out messages about one’s own selfhood. And so as much as one can’t control whom one finds attractive, likewise one cannot control whom one finds unattractive.
Sadly for me I seem to attract men who mistake my relatively low maintenance attitude to my appearance (and in this context low maintenance is not a euphemism for unkempt but rather a disregard for an overtly groomed beautifying regime) as an emblem for anti-materialism with a lifestyle to match, when in actual fact j’adore a bit of oohlala-joojee-zigazigaah glamour, and then some. This became apparent during my brief forays into the world of online dating. Online dating positions the individual simultaneously as both an active and passive user, equally it can be an empowering experience for those searching for dating adventures. However. Although, it is a fascinating and enlightening exercise in locating the type of person that is attracted to you, the results, which I discovered first hand, can be disconcerting not to mention give one a crippling complex about one’s own visual communication.
There comes a moment when one become conscious that you have met all your friends’ friends and colleagues, and their friends, and the trajectory continues until you reach a dating cul-de-sac. Therefore, it is not inconceivable that one then wonders how or where your social network can possibly expand so that opportunities to meet potential dates can materialise. Because babydoll, the reality of actual life diverges considerably from those narratives in films and American television programmes that sees individuals meeting the loves of their lives unsuspectingly in a café or whilst beautifully turned out in the local supermarket or even on a long-haul flight across the Atlantic (when does this ever happen? when?when?when? because usually I am seated besides a man who has a portable set of teeth). Furthermore, my own trips to the supermarket are usually so unpremeditated that beneath my coat is a pair of pyjamas (FYI for all newcomers to this blog), and alas we are not talking Agent Provocateur but functional!
Anyway, I think I have established the grounds as to why I had no reservations joining an online dating site and although my experiences were cut short (as a result of aforementioned conflicted ideas on attractiveness) my insight into the sphere of first impressions was enriched.
Alongside the most flattering photo of oneself, which has been improved by computerised image manipulation (natch), a favourable profile overlooking one’s emotional flaws and idiosyncratic habits sets a potentially prospective scene. One hopes. And then hopes some more. And then one develops a neurosis. And then you think there are 228 pages of men (usually ten to a page) who fit my age and location criteria and they all, according to their summaries are too good to be true!!!!! As I have established, my own exploits were short-lived, but they began with the authoritative task of defining myself in singular terms, characterising my own attributes and editing my interests in the hope to attract my desired criteria. My mindset was channelled into ‘flirty business overdrive’, but sadly my entry into this dating interface was quickly disheartened.
As a new girl on the block I was expecting a prosperous first week, however the men I bookmarked as promising didn’t reciprocate. Rather, I received interest from a deluge of men that didn’t even meet my elastic age range, and I’m not talking the Chace Crawfod side of thirty but leaning more towards the Tony Curtis margin. Certainly if their birth certificate didn’t demonstrate evidence of this, their looks unquestionably did and believe you me there is nothing shallow about not finding someone attractive based on physicality (and democratically vice versa, n’est pas!). It is cold fact, and more so online when your primary contact is visual. I do not photograph well at all, so based on this, me wondered if candidates were also honest with their photographs and to what extent they actually resembled them apropos. Considering some of the pictures suited a police line-up I had to question what they truly looked like vis-a-vis if this is what they were submitting as a means to seduce and be seduced! Mildly doctoring one’s photo is a given, but when one’s photos doesn’t match one’s likeness whatsoever is it not call fraudulence? The approval process certainly made more allowances for men’s snapshots than women’s. I browsed numerous pages of guys who had exploited the blur function of a camera not to mention that sunglasses featured heavily. But many of the photos I submitted were deemed not sufficiently sharp, and one of them I had presented had actually been taken by a prolific portrait photographer!
Unsurprisingly many of the male candidates in their thirties opted for women in their twenties which may explain, in terms of relativity, the geriatric age group that contacted me and as I’m sure you can appreciate Zimmer frames are so not a good look, not even if they are complemented by an over-generous bank balance. But clearly what doesn’t suit one may suit another. Of course it would be tactless to bring up the recently deceased Ms. Smith. Initially, the prospect of an email from a suitor was thrilling but was soon replaced by indifference. Had I received responses from both unlikely suitors alongside potential coup de foudres then my indifference wouldn’t have morphed so dramatically into despondency, but despondent I became! My preference for lively banter never reached its maximum potential as earnest accounts from unpromising suitors took up residency in my inbox, and furthermore my interest in the activity of email tag quickly diminished. To be fair it can take hours, perhaps days even, deciding how to construct one’s introductory email, and it takes courage. So should that falter then a soupcon of Dutch courage is advisable. But, personally, banter is an engaging tool when it comes to warming to my sensibilities. J’adore, j’adore, j’adore le banter!
I evaluated my competition and conclusively it is a highly competitive venture. The quality (albeit visual quality) of men did not really equal that of the women, so I can only imagine that when an adonis surfaces his dating inbox in inundated. Disappointed and, admittedly, somewhat affronted I unsubscribed only to return, again momentarily, three further times over a two-year period, each occasion employing a shift in tactics including reducing my introductory text and reducing my age. Age is another issue of contention. At least 30% of the faces were still in operation; unchanged profile, unchanged photo, unchanged age. Shameful? No, shameless.
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Tags: Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Celebrity, Clothing, Conceptual, Cool, Cultural Commentary, Culture, Dating, Dog, Eccentric, Entertainment, Fashion, Friends, Funny, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, London, Love, Magazines, Media, Miscellaneous, Money, Money issues, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random, Random thoughts, Relationships, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Unemployment, University, Urban, Vintage, Work
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
I’ve never understood spending money on emergency food items, whereby when an emergency surfaces, are so unappetising that they get overlooked in favour for a trip to the supermarket. No, my pantry staples are palatable, unfortunately a little too palatable! Never do I have tins of baked beans or packets of muesli skulking in my cupboard, should I have the appetite for baked beans or a craving for muesli, which on occasion I do, I buy them there and then. But suffice to say that I am fortunate enough to have an abundance of grocery stores right on my doorstep. Eating what I like (my food concoctions are fairly idiosyncratic), when I like (three o’clock in the afternoon, anyone?), how I like (as a banquet laid out on a tray in bed, reading magazines, watching box sets of Arrested Development and Entourage, which incidentally once exhausted are returned to the store for credit, naughty I know but still borderline legal, FYI! with my beloved doggy curled up beside me) is something I completely treasure.
Given the choice I would devour nothing but organic produce (supersuperyummy), buy Fairtrade and be a benefactor to all kinds of charitable causes, my bias is with animals. But it’s hard to have principles when one’s lack of capital dominates one’s life. Finding imaginative ways in which to live a relatively colourful life is a laboured affair but it can be achieved. Let’s apply this theory to image construction. For years I went to a beauty training school for the occasional pampering treatment, that was however culled when the trainee facialist left a clay mask on a little longer than the instructor suggested and returned from her break with an odour that derived from a little too much contact with an ashtray, I passed on the facial massage that was part of the package! By its very nature having a beautifying treatment should be a tranquil experience, non? Hyper-chatty students disable this, which is further heightened upon overhearing conversations between other customers and trainees. Plastic chairs poised at an awkward angle to maximise as many seats phyiscally possible to fit into a small recess, hence prohibiting one to rest one’s head against the wall and so your spine is twisted for the duration of a painfully protracted session also hinders relaxation.
Upon returning home, a google search located a student salon whose environs are more akin to a professional beauty parlour rather than a hospital ward, which the above premises had modelled its spatial formation on. So although the new training establishment charges mildly higher prices I can enjoy the privacy of being in seclusion without nicotine stained fingers or breath in the vicinity.
Hair training schools are also a means in which to overhaul one’s self without having to take out a bank loan; because even my local salon (which was then called Chepstow Choppers, a giveaway to calibre if ever there was one) raised their prices to almost three figures just for a trim and blow dry. In view of the fact that I haven’t owned a hairdryer since teenage life, it is second nature for my hair to dry naturally. So when I enquired if vetoing the blow dry would reduce the cost, the reaction was not favourable. Having used the services of hairdressers-in-training for years, I now find the idea of spending three hours having my hair ‘tidied’ by a trainee who spends most of the time consulting with their superior so exhausting and the appointment times so antisocial, and still at a generous cost at that, that I have taken to cutting my own hair. And I have never had so many compliments! Admittedly I am blessed with unruly hair, so if my layers are fragmentary it’s not going to be mistaken for a Big Bird moment, and besides I favour the tousselled look so DIYing hair tiers and an uneven hair length suits my idea of hot-to-trot!
A few months ago I was in town when a friend phoned with an invite to a fabulous party that evening. Literally only moments earlier I had bought all the new issues of the fashion monthlies (a guilty pleasure that inflames no guilt whatsoever) as well as a mouth-watering pizza whose expiry date rendered it on the supermarket’s discount shelf (and let’s face it expiry dates only really serve the purpose of precautionary measures for legal reasons, the food is always edible even days after they supposedly should have perished). Now, considering she gave me an hour’s notice and in my bag was enough weight to transform me into Popeye, not to mention that the time prohibited me an intermittent trip home, I did what any accidental party girl does and assembled a quick-fix makeover. Attached to one of the magazine pages was a foundation sample and although the shade did not exactly match my skin tone, it was an instant improvement. I then freshened up courtesy of a good gargle and a splash of water in all the right places, glossed up my lids, lashes and lips with a slick of Vaseline, followed by a detour to a department store to ‘test’ nail polishes giving a soupcon of sophistication to what is otherwise my air of enjoying being under-polished and ‘undone’. I like to think of my look as ‘dishevelled coquette’ but my friend Kiki, whose plus one I was going to be for the evening, just calls it dishevelled. However, this comes from a woman who always looks striking in Chanel couture. My hair was characteristically disorderly so I popped into the kids department and purchased some hair bobbles in the same shade of neon pink that now coated my nails. And so alongside my usual uniform of skinnies and Converse sneakers I was ready for an evening of merriment.
Kiki is what I call a ‘PPP’; a professional party person, there are loads of them on the circuit, most would gatecrash the opening of coke cans. But Kiki doesn’t need to crash the unveiling of any generic carbonated beverage, private jets take her across the world to open bottles of vintage champagne with very preeminent people. Tonight’s offering was to celebrate the launch of a relatively young artist whose dealer was grooming her for international success.
Tightly packed in the large space was an eclectic crowd that straddled an elite type of cool (an archetype that brand forecasting agencies covet), with a high volume of premier art industry types conspicuous by their smart apparel. In the mix were also a number of pseudo-Hoxtonites, old enough, or perhaps too old enough (you know what they say about the cycle of cultural life) to know better and not fooling anyone with their asymmetrical haircuts and faux downbeat ‘struggling artist’ attire. It never ceases to amazes me how people hold on to their idea of cutting edge from their own heyday, even more incredulous is perhaps that they then believe it to still be relevant and influential. Now, whether or not they were actually members of the vanguard during their zenith is of course another matter altogether! To give an example are those fashioned head-to-toe in black. Naturally they wear sunglasses dark enough for you to speculate whether they are visually engaged in conversation with you or actually scouting the room for someone more important. Personally since I lived through the decade in which this trend had its prime, I find it as outdated now as I did during its peak! Female patrons of this look always exploit a pillarbox shade of red upon their self-important mouths and the men often have hair slicked with some archaic hair pomade.
Upon checking myself off a seemingly prestigious guest list I promptly proceeded to cross the threshold into a world of superficial chitchat where every other person was on the cusp of marginal, seminal or mainstream recognition. A large entourage was encircling the artist, ‘Jaguar’, nee Ophelia, well we used to jump queue together at the same West London dives. She was a cool girl, I really wanted to like her work, but the words banal and facile sprung to mind. Nonetheless, comments such as ‘original’, ‘provocative’ and even ‘the conceptual statement of the century’ were indiscriminately being bandied about. I always wonder how genuine these remarks are or if they are said for the sake of appearances to be au courant. The walls were patterned with ‘subversive’ images of women ripped out from pornographic magazines (yawn!). The exposed areas were overlaid with typically feminine, domesticated pieces of fabric. These were then photographed and presented as appropriated explicit images, both ‘process’ (super yawn!) and final pieces were displayed side by side. Brightly coloured dots informed as to which works were sold, but I’m sure I wasn’t alone in thinking that a top-shelf purchase would have been more economical.
Now, I am not gifted with the ability for small talk, I am in awe of people who are, they are always clearly visible zigzagging across densely-packed room exercising their skill for cursory chat, holding court to various parties simultaneously, unaware of names but greeting and flattering you as if you share a long, long history together. After an hour of circulating and enjoying fun banter with an assortment of characters from the scene I was then randomly accosted by a man stuck in a Woodstock-era time warp, replete with lanky ponytail. It was inevitable, but why me? Whywhywhy Picasso? Fortunately this happened as my evening was coming to a close rather than the other way round. There’s always at least one; the man who enthusiastically finds fault in all art, all culture, all youth-cultures, all youth full stop post-1974. He’d seen me talking to certain cultural luminaries which I guess he thought gave him sufficient grounds to seize my company. You’d think that my disinterested, monosyllabic grunts would discourage even a rhino, or the fact that I turned my back to him and attempted to join a conversation I had previously been party to would speak volumes, but tragically before I had a chance to swiftly exit, his outstretched arm leant towards the wall I was propped up against and cornered me for what seemed like an eternity. Well, what is one to do but excuse oneself under the pretext that a visit to the bar was urgently called for. And it was! He requested a beer, but on this occasion I think he registered my monosyllabic answer.
Kiki returned with an exhaustive itinerary of more exhibition openings and various fashion launches concentrated within a radius of a kilometre of each other; different venue, variable quality of work, same faces, same supplier of wine, same clichés… but all was toasty and my hunger pangs appeased by the endless amounts of alcoholic concoctions that kept appearing in my trajectory and so between the choice of an arctic flat and five television channels (actually only four as one of them is deficient, take a guess as to which one?) I continued the revelry well into the following day. Girl on a shoestring? Carpe diem!
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Tags: Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Celebrity, Clothing, Conceptual, Cool, Cultural Commentary, Culture, Dating, Dog, Eccentric, Entertainment, Fashion, Friends, Funny, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, London, Love, Magazines, Media, Miscellaneous, Money, Money issues, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random, Random thoughts, Relationships, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Unemployment, University, Urban, Vintage, Work
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
You’d think that with time at my disposal every day would be a social escapade, and indeed if it wasn’t combined with being budget conscious I would most certainly be taking trapeze classes at circus school, attending lectures on Foucault et al. (I so would!), visiting exhibitions left right and centre, having sneaky afternoons at the cinema and, yes, liquid-lunching with the best of them! However, like La belle Lopez my love may not cost a thing (although I am reconsidering my options) but concession prices do! In London even being impoverished expends money. Life on a budget is hard work, it often requires adaptability, flexibility and shrewd planning, because, to reiterate, living on a shoestring nonetheless necessitates moola, and when one’s finances prioritises the ‘luxury’ of a roof over one’s head, then being industrious raises challenges.
Trial gym memberships are a super way to capitalise on free time, more so if you adopt a pseudonym and exploit various identities at multiple leisure centres. Just call me Jim, Jemima, Mimosa, I have no shame! But remember to a. not to give your actual telephone number, address or email details and b. not to wear a name necklace that displays your real life moniker. Oops! This happened to me once, I said it was my middle name. You can too! If you are fortunate to be granted a week pass and the expiry date is a single digit then just prefix it with a one or two! Probably best not to do this in fluorescent ink though. Yes indeedy, it probably sounds exhausting but being resourceful is! Usually I make the most of the fitness classes that are on offer. But you know how there is a moment in a session where all participants are completely harmonized, the teacher is all smiles and everyone is really feeling it… and then quite suddenly one big goofy ruins the synchronicity with gauche moves that head in a direction opposite to everyone else’s, resulting in a collision with one’s neighbour? Consequently s/he gives you the evil eye, the teacher then gives you the evil eye and the outcome incites all eyes glancing at you. And you’re thinking ‘I wish I had worn something other than this threadbare t-shirt that even Oxfam refused’. Well, I am that big doofus! However, thankfully I enjoy solitary pastimes too, such as swimming.
See here’s the thing. I go to the pool to swim. Not to chinwag about the weather, not to gossip about fellow swimmers and not to indulge in argumentative behaviour. I swim a set routine, within a specified time, without pausing. Now the following is not something I have fabricated just to aggrandize this blog, but once I actually fell asleep while swimming, no porky, admittedly it was only momentarily but I awoke only having reached the end of the lane! Even when I get cramps, which frequently happens, I just flex my foot in the water whilst front-crawling it, and on those days when I feel unwell I just paddle through it. Furthermore, sometimes I have no energy to swim; I’m in a foul mood and all I want to do is watch This Morning whilst eating choccie cake with the doggy beside me snoring like a grandpappy. Moreover, I become overwhelmed by the distance I have set myself, and so when this happens I break down each chapter to a smaller denomination and complete my designated distance. And babylicious it feels good! I just wanted to fortify that going to the pool, for me, to all intents and purposes is about swimming!!!!!!
Inevitably public pools are such hierachized spaces. Unfortunately the pool that I currently use overlooks the necessity of regulating the lanes. The fact they have notices appointing varying speeds is completely futile, since the amount of times I have entered the fast lane only to encounter swimmers that a jellyfish with heartburn would overtake are too numerous to recount. I never presume that because I am a serious swimmer that automatically I qualify for the fastest lane. All is relative. I survey the pool, and then decide based on congestion levels alongside the speed consensus of each lane, before I dive in. I have no shame in swimming in the slow-coach lane because my principle concern is completing my swim as seamlessly as possible. Fair enough, non? And by no means do I have a halo circling my swimming cap, in fact I can be ruthless and single-minded, but I do always swim close to the lane-dividing rope, partly as guidance, but also should a hurried swimmer wish to surpass me then it is conducive for us both!
Now, if you are going to conduct a natter session with a friend whilst swimming, then invading the ‘express’ lane is a safety hazard for both parties, and in these given circumstances I’m not too concerned if my propulsion dismembers you. There is nothing embarrassing about not occupying the fast lane, it is not a downgrade but a recognition of the stroke and/or speed-appropriate lane code. It is more reprehensible to cause a pool pile-up! So how do you quantify fast against slow? To some extent it’s all comparative. If one swimmer’s stroke is considerably tardier than a turtle’s and another is swimming at the speed of a turtle, then you have to apply common sense. N’est pas? I purposefully use the pool at quieter times of the day, essentially during pre-school hours. Nevertheless, these times of day are also alluring to a range of swimmers, including those who insist on disregarding the rapid swimmers (usually they favour a tardy wide-stroke) upon reaching the end of the pool wherein it would be logical to pause to allow the endurance swimmers to pass. Yes! yes! yes! Not only do leisurely swimmers decelerate one’s own pace, but to be at the receiving end of a pair of flailing feet in your face is no vista that one wishes to photograph. Additionally, it is not unusual that many ‘gentle-paced’ swimmers also straddle lane space hence disabling the potential to overtake, and so with one’s head terrifyingly close to feet that should consult with Scholl, I often fear that my teeth may disengage themselves and float away.
Equally, competitive swimmers are a pain in the Speedo. Recently, close to the end of one of my mammothesque swims my lane had emptied. Adjacent was the medium lane, which was active. Now I always exercise my breaststroke as my finale and would usually swap lanes; my breaststroke is very relaxed and like I said there is nothing, nothing shameful (unless you are an egomaniac) of slower lanes. A fellow female swimmer joined my lane and commenced with a swift back crawl. No problem you’d think. As I was reaching the end of a lap she said something to me, even with my head subsumed by water I knew that it was a complaint and so I ignored her. Like I mentioned earlier, I have no interest in those who take pleasure in bickering, after all such inane fury delays my swim. Now the following is not exaggerated to cause melodrama, it has not been customised to sensationalise my story, it happened. Upon reaching the end of the other side of the pool, the woman I was sharing the lane with swiped my head, not as an error of her arm ricocheting in-and-out of the water, but a deliberate whack. I called the lifeguard over, as clearly the rest of my swim was not going to be conducted in peace, and calmly explained what happened. Contrary to thinking that her attack had been covert, the lifeguard had actaully witnessed first hand the assault. Of course the woman saw me conferring with the pool attendant, so she halted to give her embellished version of events. Let me reiterate there were two people in the 50 metre lane, it’s girth is generous; two people! Even if I’d been swimming alongside a dugong I would have had space to manoeuvre round it, and holy moly dugongs are corpulent, even if I had been swimming besides two dugongs who incidentally would probably be babbling on about the water temperature, there would have been sufficient room for us all! “Look lady,” I said, “if you are such a Speedy Gonzales overtake me,” and with that I returned to my swim, well, you would wouldn’t you? Twenty laps later I had completed my perfunctory routine, she was still effusing to the pool attendant. My sympathies went to the supervisor because clearly her tea break was overdue.
However, my story cannot come to a close without addressing changing room etiquette, not so much etiquette but rather sheer mortification. Following a swim my face is crimson and my hair assumes a wet doggy look, not to mention that I am rather susceptible to lingering goggle marks. Before I had corrective eye surgery all was superlovelyduper as I was visually oblivious; what did it matter if people saw me looking reptilian? With flawed sight I could disengage from all cognisant eye contact. Who wants to chichat when one is unclothed with one’s cellulite exposed? Fully clothed an illusion of slenderness is somewhat achievable. Certainly it’s more flattering. So who, who in their right mind, wants to chitchat when one is in various stages of disrobement, looking like a Fraggle Rock extra, with one’s cellulite revealed to someone they know? Sadly, now with 20/20 vision I am conscious of my surroundings and predictably encounter the whole world and their best friend. I guess that’s why municipal public swimming pools are prefixed with the word public. Now, post-swim gossip that’s a topic worthy of a whole blog! Yikes, my ears are burning!
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Tags: Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Celebrity, Clothing, Conceptual, Cool, Cultural Commentary, Culture, Dating, Dog, Eccentric, Entertainment, Fashion, Friends, Funny, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, London, Love, Magazines, Media, Miscellaneous, Money, Money issues, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random, Random thoughts, Relationships, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Unemployment, University, Urban, Vintage, Work
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
I once went on a date which transpired quite steamily. Implicitly it was established that the evening would conclude at my flat. Wanting to maximise the momentum I wanted to take a taxi, he wanted to take the bus. A night bus at that! And you know how frequent they are and how ‘capacious’ they can be when eventually they do arrive. Should you even manage to slink your way in, there is very little space to continue one’s ‘closeness’. Well, being crammed beyond capacity results in being ‘very close’ but with the added component of people’s elbows and inebriated breaths also in the mix. At the time I was temping as a means just to meet my rent, per hour he was probably earning four times my own pro rata. But when it came to paying the cab driver he made no suggestion that he would contribute. And he didn’t! Sharing expenses is most acceptable on dates, but frugality is quite the passion killer!
Dating is an investment during its gestation period, as my finances do not permit cinema trips, elaborate meals and evenings indulging in copious drinking, my dating life has been non-existent of late. These days putting credit on my Oyster card is an extravagance! So if I did meet someone I can only hope he enjoys walking!
However, being single has so many benefits, honest guv, for all you cynics out there! That’s not to say it is necessarily preferable to enjoying an amorous relationship, but if you are single then there are so many advantageous factors that have been overlooked in this post- ‘Bridget Jones’ era. I shall now take you into my confidences and share that I have spent more of my adult life on my own rather than one half of a couple, so even during the height of the Bridget Jones hyperbole when the sentiments were ones that, yes, admittedly I most definitely identified with, nevertheless I never thought singledom was pathetic as purporters proposed. As much as I enjoy a relationship status, I equally profit from my single status.
Personally I completely relish in my own little idiosyncratic habits which being in a relationship would, to some degree, negate. Upon arrival home the first thing I do is jump into my pyjamas, well, I don’t literally jump into them (does anyone!) I’m no cartoon character. Sadly. But figuratively I do. Deviating slightly, I think if I were an animation-lovely I’d choose Smurfette, she’s so soignée, have you seen her shoes? J’adore! And it may surprise you if I were to say I’m not even really a shoe person – but this topic I shall save for another day. Smurfette is definitely a style crush of mine, who else can wear a polka dot so tastefully. I doubt Smurfette’s nightwear is anything like mine, she would probably sleep in a little Agent Provocateur ensemble. I would love to spend my days and nights(!) in coquettish Agent Provocateur numbers, but my bank balance barely affords me the grey sweatpants and cotton, stripey traditional bottoms that are my ‘leisure’ staples. These are, more often than not, partnered with a multitude of layers, albeit cashmere layers… brrrrrrrrr, because heating is an indulgence I bestow on my guests. It has to be. I would have zero visitors otherwise. And yes, they have all seen me in my mismatched pyjama combo, it is almost mandatory for me to welcome my friends into my home wearing said item, and since lovers are not so forgiving as friends when it comes to layers, another plus to being single!
Often I make swift trips to my local supermarket wearing nothing more than a parka and a pair of Converse worn alongside aforementioned ‘repose’ clothes. Admittedly, I can pop in to Tesco and be back at home all in the space of less than five minutes, queue permitting, and naturally it is always at these moments when I bump into people I know, never when I am looking all hot-tot-trot! Quelle domage! At a quarter to seven the other day I made an impromptu dash to the store. Did you hear me it was 6.45 am!!!! Never in a vermillion years did I think that someone I know would also have the same idea, unlike me this person was indeed decently clothed and predictably I looked like Edward Scissorhands. No exaggeration. My hair was seriously dishevelled; no insouciant chignon, I am talking hair transplant from a plastic troll type of bouffant, my face was embellished with residue from my morning’s ablutions, and face cream was circling my hair line. I greeted this former friend with a smile that I hoped communicated that all was super and dandy in the knowledge that said individual would navigate his day’s conversations towards his sighting of me and my schizophrenic appearance. My sweatpants had shrunk in the wash so they only just covered my knee and below them were a pair of fluoro pink and yellow, stripey knee-high socks that I had seized in the pitch dark. Remember? Brrrrrr! Come to think of it no wonder I am single!!!!! And although I can predict the inevitability that it is at these moments I will run into someone I haven’t seen for over a decade, I continue to take my chances. I mean who gets fully dressed for the sole purpose of just popping to one’s local shop? And yes, it is also only at these sartorially tussled moments that I also bump into my neighbours on the staircase.
Now that I have a doggy if we are going on one of our speedy ten minute promenades, once again beneath my coat are my pyjamas. I think most of my neighbourhood have been privy to glimpses from beneath my coat! But no matter. Having a doggy is so sociable, it really does open up your world, more so when your dog stops traffic, human traffic anyway. It’s just so heartening to chinwag with fellow dog owners from all walks of life, it would be even more heartening if they were males who didn’t own a freedom pass, but considering my ‘modest’ apparel, and quite frankly unsightly appearance when doggy walking, the difference it would make is nominal.
But returning to the subject of the virtues of single life. My expenditure includes sacrificing premium grocery and toiletry products for magazines (j’adore), and not have someone passing comment at my ‘priorities’. Obviously I only have myself to please and therefore my flat is arranged and adorned completely to my taste and how I make use of it is completely at my disposal. For many the bedroom has a dual purpose, for me it’s my sleeping/resting and everyday living space; both my television and computer are located here, I do my paperwork here, I read-write-and-paint here, I eat here, I chinwag to my friends on the phone here, I even entertain my friends here when they pop round, and yes indeedy we feast here too. This routine is of course logistically only really possible when you are responsible and accountable for me-myself-and-I, another person would consider this eccentric behaviour, even intolerable, for me it is completely normal. And of course when it comes to food habits there is no one giving me disparaging glances when I eat a slice of chocolate cake or two for breakfast, and I can have my supper at four o’clock in the afternoon should my appetite desire, dressed informally in pyjama mode. Natch!
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Tags: Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Celebrity, Clothing, Conceptual, Cool, Cultural Commentary, Culture, Dating, Dog, Eccentric, Entertainment, Fashion, Friends, Funny, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, London, Love, Magazines, Media, Miscellaneous, Money, Money issues, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random, Random thoughts, Relationships, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Uncategorized, Unemployment, University, Urban, Vintage, Work
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
My doggy is called Boris (naturally that’s not his real name! see above!), we live in a bijou apartment in a vibrant but hardly well-appointed part of London. Still, give me vibrancy over an influential postcode anytime, and having lived in London my entire life I think I am qualified to support this. Recently I had a meeting with a photographer who addressed my work, in a somewhat disparaging tone, as ‘extremely urban’. “Yes, that’s because it is,” I responded matter-of-factly. And I am. Unashamedly urban. Why would I be? Ashamed that is; cities are my thing. I’m not called Miss Holdall Badshaw for nothing!
Boris and I live on a high street, which is rather unfortunate as high streets are often magnets for insalubrious characters and their ‘transactions’, and so inevitably every time myself and doggy exit our front door we are in the visual trajectory of the entire neighbourhood. Perhaps as a result of being a London girl or maybe it is just inherent but very little fazes me, however by nature I like to preserve discretion. Assimilating with disparate locales requires adapting one’s carriage to the language that presides in that area. Non? Mais oui! Sadly Boris’ appearance is not very discreet, I’ve tried to downplay his fluffiness with an unassuming doggy coat, but what can you do when your canine family is a bit of a head turner? He ain’t no size zero, but as my friend Dee Dee said, he so could be a supermodel of the doggy world. Testino are you reading?
This is as good a time as any now to establish that earlier when I said apartment I was of course exaggerating. Shoebox is more befitting. My flat is so small that when I originally viewed it, the fridge was in the living room. “Well, if I can lose the fridge, and the ornate, faux iron chandelier, curtain trimmings, actually let’s just cull the frilly curtains altogether, and the faux beech bistro dining set and matching side tables, I’ll take it.” The lack of fridge seemed to disconcert the estate agent, but when you are living on your own, have grocery stores on your doorstep and buy provisions for the day, really a fridge only serves the purpose of chilling certain alcoholic beverages. I know your sympathies are with the milk, but now that the temperature has dropped and heating is a luxury, it chills itself!
Renting is symptomatic of living in a financially challenging city like London. I have a colourful repertoire of anecdotes involving all my past dwellings, I use the word colourful as a pretext for distressing, and that includes searching for a flat and the euphemisms estate agents employ. Really, an estate agent’s lexicon is so **** transparent. Cosy indeed! Cosy for a raccoon! Thankfully my landlord is professional, reasonable and a decent guy which is why I have now been a tenant of his three times. So with the flat emptied of furnishings and superfluous clutter, within twenty-four hours of having moved in, I maximized its spatial limitations and made petite into palatial. Home is where the collection of Wombles are. Non? Bien sur! I adore my sense of home, I love its sentiment of belonging, I love the feeling of coming home, and when I am away I take comfort in the thought that my home is waiting for me. And just as well, as the following two days were spent recovering in bed since the removal man I hired decided early on that his role was going to be a passive one. Although his rates were the most competitive and alarm bells did go zing-a-zing-ding, he was of course slightly delusional. After all, don’t apply for a job as Santa Claus if you’re not prepared to wear the beard! Non? Non!
Given that time is money in business, I had prepared the removal down to a cuppa T with all my worldly possessions at street level ready to be loaded up into the van. Admittedly, the elevator at my old address enabled this, but to say that my back suffered is not to be understated. All boxes were clearly marked as to their level of heaviness and the removal man, can’t remember his name but let’s call him ‘Rodney’, was fully informed as to the absence of a lift at my new habitat, before you start thinking that I am some duplicitous meanypie. Once again as a means to save money I told Rodney not to hire an accomplice as I would be the second pair of hands. However upon meeting Rodney, his breathless cough and perspiring demeanour (and that was even before he had lifted a finger to shake my hand, let alone a box) incited nervosity. Me not him! It was also clear I was at least half his age and so internally I started to strategize ways in which I could expedite what would otherwise be a protracted and costly move. An hour later of listening to Rodney gasping as he wiped away the downpour that was surfacing from his every pore, whilst we crossed town (and he had the nerve to ask to wind up my window), we arrived at my new address. As Rodders opened the back door only to reveal the density of personal effects that needed to be negotiated up the narrow staircase, my heart plummeted. Five painful minutes of him leisurely moving my boxes out of the van into the communal hallway, I asserted that he would indeed have to join me in carrying them up to my flat. Rodney’s riposte made reference to keeping an eye on the van, in which I countered we could swap positions if that really was his concern… What followed was lots of huffing and puffing, him not me, well me too, but he made his panting conspicuously audible, but I paid no attention. I was, however, sufficiently benevolent to let him just drop my belongings onto whatever floor surface was visible, rather than the designated rooms in which the boxes were labelled. This resulted in an impenetrable hallway and boxes precariously balancing upon, against and obliquely on top of each other in a tower formation. Consequently this prompted rapid unpacking action; remember my flat’s diminutive proportion? But j’adore, j’adore the transforming process of personalizing a home, I actually don’t need a trigger. And there’s nothing quite like a well-needed rest in a well-made bed. Non? Certainly! That night I slept like a sedated sloth. In any case, you know that platitude of what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, that move gave me muscles, just as well as I have a doggy to carry up my stairway at least twice a day. Woof!
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Random Musings and Urban Adventures whilst negotiating life on a budget 8
So what do you do if you are 38, time rich, money poor, have an MA from a prestigious university, financial anxieties due to the loan repayments that facilitated said MA, are well-read, well-travelled, creatively-driven, but have spent the last four years applying for well over 800 jobs exhausting all resources and initiative, furthermore you are so single that the concept of dating is abstract, and recently you have rehomed a 13-year-old, arthritic rescue dog that is clinically obese, not to mention you have two generous flights of stairs to carry him up every time the both of you return home – you write a blog of course!
The following is nothing less than 100% true. Names have been changed to protect those who quite frankly may need protection! Let’s call me ‘Miss Holdall Badshaw’.
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Tags: Age, Architecture, Art, Books, Celebrity, Clothing, Conceptual, Cool, Cultural Commentary, Culture, Dating, Dog, Eccentric, Entertainment, Fashion, Friends, Funny, Glamour, Home, Inspiration, Internet, Job search, Life, London, Love, Magazines, Media, Miscellaneous, Money, Money issues, Music, People, Pets, Pop culture, Random, Random thoughts, Relationships, Research, Social media, Street, Style, Styling, Travel, Trends, Unemployment, University, Urban, Vintage, Work