I had to run for the train this morning. Nothing too unusual.
The route from car to station is a 400 yard, down hill sprint that involves keeping my hat on and hurdling over green horse muck. The type of muck that knows if it is to survive, it has to blend in with the leaves. I’ve got it down to about 5 minutes if there’s no fresh poo. However this morning I was not alone. There was also a running man.
As the Gods of Social Awkwardness would have it… Here we both were, doing the morning flail a few metres apart. He wasn’t as good at hurdling as myself (even though I wear a backpack that anti-hurdles) but he was brave. He tried to overtake me twice but my unpredictable arms would not allow. So we ended up running side-by-side along the slippery pavement like two athletes for Team Alarm Clock Snooze. Ever the anti-socialist, I ignored him ‘til the end and was perfectly happy to file this under “Nope”. Until he sat next to me on the train.
So here we are. Me and coach. Both trying to normalise our breathing patterns and ignore that he cut me up on the station stairs.
UPDATE KLAXON 14/11/12:
It happened again.
And the plot thickens. We were not alone.
There was a Running Woman! Just as I was getting used to the idea of having a running partner to flail with… wham. A woman gets involved (like they always do) and changes the entire set up. And this Running Woman had no shame… she overtook me like the two-bit Olympian hooker that she is.
I missed the bloody train and watched them two train off into the sunset. Tomorrow: running shoes.
She falls over ever five minutes, mistook the Birmingham Bull for a dog, filled every silence with “Have you guys ever watched…” in an Australian accent and bought two gossip magazines a day, every day. We will miss her constant source of “Did you guys know…” dubious ‘facts’ (still
in an Australian accent) and we will also, reluctantly, miss her repeatedly singing songs from the 90’s (accent and pitch unknown).
It will be a relief not to have somebody barge into the office wailing: “I’VE JUST BEEN THE VICTIM OF A WALKING HIT AND RUN”, however we will certainly miss her creative input, innovative (and insane) ideas and general enthusiasm for every single task we gave her. London is very lucky to have you and we know you’re going to have a very successful career in the media ahead of you. Hurry up and finish your degree and come back to us. Lots of love, Hanna Lee Tidd and Rachael Giaramita XXX
Just met a lady in the beauty aisle in Boots. She had brown hair and looked like she was going to a fancy dress party dressed as a less glamorous Bag Lady from Mary Poppins. Quite original, I thought. She was celebrating finding two bottles of Impulse Body Spray for £1 each - any flavour you want, but she preferred original - so I think she may have been more ‘touchy’ than she normally is. I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t like it when strangers touch my arm when they’re describing a bargain.
She told me off for buying Russian shampoo instead of L’Oreal, which is British. I didn’t think that L’Oreal sounded very British but I wasn’t going to question it, partly because she buys L’Oreal every week so she knows more about it than me. But mainly because every time I mumbled something she used it as an excuse to touch me. I did explain that Aussie shampoo is actually Australian, not Russian, but she pointed to the double ‘S’ and I let it go. She told me that I should get the conditioner as well. I picked it up because I was going to anyway, not because a stranger just told me that my hair needed conditioning. And not because I was scared she would touch my hair if I resisted buying it.
She followed me to the hair dye aisle and asked me what colour I was going to dye my hair. I hadn’t forgiven her for suggesting that I have frizzy hair so I mumbled something about changing my mind and turned to walk down the sun cream aisle even though I don’t need any sun cream.
At this point she opened her mouth into an “O” shape and let out a squeal like air being let out of a balloon. She might have been just getting into the spirit of her fancy dress character, but I think she found something really funny and was one of those people who couldn’t stifle a laugh. In between squeals she started calling me pathetic because I daren’t dye my hair. I wanted to tell her that I once home-dyed my fringe orange and purple for Prom, actually, but my main priority was to stop her from laughing so I channeled my Fire Prevention training. To stop a fire you have to remove one element of the triangle - oxygen, heat or fuel: I decided to remove myself and went to pay. I could still hear her laughing from the counter.
I’m not entirely sure if the Bag Lady was trying to steal my bag. But I think she wasn’t.
Thought it was a bit shitting RUDE strange that they kept stopping mid conversation to look out the window. “Yeah I usually get the later train but the clocks have… erm… Guys?… hello? WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT NOW”
Took me just under two minutes to realise that they were train spotters (good save brain, nice job, have a reward… RYAN GOSLING IN HIS PANTS. Ok that’s enough) but by then we were already ‘train friends’ and you can’t really divorce train friends unless you’re willing to put in the work.
The most common divorce proceedings include:
1) “Dum di dum, oh wow, this is my stop… that came round fast… see ya later train friend, hopefully catch you next time… just getting off the train… bye! Dum di dum… and… on the platform… and… out of sight… and… RUN LIKE HELL ONTO THE NEXT CARRIAGE” or
2) “Can you save my seat I’m just going to the toilet…” Or am I? I generally prefer option number 1, because even in the middle of a divorce, I don’t really like people thinking about me going to the toilet. (STOP IT!)
So, just me and the lads, out on the open road. Bit awkward. Not the best at conversation. Quite a bit of weather chat. I asked if they had seen anything good today. “No.” Asked if they write down every train number. “Of course not”. Asked if they took pictures of the trains. “Yes. When we’ve got enough time.” Asked if they wanted me to take a picture whilst they were jotting down the numbers. “No.” And that put an end to it. Nearly told them about Google image search but if they’re not willing to have a temporary third spotter then I’m not willing to be their ‘between train’ entertainment. Good DAY.
Apologies for not updating for over a month (which I know is about 4 years in Internet Hours). Truth is, ever since becoming self-employed "oh my god are you self employed? you should have said…" I have no spare hours. Which is why the highlight of my week is spotting train spotters and making a teeny tiny picture frame for my desk. Pretty cool, huh? Huh?
Listening to a girl on the train. She’s a fresher. Her voice is unusual and irritating. Nasal, but with a slight ‘glub’ at the back of her throat. If you wanted to recreate the tone, the best way would be to push a boiled sweet to the back of you tongue and say the word “plarstar” (plaster) down your nose. Her friend is sitting opposite. Plain. ‘Glub’ is dictating the ‘rules of uni’ to ‘Plain’. Plain is desperate to open up the conversation into a two way street, anxiously agreeing with every point Glub makes, almost to remind her that she’s still there. Glub: ‘Make sure you have your vaccinations before you go because if’ Plain: yeah yeah that’s a good idea my head of sixth told me that.. Glub: IF YOU DON’T YOU MIGHT HAVE TO PAY FOR THEM OUT OF YOUR STUDENT LOAN. It’s clear that this isn’t a two way street. It’s a dead end. I almost want to reach out to Plain and tell her to put her iPod on and look out the window and ditch Glub at New Street. Now she’s moved on to photo albums. She’s taking an empty album with her to uni, Plain should do the same. It means they’ll have somewhere to put their new uni pictures when they take them. Plain thinks that’s a great idea, Glub doesn’t care. That photo album will be a right laugh won’t it.
I’ve noticed I’ve been getting a few hits recently (I don’t know why, I’m a POS (Piece Of Shit) and never write anything proper)… so thought I would take this opportunity to rinse the shit out of you all say HIIII to new followers and also to promote introduce you to one of my girlfriend’s exciting new clothing brands. WAIT DON’T GO…!!!! She’s brill and I sort of hate her for her wardrobe. You should check out some of her stuff (if you want to look cool).
I’ve been obsessing over Navajo prints all summer and she’s sent me this necklace, complete with dinky tribal mat! Pretty prits right?
So go and buy all of her stuff OK?
I’ll write a proper update soon that doesn’t involve selling something, prom. Got lots of exciting news RE: Tiger Bam (WE’VE GOT A NEW CLIENTTTT!! I repeat, WE’VE GOT A CLIENT!!! and a bloody website. And a shitting office plant.)
1) The type of person that puts the kettle on and then realises that they need a wee… But they stick it out waiting for the kettle to boil because that’s the path that they have signed up for, even though they are now in pain and are about to piss their pants can’t stop thinking about what their life would be like if they just took the risk and went to the toilet. They figure that the kettle will boil any second now and then it will be their chance to wee. Once they’ve made everyone else a cup, I guess.
2) The type of person that puts the kettle on and then realises that they need a wee… So they think “What they hell, I’m going to take the risk. I believe I can do this” and then leg it up the stairs to the toilet believing that they’ll make it back in time. They figure the worst that could happen is that their water gets a little bit cold. Even if disaster strikes and someone steals their water, they can always refill it back up and flick the kettle switch on again. No shame in that.
3) The type of person that doesn’t drink tea. AVOID AT ALL SHITTING COSTS.
Got a few things that I’m thinking about at the moment. I will leave them here so I can come back to them and think about them again at a later time. This post does contain snot-chat so I understand if you need to leave now. Go, it’s fine. Pussy.
WHERE IS THIS SNOT COMING FROM! It’s never-ending. When I’ve heard people say that their “nose is like a tap” before I’ve thought, “yeah, alright, noses do look a bit tap shaped”. NOW I get it. They mean an actual snot tap. A never-ending tap of snotty syrup that just keeps on giving. SOMEONE TURN MY TAP OFF. I mentioned earlier that I was considering using my dog as a snotrag, but times have changed. I now fear that the surface area of a Jack Russell just wouldn’t cut it. I’d need Clifford the Big Red Massive Dog and even then I’d probably have to reuse the tail.
Where has June Sarpong gone?? Did she even say bye when she left TV? Or did she just assume that she’d get another presenting gig so didn’t need a dramatic farewell… There’s so much shit television that has room for a presenter like JS. I don’t understand it. Did she get caught doing coke like Richard Bacon?
Who invented the “heaped teaspoon” measuring unit????? I was just making a Mint Aero hot chocolate (snotters drink of choice) and it told me to add ‘four heaped teaspoons’. So I did. Then I thought… Hang on. Was that last one ‘heaped’ enough? Was it just a normal ‘tsp’ or was #2 TOO heaped? Is there such thing as a big heaper? You know when you buy concentrated Ribena and spend twenty minutes trying to get the water:beena ratio right (nah never done that either) just once you can definitely taste the difference if you get it slightly wrong… Well, the ‘heaped tsp’ unit has a large margin for error in my opinion. But it doesn’t end there. I measured the teaspoons (waiting for kettle to boil OKAY?) and it turns out that 1 heaper is the same amount as 1 tablespoon. WHAT THE HELL. Are they on drugs! Why not just say 1 tablespoon??? Complete crock of shit.
Anyway that’s it. Snot, check. June, check. Teaspoon wankers, check.
If I drown in my sleep (snot) then someone please write to Aero and tell them that not only have they messed up the measuring system, but the bit on the front of the tub that says “will bubble up in seconds” is a load of heaped bull.
My bike is a moron. I hate my bike, yep yep, I hate my bike. The brakes don’t work (if you’re a chicken you want to come to a complete stop, you have to get your feet involved), the pedals are not only toe traps, but they also scrape along the floor. To top the whole sack of horse shit thing off, the gears like to add a bit of spice to the journey. Whenever I decide to pedal like the wind they start a revolution. “HEY… Gear 1! Yes Gear 2? Fancy carrying this chain for a bit? Are you on drugs man, the rider hasn’t requested a switch yet? Screw the rider man, we’re strong independant gears, if we want to switch it up sometimes we can. Ok ok you’re right, you’re always right. Wait until she’s about to get up the curb though. But why… You’ll see. NOW QUICK SWITCH!!!”. *Crash into a wall* asdkjgha;sghghajg;
I like a challenge as much as the next idiot, but when you’re riding along the path and your brakes don’t work and Ortis from the Gadget Show is crossing the road in front of you and he’s taken up the part of the curb that’s sloped especially for wheels and you’ve got no option but to take on the Mount Everest part of the curb and your pedals are like “NOOO” and your gears are like “SWITCH QUICK QUICK FUNNY! ORTIS WATCH”… It’s just a bit much, you know?
Today is my first day as an official non-student. I’m a little bit anxious because no one has written a non-student rule book yet. Apparently you have to learn the norms and values of adulthood through word of mouth, trial and error and raised judgmental eyebrows from people in the street. (Even if the person in question is wearing fake Ugg boots that have considerably worn down on one side. Drop them eyebrows lady, I can see the erosion on your left sole. People living in a green house shouldn’t throw stones at the ladder in my tights.) To be honest, there should be some sort of badge that newborn non-students wear to raise awareness, like those ‘P’ badges that all of the losers some people put on their cars when they’ve just passed their driving test.
I’ll start with the basics. In terms of dress code, am I allowed to go to Tesco’s in my pyjamas or will people automatically assume that I’m batshit, have twelve gerbils and smell like wee? Do non-students even get served in Tesco’s if they’re wearing pyjamas? Is there a specific day when this is allowed, for example ‘Jammy Thursdays’? I have heard that going to Tescos in your pyjamas is illegal if you’re an adult so this is something that I may need to look into if I run out of cereal at 11pm.
What about TV… How much is too much? And in terms of content, is it a yay to BBC Breakfast but strictly nay to Jeremy Kyle? What’s the cut off? I need a cut off time. I’m a simple girl. If I have a full packet of biscuits, I eat a full packet of biscuits. Similar territory to if the TV is on. Ain’t nobody turning that shit off without a cut off.
I’m not too fussed about losing 60 Minute Makeover because that’s only good when the victim forgets that they’re on camera and asks them to repaint. But I would quite like to keep Countdown if that’s OK. You know exactly where you are with Countdown, I think everything in life should work in conjunction with a big hovering ticking clock. Like when you’re going to the toilet walking to the bus stop etc. Things would get done a lot quicker, although I have been told that if you sit in a room with the same particular noise (air conditioning hum etc.) over a long period of time you eventually become deaf to that frequency because your mind switches off to it. Not being able to hear a ticking clock would potentially ruin the format of Countdown so I’ll get back to you with that.
Speaking of annoying noises… My boyfriend has hinted that if I apply to do a Masters degree he will discard me like 60 Minute Makeover. Similarly, my mother has told me that if I apply to do a Masters degree she will personally write a recommendation letter, recommending that they do not let me onto the course, even if it is a Masters in something easy like David Beckham. So based on the fact that I will never be a student again, I’m dreading the answer to this next topic because it’s a touchy subject and something that I already know is a bit suspect. But I guess it’s something that needs to be discussed if I’m going to be a real non-student… hats.
I’ve got a rather large hat collection; big ones, bigger ones, some the size of your head. (14 in total). I’m particularly worried that these are no longer acceptable now that I’ve got to provide some sort of evidence that I have brushed my hair and haven’t stayed in bed for 49 hours ‘being a student’. Can someone advise me what type of hat is acceptable now that I’m a woman. I guess I could be a policeman if the journalism thing doesn’t pan out but I’m not very good at confrontation and I am technically three inches away from being declared an official midget. If there is a better hat solution out there I would probably opt for that. (Not this. Don’t wind me up)
There are a number of other things that I would like to discuss including food, sleeping patterns, alcoholic scrabble, going out on a week night, employment, tights with ladders in, what age should I stop blagging student discount etc etc… however I’ve missed twelve minutes of Loose Women trying to find a picture of a police man holding lots of hats. PEACE x
“I guess ‘Loveless’ came from a place of loss and regret, when you try and change what you’ve done but can’t fix it. When you pine for a loved one but realise that maybe you’re in love with a ghost, or an idea of something long gone.”—David Mooretalks to Dazed about the new video for “Loveless”, and the meaning behind his music. (via dazeddigital)
GRANDMA 1: Her best soap is Emmerdale. That has always been her favourite one because when the credits roll at the end the announcer says: “wow! Whadda bout that then!” He really gets into it, you can tell.
GRANDMA 2: She spends an hour a day cleaning Mrs Butterworth’s house but isn’t going to go today because she knows the answer to the Loose Women phone-in competition. She’s waiting for the phone call, and she doesn’t mind which one it is as long as it isn’t Denise or Carole.
GRANDMA 3: She’s ran out of ring space on her fingers. So now she’s got Sovereign rings coming out of her ears. (Hooped on her left earring to be more precise)
I woke up this morning, opened my laptop and found a window still open. It was an Amazon confirmation email: “Thank you for purchasing a Vintage Ukulele - Natural”. Well, thanks for thinking of me Amazon. It’s been a while since I last bought/thought about our last encounter (fitness DVD), but I’m afraid this time you’re mistaken. I most certainly have not ordered a ukulele. I know my musical limits, I’m no George Formby…
And then I notice the second window. A google search of the word “Ukelelee”. Ok, what the Trevor McDonald is going on…
And then I realise that I’ve done it again. I’ve been a piece of shit. I’ve gone on a little shopping trip whilst half asleep, haven’t I. Just to clarify, I’m not a sleep walker. A wriggler, yes; I’ve been known to wake up with my boyfriend in a headlock. But this is completely different, I think the technical term is: “sleepy weepy shopper whopper”.
As soon as those lids drop, the bank card comes out. I’ve got money to spend (in my dreams). In reality, I buy yoghurt from the reduced section and freeze it to save 40p.
However, the difference in this case is that usually I buy things that I’ve been thinking about. I drift off with a special topshop dress on my mind and my sleepy alter-ego gets involved: “Are you asleep? Wake up you sleeping mess, we need this dress. We’re buying it. Come on. We’re doing it. Click. We’re logging in. We’re in! Click, purchase. Next day delivery? Go on then, splash out you turd, click. Here comes the finale… Confirm. My work here is done, goodnight. Enjoy your dress dickhead.”
And that’s that. I’m the proud owner of a new dress that I was considering buying, but have no recollection of actually purchasing.
So GOD KNOWS why I’m now the proud owner of a tiny guitar. And not even the cheapest one out there. Oh, so we’re not too tired to log into Amazon, but we’re too tired to shop around for a bargain. AY! Bloody sleepy stupid idiot.
So I write a little something about it on my twitter and facebook. I decide to advertise the Sleepy Uke (yes, I’m calling it an Uke now. Yes, we’re tight) to see if anyone fancies buying it off me. And within minutes I get people offering to take it off my hands. At a largely discounted price, of course. Cheers guys. I’m not asleep now, suckerrrs, try me in a few hours!
But most interestingly, I get some rather different offers. A few people, strangers and friends, offer me Ukulele lessons. Another person points me towards a free online song book. And even invites me to join a Ukulele group in Moseley. A large amount of lovely people, most of whom I’ve never spoken to before, wish me luck with my new purchase.
I’ve received such a positive reaction to my annoying ridiculous little sleeping habit that I’ve decided to keep the Uke. Keep it and open it and try to hold it and maybe play it.
And tonight I’ll booby-trap my laptop with a few glasses of water so I don’t buy a didgeridoo. (We’ll see.)
It's 3:45am. I've just been woken up by an urgent call from my drunk boyfriend:
He’s just punched a statue of a horse, he tried to go for a poo in the toilets in the church but it was closed and if I ever threaten to leave him he’ll jump off the top of Mcdonalds.
"Yeah yeah darling put some peas on it when you get in yeah yeah it’s closed at night honey yeah God needs sleep too yeah not McDonalds it’s too low you’ll just break a leg yeah ok yeah love you too yeah good night. WAIT, what was the second one…..?!!"
I jumped on the blogging bandwagon pretty early. When I was thirteen my mum found my online diary on opendiary.com. In it, I was pretending to be a 29 year old man. I guess you could say that was my first blog. I guess you could also say that was a pretty awkward conversation with my mum.
I’m tempted to leave it at that, but for the sake of sake’s sake I’ll elaborate. To my disappointment, the angsty ins and outs of my generic teenage adventures rarely raised an eyebrow in the ‘online diary’ community, despite how many times I created fake accounts to nominate myself for the “entry of the day”.
Desperate for attention, I set up a fake blog - then called an “online diary” - that mimicked the style and humour of one of my favourite bloggers at the time. Who just happened to be a 29 year old man. I span stories about my alter ego’s day-to-day life that were just believable enough to attract a small group of regular readers, mainly housewives. More importantly, I finally attracted some of the elusive commenters that I’d never been able to as a 13 year old girl.
I cherished the comments on my clumsy blog of lies as if they were tiny specks of gold. Each “lol - funny entry :)” was a tiny victory. They were what kept me spinning my elaborate stories and it didn’t even matter that they were addressed to the 29 year old Jack, who’s diary was abnormally filled with “comical” trips to the Dentist.
Sadly, I wasn’t as clever as Jack. I stupidly underestimated my mother’s ability to log into her email account - this was 1998 - to which I registered the blog, so after five months of comment collecting I had to say goodbye to Jack the Jester and go back to Hanna the Loner.
Repercussion wise, my saving grace was that all of my commenters were women (assuming they weren’t spotty 13 year olds like myself). So aside from the obvious, “are you a lesbian, is this what this is about?” moment - not the first, not the last- from my mum, my punishment wasn’t memorable. (Not like the time I got caught smuggling Baileys in a Mars Milkshake bottle on a school trip the following year).
The reason for recalling this is because I’m analysing a female writer’s writing style and blog content for my dissertation. I can’t help thinking that some of her articles would receive a very different response if they were typed by man shaped hands instead.