September 21, 2012 · 12:00 pm

I give all the good advice

Possibly my favourite thing is when people ask me for advice. It happened to me yesterday.

‘I am going to the IMAX cinema for the first time,’ My friend texted me. ‘I am terribly excited. What shall I wear?’ ‘It’s sauna rules,’ I quickly texted back. ‘Towel only’.

This, you will be surprised to hear,  is not even the best piece of advice I have ever given. At the risk of showing off, I will now share some of my pearls of wisdom:

1. ‘I can’t come,’ My friend said sadly. ‘I need to do some training, and I won’t have time to shower and change before dinner. I’m so sorry.’ ‘Do not panic,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Sweat is self-cleansing.

There is no need to shower. It’s like those people who follow Brad Pitt to Tibet and don’t wash their hair and then they come home and everyone’s so jealous because their hair is so clean. Despite no shampoo.‘

2. ‘I am so poor  this month I will be subsisting entirely off condiments,’ A former housemate told me. ‘Nonsense,’ I replied briskly. ‘You simply need to stop throwing your money away on things that you can easily get for free.’ My housemate looked at me, perplexed. ‘As in,’ I explained kindly. ‘There is absolutely no need to pay for ketchup, or salt, or napkins- all of which can be taken freely from MacDonalds.

Need a fork? Head to Waitrose- they have stacks of them by their salad aisle. Forgo expensive bottled water and instead, when out and thirsty, pop into the nearest pub. They’ll always give you a glass of tap water if you’re feeling a bit dry.’ If I remember correctly, my housemate was, in fact, so overwhelmed with this excellent advice, that she had to leave the room to contain herself.

3. Often people call me up, complaining about how tired they are. (It is possible I am the one calling them, and it’s 2.30am, but I can’t get bogged down in minor details). ‘There is no need to be tired,’ I explain cheerfully. ‘Whenever you feel tired, have a little nap. If you are in private, have a long sleep. Publicly, retire to the toilet and nap there for 20mins or so. You will notice that toilets have an inbuilt pillow in the toilet roll.

Impress upon your boss how keen you are to take advantage of every opportunity.

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September 19, 2012 · 12:24 pm

My housemates are idiots (and I’ve run out of shampoo)

I have run out of shampoo. I usually steal shampoo from my Mother’s house when I go over to visit, but the last time I was there my hands were full of stolen wine, and I forgot. So, this week, I have been experimenting. Not with different types of shampoo, but with the varying levels of generosity and attention to detail of my two housemates.

The shower room (which, handily, is separate from the toilet) is a very useful source of information. In fact, I might go so far as to say it has yielded more personal data to me than the time when my housemates were out, and I went for a quick rifle through their stuff. Let me quickly describe our shower room. It has a mirror which opens to reveal 3 shelves (of which we each own one). We have put in a freestanding set of drawers (there are 4, but the bottom one holds bathroom cleaning products), and along the base of the bath (at the opposite end to the shower-head), are three further baskets.

‘It is quite impossible that we need this much storage in the shower’, I told my little sister when we bought it. ‘No-one can possibly possess so many toothbrushes.’

I was right about that, although we currently have 5 toothbrushes in the toothbrush mug (former houseguests- please feel free to re-claim your possessions. Though not those awesome theatre binoculars, I use those to make myself feel like a giant when I read articles).

What I had failed to consider was the amount of cleaning product my housemate and little sister would think it was appropriate to possess.

The bath baskets are open, so every single time anyone accidentally wanders into the shower room looking for the loo, they can instantly see the profligate and excessive spending habits of my housemates.

My own basket, it is true, looks particularly scarce this week, its facewash and razor in the midst of an existential crisis about their role in the grand scheme of things as they lie in the black expanse on basket. But even with the reassuring presence of their shampoo friend, my basket remains a Zen-like zone of simplicity, when compared to the brilliantly coloured, stuffed baskets of my housemates.

This week, I have been forced to examine their contents more closely than usual (obviously I don’t want to start washing my hair with exfoliating wash or leave-in colour-protect conditioner), and I have come to the conclusion that my housemates are mugs. Which is brilliant, because it means I can happily continue to ‘borrow’ shampoo from them both, in the full knowledge that they are just dying to return to Boots and give more of their money to Herbal Essences.

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September 18, 2012 · 11:21 am

I never asked to be born first

I have found something to add to the long list of injustices and ruthless mistreatment that I have suffered at the hands of my parents. For a long time, I was deeply angry that I was the eldest. Whereas most teenagers yell at their parents, ‘I never asked to be born,’ I personally screamed, ‘I never asked to be born first’.

Being born first is the pits. Your siblings spend their entire childhoods being slower and stupider and more boring to play with than you, and then suddenly spring up and show you up by beating all your academic and sporting records. ‘It is well known,’ I remember telling my little sister, as she smashed my 400m record.

‘That it is much, much harder to set the pace than to overtake it.’ Unfortunately, despite my years of campaigning, there is still no prize for “setting a now-beaten record in more difficult circumstances”.

Being the eldest means you are always the one tasked with coming up with interesting games and then, as reward for your effort and ingenuity, admonished by your parents for being ‘the ringmaster’.

‘But if we weren’t here, who would you have to play with?’ My little sister often asked me. ‘No,’ I explained crossly. ‘You should still be here. Just I should be in the middle.’ ‘I’m in the middle,’ My little sister replied sadly. ‘Mum forgot my birthday last year.’

‘OK,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I don’t want to be the middle child. The youngest. That’s a great gig.’

‘I’m not sure, you know,’ My little sister replied. ‘We exclude our little brother pretty consistently. Plus, you spend your entire childhood being worse than your siblings at everything, just because you’re littler.’

‘Another excellent point,’ I mused. ‘Perhaps being the eldest is the best.’ My little sister, entirely uninterested in this conversation, wandered off to make a sandwich. An hour later, I accosted her in her room. ‘I’ve got it,’ I yelled happily. ‘I need a twin.’ ‘But what if your twin was better than you? Then you wouldn’t even be able to claim your imaginary “difficult circumstances” prize.’ ‘I wasn’t finished,’ I said quickly. ‘I need a twin, who is slightly worse than me at everything. Now, let’s go ask Mum and Dad why I didn’t get one.’

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September 17, 2012 · 7:17 pm

I’m good in bed

I’m Good In Bed

I’m Good In Bed

I like to snuggle. Spooning, hugging, nestling, cuddling- I like it all. I like it in the morning, during naptime, and when I go to sleep. My former housemate calls it ‘huggling’, which I like even more. In the mornings, I often pop into my current housemate’s bed for a cozy chat. (My other housemate is my little sister, and she has developed a highly effective scissor kick which prevents me from hopping into bed with her).

I like to think of myself as a very relaxed, easy-going bed-sharer. Recently, it has been pointed out to me that this is simply not true. ‘No-one likes to share a bed with you,’ My Mother pointed out at a family dinner. The rest of my family nodded in enthusiastic agreement. They then, completely unasked, began to reel off the things they disliked about having me in their bed.

 

 

I have been told off, over the years, by family, friends and boyfriends, for the following misdemeanours:

1. Putting my face too close to their faces.

2. Asking pertinent and intrusive questions when they are falling asleep, in a bid to find out the truth.

3. Leaning over them in the morning with my hand just above their mouth- to check if they are still breathing.

4. Rolling my entire self into a ‘duvet sausage roll’ (the duvet is the roll, I am the sausage. The other person is cold).

5. Attempting to begin extremely important conversations at 3.30am, on my return from my night wee.

 

(This article originally appeared at http://thelondonlook.com/fashion/im-good-in-bed/)

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September 14, 2012 · 12:38 pm

You will not beat me

I just had an amazingly undignified fight with a shoe rack.

It all started amicably enough. Yesterday, I noticed that our guests simply fling off their shoes in our hallway, where they lie, perfectly positioned to trip people over. (Particularly those people who are entering the hallway still telling the end of an extremely amusing story, but I think its a pretty widespread problem). ‘I am buying a shoe rack,’ I announced grandly this morning to my uninterested housemates. ‘I am buying a shoe rack today.’

Being a person of my word, I did, in fact buy a shoe rack.

It came in 6 pieces. Two long slats, and 4 little proppy-uppy things that hold them together (and apart, but at this moment I was still happy with the shoe rack, and unaware of its hidden sinister properties). ‘This will be so easy,’ I thought to myself smugly. ‘I won’t even bother thinking about lunch until I’ve chucked it up. Then I can have a ploughmans and really deserve it.’ 

I’m starving, the bloody thing won’t stick together unless I hold it with my hands (which, although effective, is less practical than I would have liked), and I’ve grazed my foot on its sharp and unforgiving corners.

Yesterday, I thought I could not hate anything more than a rogue trippy-up shoe. Today, I have met its meaner, more pernicious cousin. In future, all house guests will simply have to arrive barefoot.

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September 12, 2012 · 12:33 pm

It might be about a cabin in the woods. But who knows?

My Mother’s favourite simile involves a swan. To be fair, it might not be a bird at all- my Mother is famous in our family for incorrectly identifying ‘horses’ on long car journeys, which, when verified, were definitively categorised as ‘cars’ by the rest of the family.

Anyway, my Mother’s simile goes a little like this: All successful people are like swans.

On the surface, they seem calm and unflustered, but underneath the water they are paddling like mad to stay afloat. I am not entirely sure what the main thrust of the simile is, as she tends to wheel it out at every possible occasion, but I do like it.  I think what I particularly like is the idea of things being not as they initially appear, as if the world is only superficially made up of council taxes and tube fares and replenishing toothpaste- but underneath, is full of chaos and magic.

‘I have always suspected as much,’ I told my friends last night smugly, as we sat watching ‘The Cabin in the Woods’.

‘But then again, I am a very perceptive person.’ There was a short pause. ‘Lucy,’ My friend pointed out slowly. ‘At the beginning of this movie you believed it was a film about nuclear reactors.’ ‘Well,’ I explained carefully. ‘There were men in suits, who had to enter security codes to get into their office. What else was I meant to think?’ ‘But we had previously watched a trailer for this movie,’ She replied, bewildered. ‘And we then discussed it, and explained that it was, in fact, about a cabin in the woods.’ ‘Ah,’ I replied kindly. ‘My sweet innocent friend. That’s the swan! I was thinking about what’s underneath!’

It is possible the simile needs some work. It is possible that I will look as though I am taking a nap this afternoon. In actual fact, I will be busily creating the world’s most adaptable simile. And trying to work out the plot of ‘The Cabin in the Woods’. I hope very much that while I do this, my housemate replenishes the balsamic vinegar. I, myself will be far too busy exploring the mysteries that lie below the surface to bother with bill-paying or grocery shopping.

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September 11, 2012 · 11:29 am

Micro-scooters and being nearly 27

Those little micro scooters became popular two years too late. I was 12 by the time they were the ‘must-have’ item, and far too grown-up and cool to have a super fun mini scooter to race my siblings on.

‘Ugh,’ I complained loudly when my little sister and brother got given them. ‘These are the worst. No I do not want a go. I much prefer to walk.’

I haven’t given much thought to micro scooters since (but rather buried the trauma in the deep dark place where all the unspeakable horrors of a middle-class childhood go- one day I will tell you about the time my French-speaking friend got 100% on the Year 6 French test which, obviously, was wildly unfair and unspeakably unjust), but my new next-door neighbours have them.

‘Look!’ They showed me excitedly last week. ‘We’ve got scooters!’ ‘Hmm,’ I replied warily. ‘I’m not a big scooter fan.’ ‘But look how fast you can go!’ The eldest one shouted, as she whizzed down our street. ‘Mine is pink,’ Her little sister informed me solemnly.

‘My favourite colour is pink. What is your favourite colour?’ (One of the best things about spending a disproportionate part of my day with under-10year olds is how much thought one has to give to life’s really important issues). ‘Blue,’ I replied finally. ‘It used to be purple, but I think now blue. You know,’ I continued as she stared up at me from her pink scooter. ‘There’s a whole psychology of colour. I’ll look into it for us.’ ‘Would you like a go on my scooter?’ She asked.

I was 26 before I finally let myself have a proper go on a micro scooter. Now I know exactly what I want for my 27th birthday. (Unless my parents are reading this, in which case it’s still the Reiss Peacoat- I sent you both the link last week- medium please).

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September 7, 2012 · 11:23 am

Victoria’s Secret (I know what it is)

I have many thoughts on underwear. Several of these were called into question last night, at Vogue’s Fashion Night Out, when I popped into Victoria’s Secret. For a start, I was anxiously inspecting all of the goods to try to ascertain what this ‘secret’ might be. (I would be a terrible WMD inspector, because I found absolutely nothing untoward. Or perhaps I would be feted by makers of WMD for my inability to locate them on my ‘surveillance tours’ and my life would become like the beginning of ‘The Last King of Scotland’. Only the beginning though, when he’s doing all the shagging and partying. Not the later bit.)

Anyway, I was standing in the middle of Victoria’s Secret, fondling bras liberally decorated with sparkly diamante things (don’t worry, I scratched one off to check- totally harmless) and worrying about my promising future as a WMD inspector, when I remembered that I needed a new black bra.

‘What a serendipitous day this is turning out to be,’ I thought to myself happily. ‘This must be what it’s like to be organised.’ I put down the fluorescent pink item I was holding, and pottered off to find a black bra.

Victoria’s Secret is an American lingerie chain, which has recently opened a flagship store on New Bond Street. It has annual sales of over $5 billion, and 1,040 stores. It does not, however, sell black bras. It sells bras which started off as black, but were then doused in glitter and silver.

It has white bras, which have been streaked with black and gold. It has conical bras, it has racer-back bras, it has adjustable strap bras. It has huge, blow-up photos of some of the world’s most beautiful women wearing these spectacular bras. In my search I became a little disorientated, and wandered into the changing rooms- in the changing rooms they give you dressing gowns. (These are not to keep, I asked).

Victoria’s Secret is simple, after all (and my application to become a WMD inspector is almost completed). They are an underwear store that simply refuses to sell what most women class as ‘underwear’. They are a McDonalds that only serves kobe beef. They are about as useful or relevant to the women I know as a chocolate kettle. Only more sparkly.

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September 5, 2012 · 9:56 am

If you liked this, you’ll probably like this

The TV is up on the wall, the blinds are up over the windows, and the rug is down. One wall of the living room is sorted- we have framed 3 black and white cityscapes, and popped them on the wall in a row. It’s the other wall that is giving us trouble. We’ve put a clock up- a long, rectangle clock that tells the time in London, Paris, New York and Tokyo. We hope to encourage people to believe we are frightfully cosmopolitan.

Beneath the clock is a gaping space.

The other two seem far less bothered about this than I am. Yesterday, I spent several hours looking at prints and posters we could buy to fill the space. This led me into a frenzy of panic and indecision about what type of person I was. Would I like a famous print? Or would that show that I had no original thoughts? What about a sports photo? Or would that throw my own meagre sporting accomplishments into stark relief? I wavered for a long time over a set of inspirational quotes, before realising that my housemates would never allow it. ‘I could get something saucy!’ I thought to myself, and began searching through photos of scantily clad women.

It took me a few minutes to realise that I did not particularly want a photo of a scantily clad woman on my living room wall. (Though this realisation came too late to save me from a lifetime of Amazon ‘if you liked this, you might like this’ recommendations, focussed almost entirely on girl-on-girl porn).

This distracted me a little, so I have failed to buy anything to put on the wall. (Though my DVD collection today is really far more ‘worldly’ than it was yesterday). The white expanse of wall still sits there, calmly mocking me, while I work out who it is I am. A moment ago,  I put a photo of my face up there- which, looking at it now, might be the answer.

I’m excited to see the effect ‘make my face very large and put on a print’ has on my Amazon recommendations.

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September 4, 2012 · 10:13 am

Haircuts and compromises

I am in need of a haircut. I am not very good at getting my hair cut- I quickly run out of things to say, and tend to move my head about far too much (which is ironic, as I’m not speaking or anything, simply waving my head about searching the salon for conversational topics).

I have moved, and cunningly taken advantage of this opportunity to give myself a fresh hairdresser beginning(and my poor former hairdresser a well-deserved break). I noticed last night that we have a hairdressing salon just up the road. ‘We should go,’ I told my housemate enthusiastically. (She initially didn’t want a haircut, but I encouraged her to get one, pointing out that her hair looked ‘awful’ and ‘offended my eyes’). We popped out last night to check out the salon. ‘Any cut for £9’, the sign across the salon window promised.

My housemate and I noticed this at  precisely the same time, and turned to look at one another. ‘Brilliant!’ I exclaimed happily. ‘There is not a chance in hell I am letting these people touch my hair,’ My housemate said at the same moment. We paused for a moment in confusion. ‘But it’s £9,’ We both told each other emphatically.

‘We seem to be somewhat at odds here,’ I pointed out helpfully. ‘I propose a compromise. Let’s go to get our haircut here.’ ‘Or,’ My housemate responded. ‘We could not get our haircut here, but find somewhere else, that we both like.’ ‘Hmm,’ I replied. ‘We seem to have reached an impasse.’ I stared at her, to let her know that this was entirely due to her own inability to compromise.

To show her how rational, accommodating grown-ups behave, I waited till she went to work this morning then popped out and got my hair cut. Unfortunately, I became so incensed at a Cosmopolitan article on ‘how to please your man’ that I swung my head around violently just as my hairdresser was cutting me a fringe. It seems my housemate has won, and we will be going to get our haircut somewhere else after all.

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