A Cheeky Hormone Imbalance – Mustn’t Complain

Feeling “hormonal”, a term usually considered synonymous with neurotic and unbalanced, this week has manifested itself in me in a different (and much more enjoyable) form.

As previous blogs may have ascertained, I am in a long distance relationship with a man who I have been with for 3 and a half years. Long distance relationships completely throw your sex-drive and so I have weeks of feeling deprived and sad, weeks of insatiable lust and weeks of downright menopausal frigidity. Because of the irregularity of the sex after such a prolonged period, although I adore very aspect of it, it can be somewhat of a lucky dip when it comes to my moods.

This week, however, I have been feeling… horny. Not deprived or frustrated. Just horny. I haven’t had sex in 10 days, I have gone much longer and gone off it completely or I have had to do without and become frustrated and tense. This week, I am feeling frisky but I am enjoying the feeling of being frisky even though I know that it is unlikely I will get to “spend” anything until next week. Its just a nice feeling really.

I am amazed, though. I feel like a fourteen year old again when the slightest thing can flip you inside only horrific acne and teenage awkwardness is less of a symptom. Driving through the army base this afternoon to have lunch with colleagues and a squad of very buff looking chaps all jogged past and it was like my sex organs went berzerk! Like a light switch being turned on, just the simple visual stimulus of seeing lots of very manly men was enough to make me grin from ear to ear and giggle like a girl (and tingle a wee bit too).

Its not just in day to day life, however. I have been having an obscene amount of very sexy dreams both at night and during the day which leave my head spinning. The fantasies never stop to give me a rest and I often feel that if a nice boy gave me an opening shortly following one of these dreams (the Milk Tray man through with window type of thing) then I’d be on him like cream on a bun! A sexy man-shaped bun.

This fleeting chemical imbalance inside must be like what it is for men. Minimal effort, just insant gratification, and its lovely. The more I think about it though, the more I miss orgasming. I haven’t had an orgasm in a while and I miss it, maybe this is my body reminding me why orgasming in such fun and I should force myself to enjoy sex more often with my boyfriend (which with the prolonged distance taking its toll on our sexlife and being reunited at the station platform not being quite enough to make me want to rip off my jeans).

Men are lucky if this is what they get. Maybe I am actually a gay man in a woman’s body? I know that this phase won’t last forever but surely it is a sign that my bits and pieces are a bit lonesome and bored and they’re reminding me int he nicest way possibe that sex is the most fun you can have in life… apart from getting roaring drunk and having a curry but you can’t usually be naked for that.

Encounters of the Two-Wheeled Kind

Cycling is a wonderful activity, bringing you closer to nature, extending your lifespan (horrific cattlegrid mishaps aside) and generating interesting talking-points about your hilarious escapades in the countryside or else gloatable achievments like clambering up a 15 degree incline and not even having to slip into first gear because of your steely, muscular glutials.

This morning I was cycling to work as per and on the steepest uphill struggle of my daily route I heard a voice behind me ask “Hey, don’t you work in the office next to mine?”

With a mixture of dread and self-consciousness I looked around and the rather nice young chap that is working in the office next to mine who I hadn’t met yet powers up next to me on his kitted out mountain bike (wearing matching helmet and tighty shorts and t-shirt) and effortlessly launches into conversation.

Now this is quite embarassing as I usually sing along to my iPod while cycling and was mouthing the words to my favourite Foo Fighters track while this was happening, not only that but I was really batteling the friction between gravity and bike wheels hoiking myself up this hill and so I am panting, sweating and generally in comparison to this lithe young man, I am Jo Brand having an asthma attack.

I end up cycling to work with this boy (of course laying all my cards on the table as I always do when meeting nice young men who I am attracted to and nipping that I have a boyfriend into the conversation).

At work we meet in the communal foyer on our way into our respective bathrooms to change. He is about 6 foot 5 and tanned, blonde, nimble, athletic and not a little bit cute. I am pale, sweating, my thighs make up for about half of my body mass and my hair is tied back into a Croyden Facelift. Needless to say, I think any chance of my hormones dictating my brain and jumping into the foliage of the cycle route with him are sufficiently scuppered.

A hussy I am not… bicycle related romance fantasist I may be.

On Yer Bike

I have decided that I have become thoroughly bored with jogging. Jogging is a tedious activity even if you are listening to some powerful techno beats en route concurrent with keeping your iPod plugs from dropping out your ears. Rather than get fat, I have taken up cycling. “Taken-up” is a misnomer as in fact I have been told to stop moaning about how much pudding I eat every night and complaining about how big my bum has got and I’ve literally been told to get on my bike.

As a teen I loved to cycle. I have just had this love rekindled in my very soul as there is nothing quite as wholesome as a twelve mile round trip to work and back on a daily basis. I must say that I relish it, even the sweaty uphill struggles because they are usually followed by glorious downhill freewheeling where I honestly have to use self-control to stop myself from kicking my legs out to the sides and squeeling “WHEEEEEEEEEE” whilst passing lots of real grown-ups quaffing Magners at the pub that I pass.

I figure that 6 miles there and back is a small price of personal sweat and occasional oil stains when over-enthusiastic gear changing slips the chain off compared with the cost of petrol and the size of my arse. I’m also getting quite a nice tan on my pasty corpse. I do cycle on a regular basis anyway but apart from the occasional ambitious weekend marathon cycle, my endeavours are hardly back-breaking.

Now I am extremely lucky in that I live and work rurally and so the bike ride itself is quiet and pleasant… as in bunnies, fawns, butterflies and squirrells. Very few cars, pedestrians and at those times of day, fellow cyclists. I work in an industrial estate in a very out-of-the-way village and the market town I currently call home with my family is well cycle-routed and so it is just a pleasant country cycle that takes the best part of an hour to complete.

I have been doing the route at least three times a week (when I don’t it is because of driving lessons or poor weather) for the past four weeks and I am thrilled with the physical change in my body and in myself and I honestly cannot believe the effort it used to be when I first started compared with now. Even when I went on runs I don’t think I was as physically fit! runnign hurts my ankles… because I don’t own proper running shoes with shock absorbing air heels. I put up with my flat and ancient tennis shoes bought because they looked nice with jeans as opposed to their sporting role.

Fashion aside, with cycling now the honeymoon period is wearing thin and I have succumbed to the next level of enthusiasm for the activity which is “customisation”. Yes, you guessed it, I am kitting out my sorry hand-me-down bike as I now consider myself (after just one month) to own the cycle route. I have a new helmet to match the bike frame, new sports clothing, a new lock and even a new gel saddle cover to prevent that acute of inflictions, Bikers Bottom (which, believe me, when cycling in the county over cattle girds and potholes is quite agonising). Its great! Now all I need is a nice pair of paniers, a light for winter and a wind jacket for when the weather turns… and an iPod holder which goes around my waist and a new coat of paint and swish tyres etc.

Seriously though, people make fun of David Cameron and Boris Johnson… although it is hilarious that DC thought that locking his bike around a 2 foot bollard would make it secure… but they are setting a good example (not that I am a staunch Tory supporter by any stretch of the imagination). My colleagues are all active people and are all as conscious as me about how much chocolate I scoff and how big my bottom is getting and yet the bikes stay in the garage. The sun is out, the birds are singing and the cyclepath had just been re-surfaced. Get out your tight shorts and embrace the glorious feeling of stradelling a hard, leather saddle while spinning downhill and not getting your wheels jammed in drains!

In the current climate both meteorogically and financially we should all be out on our bikes. Its is light on the pocket, great for the bum, magic for the atmosphere and good for the soul.

Our Booze Cruise

Last week, A and I partook in what a work colleague likes to call a Booze Cruise. The object being that you and your floating hotel enjoy cheapy Grolsch on the high seas for an evening and a night then dock in Amsterdam for a half day of haphazardous tourism before loading yourself back on board laden with wooden tulips and memory cards full of pictures of drugs paraphernalia and the whole tipsy process doubles back on itself until you reverse into Blighty and pile off not quite knowing what hit you.

Now for those of you interested in taking a DFDS mini city break cruise to Amsterdam here is the story.

A and I set off from an average Midlands market town on the Sunday morning and travelled with a couple of overnight bags of basic weekender provisions (including 130 Euros and a travel kettle complete with little sachets lifted from various hotels over the years). We travelled up to Newcastle Central Station by Cross Country train arriving in good time for our shuttle bus to North Shields. The shuttle buses leave 2.5 and 1.5 hours before the planned departure time of the ferry at 5:30. I like to leave a margin for error when travelling and so we arrived in time for the first shuttle bus (costing £3 for a one-way ticket so keep some quids for the way home). The bus took us out of Newcastle and the journey lasted about 25 – 30 mins.

At check-in we handed over our passports and the computer print out of our booking confirmation and received our boarding-passes-cum-cabin-keys. 

On board the boat our first stop was the cabin to settle in, make a cup of tea and fight over who got the top bunk. Our cabin was a Seaways Class cabin which is the bare essentials including bunk-beds a sofa, desk, stool, mirror and en-suit. The air conditioning and the hilarious Dutch radio were easy to control and made the stay that much more comfortable because we were in for a stormy ride! Gale Force 6 was being hesitantly mentioned by my parents (seasoned sailors of yachts, dinghys and ferry boats reminding me of miserable holidays as a girl). 

I would highly reccomend taking a Stugeron at least two hours before departure to the high seas, then one when the boat starts to move if anything more than Mill Pond looks to upset your journey. The side effects are basically antisocial sleepiness but that is ALWAYS preferable to vomitting.

After arranging our bed things out (so as to make a very quick and easy transformation from being vertical to horizontal should it come to it), we went for an explore to check out the sights. The Princess of Norway is an average sized ferry with the usual conveniences including two cinema lounges and several bars, cafes and restaurants. We had pre-booked our meals at the Explorer’s Steakhouse on the first night and The 7 Seas Buffet for the second night as well as buffet breakfast for both mornings.

Deck was far too windy so we went down to the Columbus Club and chilled out for a good hour before the boat started to move. All was going well until we drifted past the breakwater and the foam wall of wave that hit us was violent. I have travelled by ferry a lot, my parents disliking traveling by air, and I have never encountered such an uncomfortable sea before. I sat through the silly performances by the cruise-manager and the Dutch entertainment before feeling really peaky and having to get up to honour our dinner reservations!

Dinner was excruciating. The service was wonderful and the staff were really kind as they knew it was rocky – the Steakhouse was empty as most intelligent people had taken to bed early but being a tight Scott, I saw out my dinner but had only half of my delicious fillet steak. Now that steak was truly the most delicious I ever did see but I just couldn’t bring myself to eat it. A had to eat my chips. 

After a swift exit to the cabin, A grabbing a good handful of sick bags from the reception desk I was violently ill once inside the door of the en-suite and saw my beautiful 30 euro dinner in reverse. Needless to say, bed followed.

Breakfast was much easier as it had calmed down and I had quite a lot of fruit and bread from the buffet, remembering my mother’s skill of grabbing rolls, apples and bananas for the day ahead for snacks. 

After arriving into Imujden (the Amsterdam equivalent of North Shields) we trundled through passport control and a free 20 minute bus journey in to Amsterdam itself we emptied out of the coach in front of the Victoria Hotel near to the Amsterdam Central Station. The buses would leave that meeting point between 3 and 4 o’clock, the very last one leaving at 4 so arriving in at 10:30 we had quite a lot of time to play with.

Our first stop was the Sex Museum, entry costing 3 euros. The museum was cheeky and made fun of blushing visitors with exhibitions that break wind and laugh at you or jump out as you pass but also gives a graphic insight into pornography of the centuries past and the cultures of the world. A fun hour or so for any couple!

A then took me on a nostalgia tour having been there on a Lad’s Weekend in his late teens past a very cheeky alley way full of windows exhibiting very naked ladies. I gave them a wave and shoveled A along in earnest.

We then made our way down to the Blooemenmarket – the floating flower market on the canal selling the worlds largest selection of tulip and crocus bulbs – lots of pretty things to see and to photograph but I think it bored A a little bit. Nevertheless, the Blooemenmarket is one of the best places to buy cheap-ish souvenirs for friends and family and worth a browse of all the pretty plants.

Lunch was a simple affair, a canal-side pancake house was our choice. Two cheesy pancakes and a coke each came to 18 euros. The waitresses all spoke perfect English so we resigned ourselves to the British tourism stereotype of speaking English slowly like it suffices for the local tongue. I try so hard not to do this but it always happens!

We popped into the Amsterdam Historisch Museum at 8 euros apiece for a bit of culture and then out into the rain! I was so glad of my waterproof but it did make my Euro-hopper image in my photos lose its credibility. Some more sightseeing followed and then finally a little canal tour on a Lovers Canal Cruise – 1 hour of spoon-fed tourism at 9 euros each bough earlier on board the Princess of Norway as it was cheaper. I always recommend canal cruises as they are a great way of seeing a lot of a town and the commentary is always good at highlighting things you may have missed.

Back on the bus using our Boarding Cards as identification and then back on board ship for a cup of tea and change of clothes in the cabin and a Bloody Mary at the Columbus Club. This evening I managed dinner and a show and ate my fill of seafood, chips, noodles and cake at the buffet (A embarassingly having one plate devoted entirely to the Children’s Buffet “Look, little breaded ships!”). 

That evening we took in some more of the shows on offer which were quite funny as all the songs were sung in English but with very strong Dutch accents. A spot of shopping and spritzing liberally of perfume and then bed.

The last morning, the Tuesday, we had breakfast as we entered the Tyne and the seas had calmed right down. Laden with cheap booze and chocolates for our families and friends we took the train home and I still have 40 euros for next time!

I would highly recommend a good guidebook with a map included as Amsterdam can get a bit confusing as there are so many canals, bridges and tiny alleys that it can be easy to get lost. Lonely Planet do a good one. Also a good waterproof is essential as the Netherlands are not famed for the weather. A wore a moneybelt but I made do with a zippable handbag as we were warned of deft pickpockets as with any tourist city. I needed no more than 100 euros but a couple of extra are always good if you want to get some really prezzies for people back home. We booked our dinner online when we booked our crossing as it was cheaper than buying on board the ship.

Highly recommended, it wasn’t smooth sailing but we’ll never forget it. Now I’m preparing myself for a week in Denmark in our log cabin and our night in Copenhagen in a fortnight!

Bloody-fingered Badfellas… coming to a kebab shop near you.

Today I felt the overpowering compulsion to inflict gratuitous violence upon my poor little eyeballs and I popped Goodfellas into the DVD machine.

I love that film! Scorcese manages to teeter between psychotic and hilarious spattering the screen with hideous amounts of blood, gore and cuss words. Now by today’s standards, Goodfellas is far from being the bloodiest blockbuster on the shelves but for my own particular constitution, Kill Bill and Pulp Fiction aside, Goodfellas is the daddy of the poetic and slightly comic (in places) balance that makes it one of those violent films that most girls will happily sit down to watch without getting bored or feeling that the person who suggested the movie is deeply troubled (as with Hostage and that hideous franchise – Saw).

There is a great adult (predominantly conservative and C of E) mob that believe that the tragic and savage fashion for knife crime is a symptom of the above films becoming more widely seen. As with Clockwork Orange and to an extent, Trainspotting – the glamourisation of illegal and soul-degenerating scenes flickering across the screen is bound to spark copy cats. I doubt very much that the yobs that have been stabbing their way around London Town this miserable year consider themselves to be Henry Hill, nor do I believe that a heroine addict in Glasgow such as the elder sister of a very old friend of mine believes that someday she is going to get away with a duffle-bag full of money to freedom…

The tragedies of 2008 thusfar have been diluted in their own hype and so the individuals murdered are being racked up like statistics rather than like the young men and children that they ought to be valued as. The anniversary of Rhys Jones’ murder is closing in and nobody has been brought forward to justice yet although several individuals have been questioned and brought forward irrespective of the fear-struck silence of the neighborhood. 

Homicide in this manner is becoming pandemic, and I dislike using the word homicide as I feel it is divorced from the action of killing rather relabeling it to the passive and pathalogical science of “this is what happened, Sarg” school of thinking. What the hell is going to happen before we all degenerate into two tribes – the ones that stay in after dark and the ones that kick wheely bins over and break into peoples’ homes? Is society eventually going to divide thus?

The penalties that are given are like tunnels. The tunnels go on for a measured length of time, the judge who ordered the criminal to walk that tunnel for so many years… months… weeks – they know how long it is, the criminal knows how long it is and can even see where it ends such-and-such a distance away. Only the other week I was sat on an extremely crowded train with a young lady who was howling down her phone that she was on parole for stabbing a man who was feeling up her 12 year old little sister. Its real, its among us now and its not learning its lesson.

I won’t pretend I have any real answers. The fact of the matter is that it must take a lot of ingrained anger for the human race to remorselessly end the heartbeats of another human being with a butcher knife, especially as an 18 year old sent to jail for 10 years for murder, even if he/she served the full term (which is highly unlikely) would still be young enough to do everything they wanted to do in life regardless of the pause button being on for a decade. Justice is as cold as the stainless steel six inchers and the damp, tarmac pavements in Lambeth. 

The wonderful thing about escaping this horrific spree by watching films is that unlike in real life, the characters reconcile their stores in the end. Something happens. They get away with it and they’re ok and the film balances real life out nicely with the to-ing and fro-ing of clever script-writing or they get punished or killed but in a cinematographic way so we appreciate that it was always coming to them. In real life, we are in purgatory. There are no rolling credits at the end of the murder of a teenage boy, just unanswered questions and unfullfilled promises.

A Vaseline lens daydream

Maybe its in turning twenty-two, maybe its because the first of my classmates have started to get hitched this summer (and I mean properly hitched with a Daimler and a Beatles tribute band and everything) that I have started to seriously obsess about marriage.

Although we have our bad patches, A is a pretty special guy. I went through a bit of a pre-22 post-graduate crisis about two months ago in which I seriously critiqued every aspect of my life only realising that I was in fact subconsciously alienating myself from the only other human being that has seen every aspect of my personality and not shouted or run away. He is truly a fantastic man and it is highly likely that he is the only man out there that will tolerate my neurotic behavior. Indeed I am probably the only attractive woman out there that can humour his slightly underground-geek-world hobbies and not be deeply concerned about his cool party-funny-guy front with his friends. Saying no more than that, I know we work well together and can both paraphrase Star Wars eating curry and watching Peep Show till sleepy time. Pretty generic, huh? But its the chemistry that works. I can tell him he’s being an arse hole and he can tell me when I’m using emotional blackmail to manipulate him and we still call eachother every day to chat for however long or short about our days. 

Anyway, I digress. The fact of the matter is that with marriage being in the air (colleague planning her Portugese beach wedding plus schoolmates showing up in the engagement pages of the local newspaper that I write for). 22 is young enough for one’s first marriage isn’t it? You know what they say, one is for love, two is for money and three is for companionship. 

I have never been one of those girls that has planned what my babies are going to be called or how old I will be by the time I have met Mr Right and ticked all the boxes. I have never been one in the past, even as a little girl, to fantasize about every aspect of a dream wedding but overnight it seems, I have mapped the wretched occasion down to the last button-hole.

I wonder if this is the early stages of becoming the sort of woman that every man runs screaming from and who will eventually end up watching the Wedding Channel with a house that smells of cat food with hairy furniture. 

I hope not. 

But then, if A asked me to marry him a year ago, I would have had to be honest and say no. I love him but 21 is too young! In hitting 22, however, and he, ever nearing his mid-to-late twenties the notion of becoming Mrs A seems a lot less unlikely. 22 is too young still but an engagement lasts… two years?

Uh-oh! Dream sequence drifting back onto my computer screen and Pachelbels Canon wafts about my mind and I become a lump of sugary cake… Three tiers with crunchy brilliant white icing – fluffy victoria sponge with raspberry jam filling and topped with little icing roses and a little brunette bride in a pink dress and a very scared looking icing groom with what looks to be a big bruise on his face with a hammer discretely tucked behind little brunette bride’s back. 

Yes, that is one of the things that I have decided. That I want a pink dress. Now, in 6th form when I was an alternative outsider who listened to Marilyn Manson, wore ridiculous amounts of back eyeliner and whose best friend had to talk me out of dying my hair blue – I would have snorted juice out of my nose at that suggestion. No to her – it would be a humbug-style black and white striped frock with fishnets under the gown and a rock band at the reception in the New York hotel (as a 16 year old I would have had no concept of realistic finance or transportation) – instead now I dream about a rose coloured dress, local chapel and local hotel. Less than 100 guests and a ceilidh band before the dj. Wedding breakfast (careful not to put chicken on the menu as Mum always said that if you have chicken on the menu you look cheap). Two bridesmaids in a darker pink than my own and my groom, A smiling his massive smile at me (probably crying) sharing our first dance to Moon River by Henri Mancini.

16 year old me is probably vomiting in her Marilyn Manson CD graveyard in the garage right now. 

What is it, is it hormones? Nostalgia? The fact that in being 22 you are probably supposed to be living elsewhere from your parents with a job that earns you enough to start your life as a young professional. Or maybe is is because I live with M & D and still have no real responsabilities and still get book tokens from my nanny on my birthday that I have the freedom to dream this little dream. Because I love my boyfriend and because I have nothing to worry about – I am concocting a little imaginary scenario that I can waste time on.

If it is a passing fancy then I’m enjoying it even if I look inwardly on it. 22 is a nice age to be, Emma Woodhouse (my favourite Austen heroine) was 22 when she married Mr Knightley. Alan Alda married Arlene Alda when he was only 21 and Queen Elizabeth the seconds married Pheeleep at 21 also so I suppose that young marriages don’t necessarily all have to acquiesce to the “I give them six months” hushed stereotype. 

In all fairness, Emma Woodhouse was fictional and botht he Queen and Alan Alda married over 50 years ago and I am aware that times have changed. 

Listen to me! I am rambling like this is going to actually happen someday! Even I know that A has was born minus the commitment gene (which greatly involves external pressure from alien arse-up-backside genes). 

Nevetheless, its a pleasant dream to while away a few quiet hours once in a while. Perhaps soon, after my next period, my hormones will have calmed down a bit and I will return to my cynical outlooks on marriage being a legal proceeding and not about flouncing about in a meringue. I have written in previous blogs my sceptical views of church weddings and I have to confess that for my groom (intended) who is a staunch God-fearer and for my mother who harbours religious sentiments I would swallow my agnostic pride and sing a verse of “Morning has broken” with my school friends once again.

<16 year old me resurrects herself from the dead and bludgeons present me to death from behind with a Doc Martins boot>

Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Missing Tampax

This week the phenomanon that is Feminine-Menstrual-Synchronicity has demonstrated itself in our very colourful toilet bin. Little wrappers of every imaginable colour, texture and pattern plus discretely wrapped lumps and wads fill the push-pedal vessle to the brim. Now, when in a small office with an equal ratio of men to women you like to keep “the blob” secret and so any respectable woman keeps her Tampax (or whatever) in the bathroom.

Now, upon returning to the bathroom I assume the position but SHOCK HORROR! My last Tampax has gone. I checked the bin by shaking it and tossing over the contents like a revolting salad and noted that my Tampax had indeed been used as I mentally noted how many little yellow packets I had indeed spent compared with the number in the bin. Horrible I know but it has to be done.

Now, there are 5 women in my office including myself. I am slim, a size 5 shoe and have never had children. All this I think attributes to my “regular” yellow tampon size. Now my mother keeps reminding me that after childbirth your bits are never the same as are your innards and so your periods are much more horrific than before the day you give birth. This leads me to consider that my two colleagues who are both mothers and both have big feet can not be the guilty culprits!

The two remaining women are both the same age, 35. Both are childless, healthy (one is diabetic however), small build and both are definately morally capable of stealing somebody else’s tampons! The clear defining points about these two women are, one is single and the other isn’t and one rides horses and the other doesn’t. Now I take on board all these myths elluding to female genitalia size. Large shoe size, horse-riding, lots of sex and laziness (do you pelvic floors girls!) all may result in slack snatch.

My horse-riding spinster and my diabetic friend living in sin both make good cases. One has more sex, the other rides horses. The latter has been sterilized, the former is obviously pinched so tight that its a wonder she can even piss however out of the two there is one clear winner!

Due to careful facial examinations my horse-rider is unlucky enough to have hit the menopause ten years early as telltale facial hair and a dry palour and the occasional hot-flush make her a dead giveaway! Well done, Spinster, your unfortunate biological clock has meant that you have narrowly escaped being hung by your thumbs for Grand Theft Tampon. SO I’m sorry, living-in-sin, diabetic girl – you are convicted of Tampax Larsony with intent to smear.

Now, justice shall be carried out by hiding her paracetamol!

So – I’m on the student breadline. At least I’m not a crack head.

When I go into work tomorrow and I am asked by my least favorite colleague who is always in before me to give me jobs to do even though she has no authority whatsoever, “Have a good weekend?” I shall respond appropriately with “Yeah, you?”

In actual fact this weekend has been one of those where you take a big step back and a deep breath in and go “SHIT! I am am going to be living on the breadline next year!”

Yes, the L word has surfaced once again, my Career Development Loan. Loans in the current financial atmosphere are basically little systems designed to make you miserable and want to kill yourself but like a drug addict searching for crack, it drains the life and soul out of you but life can’t be wangled to work without it. Bollocks. 

In order to fund my journalism degree I need a career development loan which in itself is not such a scary thing as I know I will have a good job at the end of the course and that in the case of a very very dire emergency I am lucky enough to know I can borrow the money from my parents if I am behind on a month’s repayment which will be calculated as something like £120.00. I have been saving 80% of my earnings in a Post Office account to cover living and I have been recording and comparing outgoings and providers for months. 

The process involves calculating your monthly outgoings predicted for your time back on your course. I lived comfortably on £100 a week at university when I was an undergraduate (although I did use my overdraft at the end of term for the big pissups), my calculated monthly outgoings as a postgraduate are more akin to the cost of keeping a family going at around about £800!!!! Thats £100 a week more than I calculated in the first place due to living expenses not being paid for by the Bank of Mum and Dad and the cost of EVERYTHING going up considerably. 

Maybe I’ll just have to face the music and go on the game to pay for my books and live on tap-water. Its amazing when desperation seizes you and notions dipped in insanity start to sound like realistic options. I mean what would I do if I were honestly addicted to crack? I can’t afford crack AND food, books, rent etc on £200 a week! Good thing I’m not a crack addict then isn’t it. 

SO, for all youths in a similar situation who have worked their arses off while living at home and are £15,00.00 in debt from the first loan – I feel your pain. But at least we’re not addicted to crack. 

The Shorts Dilemma.

There comes a time when a girl has got to face the music and wear shorts. 

I understand that shorts have been fashionable for about two years now but I don’t mean the hot-pant version of a pinstripe trouser suit or a Daisy Duke pair of denim knickers. I mean gym shorts. Vile, unflattering gym shorts.

Tracksuit bottoms are flattering, usually baggy or flared or cropped making the upper body look slender in a tight tank or making the shape of the body look ambiguously shapeless in a hoodie. No. Today is a hot June day and jogging on a day like this in tracky bums just looks like you thought a little too hard about wearing tracky bums which means you either haven’t been jogging very long and aren’t happy with your bottom or you haven’t been jogging very long and don’t have the correct kit. Both of these, on the circuit that rings a portion of my town are cardinal sins. You want to look like you pound that tarmac twice a day and have lungs that could float a submarine. Rather than look tired out, sweaty AND ammateur, I could sacrifice the latter and blame my wheezes on hayfever. Hoho. 

My insecurities all scuttle out right before a run like so many woodlice. 

Gym shorts as a fashion item make your bottom look large, your legs look short and your abdomen look trunkated. Only the skinniest of athletes can carry them off, the lycra cousins of the zippy material mere mortals are lumbered with. It would be a public misdemeanor to wear lycra shorts with legs in the same condition as my own – I would make children break out in tears and the elderly need to sit down for a bit. However rather than suffer “sweaty leg” or even worse – the fabled notion of perspiring in places people just don’t want to know you perspire, shorts it is. 

How I long once again for the short days and long cold nights of November so I can wheeze and struggle in darkness and peace.  

Cleanse, Tone and Confess!

After many months of trying – I have decided that my latest attempt at blitzing my skin of its imperfections has failed and my faith in the British cosmetic industry has exhausted itself. Microdermabrasion and glycolic acid peels are wonderful for a day or two after treatment however the effects are superficial and I cannot grasp at much more than a good week here or there.

Acne is a horrible thing. It is to most people like me, an insult to how hard we work to clear our skin. I have written before how I have tried every medicine and lotion and now I have ticked off acid and microdermabrasion too. The next thing to try is going to be the “revolutionary” NLite Q treatment. I have to go all the way to bloody Loughborough to get it done but if it works I shan’t complain. 

I am sure there are hundreds of others like me who enjoy full social lives and earn money like the rest of us but yearn to go swimming with a clear face or lounge even about the house with not a scrap of make-up on! Its a faraway musing but when most people can enjoy that day-to-day you feel envious. Especially when you see a make-up free youth chowing down on a big greasy burger with not so much as a blackhead to speak for the habits that you so carefully inventory and martyr yourself against.

The skin of a cherub is not my goal but at least a twenty-something face who doesn’t look like they are about to sit their GCSEs. Laser treatment is a venture I can’t honestly afford but I have got to that stage of desperation and impatience that I will persevere with whatever I can scrape together.

The treatment is painless which worries me slightly because the whole gratification of these treatments is in the pain you go through, as if in some way the more pain you endure the more likely it is that you will have achieved. I suppose this can be applied to exercise and similarly to other cosmetic endeavors. We use astringants that make our eyes water because the think they are stripping us like a baptism of all our skin sins, we exfoliate our flesh to the point of meat-tenderisation because like the socially conditioned ancestors of God-Fearing Brits (or whatever) we are we honestly believe that pain is good for us, good for the soul if nothing else! And like a sweaty pilgrimage to Canterbury in the days of Chaucer or a ritulaistic self-flagelation, we perfrom crusades upon our skin and if we are left raw and stinging afterwards we expect results!

I have applied these rules to my skin for the best part of my life! Unfortunately I need to do a u-turn and branch out more. Maybe I am too conservative, maybe a little more faith and a little less pain will see me through.