Well, what a crazy month I've had! Once I started this thing I thought I'd be blogging all the time but apparently, life gets in the way quite a lot. Funny that.
As any of you who follow me on Facebook will know, a good two weeks of September for me were taken up with dying. Well, that might be a bit dramatic. I actually had a hideously painful throat infection which antibiotics and painkillers didn't touch, coupled with what Mother reliably informs me was most definitely flu. I tended to agree with her when, after two whole weeks, I was STILL waking up with a blocked nose, fuzzy head and a cough. Influenza can go do one.
I say that painkillers did nothing to help me but that was until I discovered co-codamol and extra strong ibuprofen. Mix those two bad boys together and after 20 minutes, I felt like someone had taken a magic wand to my throat! Sadly the relief only lasted two hours and I could only take four lots per day, so it still wasn't perfect, but safe to say I'm a big fan of the hardcore painkillers. Yum.
The most amusing part of the whole illness was sitting in my doctor's waiting room at 9am on a Monday morning. It was completely full up (I had to share a chair with a small child), full of screaming children (some were screaming in happiness and delight and although this is nice for the child, it didn't really make a difference to the 30 odd ill and exhausted people in the room) and no-one seemed to be getting called in. Eventually an elderly couple put their fingers in their ears and started tutting about the noise. I had to laugh or I would have thrown myself on the floor, curled up in a ball and wept until they removed me.
My lovely throat/tonsils/mouth in general seem to delight in catching infections, and they always kick up when I have really important plans. Once my whole family were spending Christmas in Germany at my uncle's and he'd bought TONS of booze. I ended up with severe tonsillitis and on antibiotics for the whole week. This year my wisdom tooth got infected a few days before my birthday. I was prescribed antibiotics that on pain of DEATH you were not allowed to drink on, or you'd be violently sick. My friends and I also had a massive boozey weekend to Manchester planned. I just can't believe my luck!
This time round I missed out on a trip to see Shrek the musical in London and a weekend in Wales with some old work friends. Over 100 quid completely down the drain. I think this time I did throw myself weeping onto the floor and curl up in a ball, but behind the closed door of my bedroom.
Anyway, all that is but a distant memory now. I'm pleased to report I'm feeling human again. And I'm now on a health and fitness mission! I joined Slimming World on Monday which isn't so much a diet but a way to make sure you eat the right things and eat healthily. I've heard only good things about it from friends and I'm determined to shed some pounds before Christmas. I've been sitting around for too long thinking "I'm getting fatter, I feel a bit crap" yet not doing anything about it. I also thought it would be good to track my progress on here for people as a bit more of an incentive. So, current weight: 10 stone 10lb. Goal to lose: 1.5 stone. I'll update after my weigh-in on Monday!
As well as the healthy eating, this week I have also done my first Zumba class, ridden my bike for the first time and signed up to the gym. I know, I'm in shock myself! Zumba was great. After the aerobics type bit and all the salsa-y stuff, the crazily sweaty and uber fit instructor shouted "Let's go down to 42nd Street!". A whole Broadway style dance routine with jazz hands and everything! AWESOME! We basically ended up doing moves that could quite easily have been me after a bottle of wine in Jumpin' Jacks on a Saturday night. Just minus the heels and drunken grin. I could get used to it!
Today I rode my bike to the local fitness centre for a little swim. I say rode... I actually mostly just rolled. Very fast. Turns out that the entire route TO the Brentwood Centre is basically downhill. "WEEEEE!" I thought, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. "This is well easy!" Then it dawned on me that the ride back would definitely not be so pleasurable. Damn.
I came away having signed up for a month's gym membership (which includes classes and swimming) and having booked a gym induction session for tomorrow afternoon. I'm not quite sure what's come over me. Maybe it was all that antibiotics?
Friday, 30 September 2011
Sunday, 11 September 2011
Time for a slight change.
Bonjour my lovely blog readers! Apologies for the lack of musings lately but, believe it or not, I sort of hit a wall moan-wise! I know, shocking isn't it?
I was going to write a post about the horrors of public transport, to which I have eluded once in a past blog. I continue to be adamant that I am cursed by some nasty little Public Transport Fairy who gleefully waves her magic wand just as I am about to step onto the train platform, making all the overhead wires in Essex malfunction or snow appear on the tracks to stop the trains running. In June. She's also the same little minx who makes buses run late (or not turn up at all) and closes the Circle Line every weekend. And you thought it was Transport For London.
But that didn't seem like an amusing enough blog. I could also try and write about how frustrating technology is (it's AGAINST me I tell you!) or about how it annoys me when people queue about 10 feet back from the cash machine/KFC counter/till in Boots. These people are idiots. (*Breathe*)
But other than those minor points, I think I have covered my main pet peeves and moans in all previous posts. So where does that leave me now? I don't want to stop writing. I actually find myself in daily situations thinking "Hmmm, this is quite a funny scenario, I could write about that. But it's not really a moan. Oh well, no blog about that then." Sad face.
But here's where the essence of my blog is going to change! I've decided that I will discuss, divulge, dissect and detail (phew) general events that occur in my every day and change my little grump-fest into general light-hearted musings. I am confident that the odd moan (or 12) will probably sneak in, and if something gets my goat, I will let rip with the full force of... well, me. But why not share my daily joys and adventures with you all! I'm confident (I hope) that you will still enjoy reading it.
Thanks for all the support so far. Here's to more lots more blogging!
I was going to write a post about the horrors of public transport, to which I have eluded once in a past blog. I continue to be adamant that I am cursed by some nasty little Public Transport Fairy who gleefully waves her magic wand just as I am about to step onto the train platform, making all the overhead wires in Essex malfunction or snow appear on the tracks to stop the trains running. In June. She's also the same little minx who makes buses run late (or not turn up at all) and closes the Circle Line every weekend. And you thought it was Transport For London.
But that didn't seem like an amusing enough blog. I could also try and write about how frustrating technology is (it's AGAINST me I tell you!) or about how it annoys me when people queue about 10 feet back from the cash machine/KFC counter/till in Boots. These people are idiots. (*Breathe*)
But other than those minor points, I think I have covered my main pet peeves and moans in all previous posts. So where does that leave me now? I don't want to stop writing. I actually find myself in daily situations thinking "Hmmm, this is quite a funny scenario, I could write about that. But it's not really a moan. Oh well, no blog about that then." Sad face.
But here's where the essence of my blog is going to change! I've decided that I will discuss, divulge, dissect and detail (phew) general events that occur in my every day and change my little grump-fest into general light-hearted musings. I am confident that the odd moan (or 12) will probably sneak in, and if something gets my goat, I will let rip with the full force of... well, me. But why not share my daily joys and adventures with you all! I'm confident (I hope) that you will still enjoy reading it.
Thanks for all the support so far. Here's to more lots more blogging!
Friday, 15 July 2011
There'll be trouble when the kidz come out (or maybe it's the motherz...)
As you may have discovered from previous blogs, lots of things bug me about people. People in general are very annoying creatures. Put them behind the wheel of a car, serving at a supermarket checkout, or sit them next to me in a cinema and I can't stand them. In fact, unless people are sitting still and quiet, they will probably do something to rub me up the wrong way.
But lately, there is something that's been annoying me even more than general people. That thing is the species we call children. Or more precisely, "other people's children". (Not that I have any of my own yet, don't panic mum). OPCs are, quite frankly, WELL annoying. And usually, so are their mothers.
I've been wanting to write this blog for a while but didn't feel I had quite enough ammunition. I wouldn't want to disappoint people by only writing a paragraph or two; I know how much you all love my rants. However, today I found the silver bullet.
At around lunchtime, I unfortunately found myself in Primark in the "historic market town" of Romford. (Yes, this is what is says on the sign as you enter the town. I only noticed today. There are lots of things I'd call Romford in Essex but that's not one of them. However, that's a whole other blog...)
I say that I "unfortunately" found myself in Primark because of several reasons. Firstly, Primark is not the most fun place to be at the best of times. It's just about bearable at 9am on a Monday morning when most people are at work and the shop looks relatively normal. By about ten past nine, it looks like a Girl Guide jumble sale after a coach load of OAPs have been let in through the side door. Try shopping properly in THAT mess.
Secondly, Primark in Romford is probably worse than most. Today I heard two mothers calling out for their children. (Imagine a very strong Essex accent, too much fake tan and some stomach rolls.) "Eden! Eden, get here now!!": Mother number one. "Cherish! Cherish, I told you not to run off!": Mother number two. The Beckhams have nothing on these people.
But today, there was an added extra sprinkle of class in Primarni. As I queued up to buy the cheap dress for my next show (for this is the only reason I was there), the mother in front of me noticed that her ginger baby (poor thing) was dribbling over her arm. "How cute", I thought. "As long as that's the only place it dribbles." Essex Mother paid the cashier and was about to walk off when Little Ginge smiled, gurgled and promptly puked all over the floor. She'd probably had enough of all the flammable materials and £1 thongs.
"Oh dear," I thought. "I wonder which assistant that woman is going to tell or how many baby wipes she might need to clean it up! Before someone steps in it! Right by the checkout and everything!" Oh how naive of me.
Of COURSE she didn't do either of those things. Glancing back at the floor just to double check that there definitely WAS vomit there, Irresponsible Mother walked off, cleaned herself up at the end of the aisle (I personally thought her dress looked better covered in vom) and left. Just like that. I told the stunned cashier what had happened as I stepped over the puddle and tried to keep my flip-flopped feet as far away from it as possible. I couldn't quite believe it. Is this what people DO?
Over the past few weeks I have had various other encounters with small children that have left me gritting my teeth and thinking bad thoughts. Whilst trying to enjoy a coffee and a catch up with a friend in Starbucks last month, a young girl of about four years old decided to stand in the corner and scream. Not because anything was wrong or because she was in danger, but just because she could. And it went on, and on, and on. Her mum, who was sitting with friends, tried half heartedly to make her stop a few times before seeming to give up and think better of it. You could see people glancing up and wondering WHY there was a screaming child in a fairly adult establishment, but the mum didn't seem to care. I actually had to shout to be heard over the racket!
A few weeks later on a London tube, I was happily sitting reading my magazine when something small, annoying and probably sticky bumped right into me nearly ending up in my lap. This child was playing human pin ball. She thought it was delightful to run up and down the carriage, barging into everyone on the way. Looking up I noticed that mum was standing there watching the little tyke as if she were a proud parent at a sports day! No "Oh, I'm really sorry! Chardonnay, come here!" or restraining said child. Just a dazed smile and a glazed look in her eye. Is this what motherhood does to you?
Apart from these instances, I often get confronted with the other usual things; children sneezing or coughing right next to me without covering their mouths (Do parents not know this rule anymore?!), kids kicking the back of my chair or talking through an entire film, or school children thinking it's a great idea to run across the road in front of my car.
Perhaps I should be the next Super Nanny. My advice? Don't go out in public with your kids. It's for the best.
But lately, there is something that's been annoying me even more than general people. That thing is the species we call children. Or more precisely, "other people's children". (Not that I have any of my own yet, don't panic mum). OPCs are, quite frankly, WELL annoying. And usually, so are their mothers.
I've been wanting to write this blog for a while but didn't feel I had quite enough ammunition. I wouldn't want to disappoint people by only writing a paragraph or two; I know how much you all love my rants. However, today I found the silver bullet.
At around lunchtime, I unfortunately found myself in Primark in the "historic market town" of Romford. (Yes, this is what is says on the sign as you enter the town. I only noticed today. There are lots of things I'd call Romford in Essex but that's not one of them. However, that's a whole other blog...)
I say that I "unfortunately" found myself in Primark because of several reasons. Firstly, Primark is not the most fun place to be at the best of times. It's just about bearable at 9am on a Monday morning when most people are at work and the shop looks relatively normal. By about ten past nine, it looks like a Girl Guide jumble sale after a coach load of OAPs have been let in through the side door. Try shopping properly in THAT mess.
Secondly, Primark in Romford is probably worse than most. Today I heard two mothers calling out for their children. (Imagine a very strong Essex accent, too much fake tan and some stomach rolls.) "Eden! Eden, get here now!!": Mother number one. "Cherish! Cherish, I told you not to run off!": Mother number two. The Beckhams have nothing on these people.
But today, there was an added extra sprinkle of class in Primarni. As I queued up to buy the cheap dress for my next show (for this is the only reason I was there), the mother in front of me noticed that her ginger baby (poor thing) was dribbling over her arm. "How cute", I thought. "As long as that's the only place it dribbles." Essex Mother paid the cashier and was about to walk off when Little Ginge smiled, gurgled and promptly puked all over the floor. She'd probably had enough of all the flammable materials and £1 thongs.
"Oh dear," I thought. "I wonder which assistant that woman is going to tell or how many baby wipes she might need to clean it up! Before someone steps in it! Right by the checkout and everything!" Oh how naive of me.
Of COURSE she didn't do either of those things. Glancing back at the floor just to double check that there definitely WAS vomit there, Irresponsible Mother walked off, cleaned herself up at the end of the aisle (I personally thought her dress looked better covered in vom) and left. Just like that. I told the stunned cashier what had happened as I stepped over the puddle and tried to keep my flip-flopped feet as far away from it as possible. I couldn't quite believe it. Is this what people DO?
Over the past few weeks I have had various other encounters with small children that have left me gritting my teeth and thinking bad thoughts. Whilst trying to enjoy a coffee and a catch up with a friend in Starbucks last month, a young girl of about four years old decided to stand in the corner and scream. Not because anything was wrong or because she was in danger, but just because she could. And it went on, and on, and on. Her mum, who was sitting with friends, tried half heartedly to make her stop a few times before seeming to give up and think better of it. You could see people glancing up and wondering WHY there was a screaming child in a fairly adult establishment, but the mum didn't seem to care. I actually had to shout to be heard over the racket!
A few weeks later on a London tube, I was happily sitting reading my magazine when something small, annoying and probably sticky bumped right into me nearly ending up in my lap. This child was playing human pin ball. She thought it was delightful to run up and down the carriage, barging into everyone on the way. Looking up I noticed that mum was standing there watching the little tyke as if she were a proud parent at a sports day! No "Oh, I'm really sorry! Chardonnay, come here!" or restraining said child. Just a dazed smile and a glazed look in her eye. Is this what motherhood does to you?
Apart from these instances, I often get confronted with the other usual things; children sneezing or coughing right next to me without covering their mouths (Do parents not know this rule anymore?!), kids kicking the back of my chair or talking through an entire film, or school children thinking it's a great idea to run across the road in front of my car.
Perhaps I should be the next Super Nanny. My advice? Don't go out in public with your kids. It's for the best.
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Be careful what you wish for...
I was always a very skinny child, although I never really realised it at the time. It's only when I now look back at old photos that I can see, until I was about 17 or 18, I actually had a rockin' figure that I would kill to have back again! Unfortunately it was around this time that I discovered alcohol and Chinese take-away, meaning that my extremely flat stomach is now just a long-distant memory.... Sad face.
Being so svelte meant I either got mistaken for a boy (yes, this happened more than once, when I had really short hair) or people thought I was about five years younger than my actual age. (As you will remember from a previous blog, this still happens!)
The main factor in both of these issues was my chest size. The factor being that it wasn't of any size at all. Whatsoever. In fact, it was perhaps even inverted there was so little there. Whilst friends were buying their first bras, I was still in crop tops (bless). Whilst friends HAD to wear bras with certain outfits, I could quite happily get away with nothing. I got bullied at school for being flat chested and I used to cry to my mum that it was so unfair. Why was I abnormal? Was this what life was going to be like for me FOREVER?!?
Oh how I wish I could eat my words now...
Now, I have the complete and utter opposite problem. Once they started, they just wouldn't stop. Well, I think they stopped about three or four years ago, but at one point I was quite concerned they may take over the world (or maybe just Essex). People who knew me at school now don't recognise me. People who didn't see me for a few years ask "Where the hell did THEY come from?!". Believe me, if I knew that, I would send them back.
It's not like I've taken after my mum or even grandmothers. It seems like I am a complete anomaly, special in my ownlittle big way. Perhaps my chest is a throw-back and somewhere along the line, I'm related to Dolly Parton (which would be awesome!).
Many people wonder why I complain. The general consensus from girls is "Oh my God, I would LOVE to have your boobs!" (Actually, that's probably the main feeling from boys as well, but for a whole different reason...) Girls jealously admire my cleavage, looking down at their own B-cups and wishing they didn't have to stuff their bras with chicken fillets. In the mean time, I'm jealously staring back wishing I could give them some of mine so we were both satisfied.
There are a multitude of problems to be had when you have big boobs. For a start, I suffer with neck and back pain as a result. It's actually quite a lot of effort to carry these around you know! Sometimes I wish I could hire someone to walk behind me with their hands round the front just holding them up for me. (Actually, if this became a real job, it could drag Britain out of the recession faster than you can say underwire. Just a thought.)
I am also expected to pay INSANE amounts for my bras. Anyone under a DD-cup can happily wander into any high street store, underwear shop or even supermarket and buy a nice, pretty bra for as little as about five quid. Bikinis? No problem. About ten quid all in from Matalan. Done. But for me? No. I have to use "specialist" shops. Just like really fat people! A decent bra for me will cost upwards of £35 a time and bikinis are even more. It's as if the size of your chest is relative to how much cash they expect you to have. (If this were true, I reckon men with moobs would get a lot more action.)
I also struggle to wear a hell of a lot of things. If it's strapless, backless, halterneck or a size 12 (my usual dress size), I will struggle. My strapless bra actually adds an extra size to my chest as it has to be extra thick to be supportive. Halternecks make me look like a rugby player and the only time I EVER go without a bra is in bed or in the shower. Believe me, you should all thank me for this.
Now I don't cry to my mum wondering where they are. I cry after a tiring day's shopping where every single thing I've tried on has been too small up top. Dresses rarely fit me, shirts don't stay done up at the front and anything with buttons has a gaping hole. Of course, the "specialist" shops will solve all these problems for me, as long as I don't mind paying three times the price. How kind of them.
I know we should be happy with what we've got and in some circumstances, I am. I have a bit of a love/hate relationship going on with "my girls". But I will always, always wonder why people PAY to make theirs bigger. They should carry a couple of water balloons around in a bra for a week. I wonder if they'd change their mind...
Being so svelte meant I either got mistaken for a boy (yes, this happened more than once, when I had really short hair) or people thought I was about five years younger than my actual age. (As you will remember from a previous blog, this still happens!)
The main factor in both of these issues was my chest size. The factor being that it wasn't of any size at all. Whatsoever. In fact, it was perhaps even inverted there was so little there. Whilst friends were buying their first bras, I was still in crop tops (bless). Whilst friends HAD to wear bras with certain outfits, I could quite happily get away with nothing. I got bullied at school for being flat chested and I used to cry to my mum that it was so unfair. Why was I abnormal? Was this what life was going to be like for me FOREVER?!?
Oh how I wish I could eat my words now...
Now, I have the complete and utter opposite problem. Once they started, they just wouldn't stop. Well, I think they stopped about three or four years ago, but at one point I was quite concerned they may take over the world (or maybe just Essex). People who knew me at school now don't recognise me. People who didn't see me for a few years ask "Where the hell did THEY come from?!". Believe me, if I knew that, I would send them back.
It's not like I've taken after my mum or even grandmothers. It seems like I am a complete anomaly, special in my own
Many people wonder why I complain. The general consensus from girls is "Oh my God, I would LOVE to have your boobs!" (Actually, that's probably the main feeling from boys as well, but for a whole different reason...) Girls jealously admire my cleavage, looking down at their own B-cups and wishing they didn't have to stuff their bras with chicken fillets. In the mean time, I'm jealously staring back wishing I could give them some of mine so we were both satisfied.
There are a multitude of problems to be had when you have big boobs. For a start, I suffer with neck and back pain as a result. It's actually quite a lot of effort to carry these around you know! Sometimes I wish I could hire someone to walk behind me with their hands round the front just holding them up for me. (Actually, if this became a real job, it could drag Britain out of the recession faster than you can say underwire. Just a thought.)
I am also expected to pay INSANE amounts for my bras. Anyone under a DD-cup can happily wander into any high street store, underwear shop or even supermarket and buy a nice, pretty bra for as little as about five quid. Bikinis? No problem. About ten quid all in from Matalan. Done. But for me? No. I have to use "specialist" shops. Just like really fat people! A decent bra for me will cost upwards of £35 a time and bikinis are even more. It's as if the size of your chest is relative to how much cash they expect you to have. (If this were true, I reckon men with moobs would get a lot more action.)
I also struggle to wear a hell of a lot of things. If it's strapless, backless, halterneck or a size 12 (my usual dress size), I will struggle. My strapless bra actually adds an extra size to my chest as it has to be extra thick to be supportive. Halternecks make me look like a rugby player and the only time I EVER go without a bra is in bed or in the shower. Believe me, you should all thank me for this.
Now I don't cry to my mum wondering where they are. I cry after a tiring day's shopping where every single thing I've tried on has been too small up top. Dresses rarely fit me, shirts don't stay done up at the front and anything with buttons has a gaping hole. Of course, the "specialist" shops will solve all these problems for me, as long as I don't mind paying three times the price. How kind of them.
I know we should be happy with what we've got and in some circumstances, I am. I have a bit of a love/hate relationship going on with "my girls". But I will always, always wonder why people PAY to make theirs bigger. They should carry a couple of water balloons around in a bra for a week. I wonder if they'd change their mind...
Monday, 23 May 2011
Theatrical Etiquette (Or "Shut up and sit down!")
As a musical theatre lover and amateur drama enthusiast, I am extremely privileged to have seen dozens of West End shows over the last 15 years. I also love spending my money on watching concerts at amazing venues like the O2 and Wembley. My list includes Take That, Stevie Wonder, Spandau Ballet, Lionel Richie (believe me, these are the least embarrassing ones) and many more. My catalogue of concert tickets is, admittedly, more Smash Hits than NME, but hey, I like what I like!
Now these tickets aren't cheap. It normally costs upwards of 50 quid to see a concert, maybe a bit less for a show, and then you've got to factor in travel costs, eating out, plus merchandise if you want it. It's an investment. A proper night out, with money well spent on great entertainment rather than booze (and the subsequent hangover). Bearing this in mind, there are things that my fellow theatre goers do which I just can't fathom. They fall into the following categories:
The Talkers
Now. We have ALL encountered these people, even if it's only in the cinema. The rude, won't shut up for the ENTIRE show, annoying people. Why are they there!! I mean really... if you want to pay £50 to NOT watch the show... go and stand outside!
My friends and I encountered one such couple at Les Miserables in London this weekend. The speccy girl in front of us (I'm allowed to say that, I wear glasses) would NOT stop talking. Every other minute she leaned across to her boyfriend and made a comment, which kept resulting in what seemed like a full blown conversation. The worst thing was, my poor friend couldn't see a thing every time Little Miss Chatterbox moved her head. The icing on the cake was that, when she didn't have anything to say, they'd have a kiss or a snuggle instead. My blood boils!! In the end, I calmly asked them to stop. "You were much more polite than I would have been," came the comment from next to me. Well, one doesn't like to create a scene...
The Constant Drinkers
This applies more to concerts than theatre, but I always seem to get stuck next to the bloke who will get up and down at LEAST six times during the show to get more beer. Or the woman nominated by her crew to do the Smirnoff Ice run every 20 minutes. Not only is this going to cost these people an arm and a leg, but it means I have to keep getting up (or doing the theatre chair "swivel". Either way, I want to punch them). I feel I should grab them by the arms and try to reason with them: "But you've paid 60 pounds to see this band! Sixty!! And you've just missed three songs!! Why would you do this to yourself! Just WHY?!" Apparently their need to get sozzled out ways any love for the music.
But it also means that most of them won't even remember the concert the next day! When I saw Take That's comeback tour in 2006 (you can't even imagine how excited I was), my ticket was for the standing section. I was stood behind a girl who got SO drunk that, by the end, she couldn't even stand up. She kept falling backwards into me babbling incoherently. Every time, I pushed her forward again and told her friend to hold her up or get her out! It created a massive black mark all over a day that should have been amazing for me. I can only hope that she was sick on the way home and lost her shoes.
The Early Leavers
These are the people that baffle me the most. I gawp in amazement when it happens at EVERY concert I go to. It's like a mystery I will seemingly never solve.
Every band or singer will pretend to finish their show, wait for the massive applause to build to a crescendo, then come back on again for an encore. This usually comprises two or three of their absolute best and most spectacular songs, a shiny new costume and a big explosion of glitter. In a nutshell, you'd be mad to miss it. But there are a strange breed of creature whose little legs can't carry them out of that venue fast enough just as soon as the last note has finished on the pre-encore song. They jump up and leg it out of there like their life depends on it.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't enjoy the slow shuffle you have to suffer to get out of the arena. The queue to get into the tube station, the crush to get on a train and the long journey home. Or perhaps having to sit in the car park for 20 minutes waiting to get out. But. It is ONE NIGHT of your life. That's it. One little night when you might be that extra bit tired because you got home extra late. Who cares!! (I'll say it again) You just paid loads of money to come here!! Is it really worth trying to get out before "the rush"?? Why don't you just chill the heck out, throw your hands in the air and shout proudly "I travelled quite far to come here, and it cost me loads, plus I love this band, otherwise I wouldn't have come! SO I'M GOING TO STAY TIL THE END!! Yeah!" Just a suggestion.
And there you have it. My theatre-related gripes. I'm off to see Take That again this summer. I'll update you afterwards!
Now these tickets aren't cheap. It normally costs upwards of 50 quid to see a concert, maybe a bit less for a show, and then you've got to factor in travel costs, eating out, plus merchandise if you want it. It's an investment. A proper night out, with money well spent on great entertainment rather than booze (and the subsequent hangover). Bearing this in mind, there are things that my fellow theatre goers do which I just can't fathom. They fall into the following categories:
The Talkers
Now. We have ALL encountered these people, even if it's only in the cinema. The rude, won't shut up for the ENTIRE show, annoying people. Why are they there!! I mean really... if you want to pay £50 to NOT watch the show... go and stand outside!
My friends and I encountered one such couple at Les Miserables in London this weekend. The speccy girl in front of us (I'm allowed to say that, I wear glasses) would NOT stop talking. Every other minute she leaned across to her boyfriend and made a comment, which kept resulting in what seemed like a full blown conversation. The worst thing was, my poor friend couldn't see a thing every time Little Miss Chatterbox moved her head. The icing on the cake was that, when she didn't have anything to say, they'd have a kiss or a snuggle instead. My blood boils!! In the end, I calmly asked them to stop. "You were much more polite than I would have been," came the comment from next to me. Well, one doesn't like to create a scene...
The Constant Drinkers
This applies more to concerts than theatre, but I always seem to get stuck next to the bloke who will get up and down at LEAST six times during the show to get more beer. Or the woman nominated by her crew to do the Smirnoff Ice run every 20 minutes. Not only is this going to cost these people an arm and a leg, but it means I have to keep getting up (or doing the theatre chair "swivel". Either way, I want to punch them). I feel I should grab them by the arms and try to reason with them: "But you've paid 60 pounds to see this band! Sixty!! And you've just missed three songs!! Why would you do this to yourself! Just WHY?!" Apparently their need to get sozzled out ways any love for the music.
But it also means that most of them won't even remember the concert the next day! When I saw Take That's comeback tour in 2006 (you can't even imagine how excited I was), my ticket was for the standing section. I was stood behind a girl who got SO drunk that, by the end, she couldn't even stand up. She kept falling backwards into me babbling incoherently. Every time, I pushed her forward again and told her friend to hold her up or get her out! It created a massive black mark all over a day that should have been amazing for me. I can only hope that she was sick on the way home and lost her shoes.
The Early Leavers
These are the people that baffle me the most. I gawp in amazement when it happens at EVERY concert I go to. It's like a mystery I will seemingly never solve.
Every band or singer will pretend to finish their show, wait for the massive applause to build to a crescendo, then come back on again for an encore. This usually comprises two or three of their absolute best and most spectacular songs, a shiny new costume and a big explosion of glitter. In a nutshell, you'd be mad to miss it. But there are a strange breed of creature whose little legs can't carry them out of that venue fast enough just as soon as the last note has finished on the pre-encore song. They jump up and leg it out of there like their life depends on it.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't enjoy the slow shuffle you have to suffer to get out of the arena. The queue to get into the tube station, the crush to get on a train and the long journey home. Or perhaps having to sit in the car park for 20 minutes waiting to get out. But. It is ONE NIGHT of your life. That's it. One little night when you might be that extra bit tired because you got home extra late. Who cares!! (I'll say it again) You just paid loads of money to come here!! Is it really worth trying to get out before "the rush"?? Why don't you just chill the heck out, throw your hands in the air and shout proudly "I travelled quite far to come here, and it cost me loads, plus I love this band, otherwise I wouldn't have come! SO I'M GOING TO STAY TIL THE END!! Yeah!" Just a suggestion.
And there you have it. My theatre-related gripes. I'm off to see Take That again this summer. I'll update you afterwards!
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Did I miss a memo about mobile phones?
Ah, the age of the mobile phone. I remember getting my first one. I was 16 years old and it was, of course, a trusty old you-can-drop-it-as-many-times-as-you-like-and-it'll-still-work Nokia. One of those ones with changeable covers and a function where you could create your own ring tone by pressing the keys to play different notes. And the game of Snake! Oh the hours I wasted playing that. I'll never get them back you know.
But the point is, I was thrilled. Because now, not only could I ring my friends when I was, like, out of the house and stuff, but I could TEXT them too! A little thrill of excitement would surge through me when I heard that familiar beep heralding a new message. Who was it? Was it that guy I fancied? Had he put a kiss at the end? If I replied, did he have enough credit to text me back again? (Luckily I never had to worry about my own credit situation as I went straight onto contract. Thanks mum!)
A whole new world had opened up to me. If you met someone new, you could give them your number. (Or miss call them so that it showed up automatically on their phone... how exciting!) Not the house number, or your mum's number, but your very own precious eleven digits. When your mum thought you were upstairs in bed and asleep, you could really still be communicating with people, and she'd never know! (Until she got the bill that is...) And you'd never miss out on gossip again. In short, getting a mobile phone was probably one of the best things that has ever happened in my life. You can judge me and sneer at me all you want but that feeling of inclusiveness was priceless.
Having had two long-term, long-distance relationships in the last seven years, not living with one of my parents since I was 12 and having lived over 200 miles away from home at uni, it reiterates how important mobile communication is for me. It can dampen the pain of having the people I love so far away and a simple call or text from someone can completely change my day. Since the invention of mobile phone cameras and multimedia messaging, I can see something that makes me smile and send it instantly to that friend who popped into my head. For all these things, my mobile phone is, and has always been, precious to me.
But I feel like I might have missed something somewhere. Mine is not the opinion shared by all. In fact, sometimes it is quite the opposite. Without naming names (some of you may be reading this blog!), I have met many people in life who, although they own a mobile phone, almost refuse to be contacted on it. I mean it's like they have it just for the purpose of NOT answering it. They simply just ignore it when you call or text them, and then never ever get back to you. It's as if you trying to reach out to them in a friendly "How are you?" way is really, really rude and how dare you interrupt their day by making their phone vibrate?!
I find this really odd. I mean of course, I'm not completely insensitive. I realise that many situations in life mean you can't answer your phone or ever have it with you. At work, on a date, at a wedding, or simply spending time with your family or your partner, I understand that you aren't going to text me back straight away. I really, really do. But think about it. If you went on holiday for a week, the first thing you would do when you got back to work would be to check your emails and reply to them. You couldn't do it last week, so you're doing it now. Well, erm, why can't you just reply to me when you're finished being busy? It's not much to ask!
If I came up to you in town and said "Hi! How are you? Haven't seen you in ages!", you wouldn't stare blankly past me and walk on (I hope). You'd engage in conversation. Why is it so different when I text you?! This especially bugs me if I have asked an important question I need an answer to, like "We're meeting up tomorrow, I've been trying to get hold of you for three days to find out what time you'd like to meet. TEXT ME BACK!" This happened to me recently... don't get me started.
I once had a conversation with a friend who, although she uses her mobile phone for many things, including business, properly resented the fact that this little device meant she was seen as constantly available to people and that people expect you to reply to them. Well, yeh! That's why we all have mobile phones! If you really hated it that much, you would learn to live without one.
I know that "real life" is far more important than any life we may lead through modern technology, and I'm not so sad as to think all my relationships are based on my text conversations with people. But we have to face facts that it's a mobile world now. And I would also like others to face facts that sometimes, it's just really bloody rude to ignore people. So try not to anymore, eh?
But the point is, I was thrilled. Because now, not only could I ring my friends when I was, like, out of the house and stuff, but I could TEXT them too! A little thrill of excitement would surge through me when I heard that familiar beep heralding a new message. Who was it? Was it that guy I fancied? Had he put a kiss at the end? If I replied, did he have enough credit to text me back again? (Luckily I never had to worry about my own credit situation as I went straight onto contract. Thanks mum!)
A whole new world had opened up to me. If you met someone new, you could give them your number. (Or miss call them so that it showed up automatically on their phone... how exciting!) Not the house number, or your mum's number, but your very own precious eleven digits. When your mum thought you were upstairs in bed and asleep, you could really still be communicating with people, and she'd never know! (Until she got the bill that is...) And you'd never miss out on gossip again. In short, getting a mobile phone was probably one of the best things that has ever happened in my life. You can judge me and sneer at me all you want but that feeling of inclusiveness was priceless.
Having had two long-term, long-distance relationships in the last seven years, not living with one of my parents since I was 12 and having lived over 200 miles away from home at uni, it reiterates how important mobile communication is for me. It can dampen the pain of having the people I love so far away and a simple call or text from someone can completely change my day. Since the invention of mobile phone cameras and multimedia messaging, I can see something that makes me smile and send it instantly to that friend who popped into my head. For all these things, my mobile phone is, and has always been, precious to me.
But I feel like I might have missed something somewhere. Mine is not the opinion shared by all. In fact, sometimes it is quite the opposite. Without naming names (some of you may be reading this blog!), I have met many people in life who, although they own a mobile phone, almost refuse to be contacted on it. I mean it's like they have it just for the purpose of NOT answering it. They simply just ignore it when you call or text them, and then never ever get back to you. It's as if you trying to reach out to them in a friendly "How are you?" way is really, really rude and how dare you interrupt their day by making their phone vibrate?!
I find this really odd. I mean of course, I'm not completely insensitive. I realise that many situations in life mean you can't answer your phone or ever have it with you. At work, on a date, at a wedding, or simply spending time with your family or your partner, I understand that you aren't going to text me back straight away. I really, really do. But think about it. If you went on holiday for a week, the first thing you would do when you got back to work would be to check your emails and reply to them. You couldn't do it last week, so you're doing it now. Well, erm, why can't you just reply to me when you're finished being busy? It's not much to ask!
If I came up to you in town and said "Hi! How are you? Haven't seen you in ages!", you wouldn't stare blankly past me and walk on (I hope). You'd engage in conversation. Why is it so different when I text you?! This especially bugs me if I have asked an important question I need an answer to, like "We're meeting up tomorrow, I've been trying to get hold of you for three days to find out what time you'd like to meet. TEXT ME BACK!" This happened to me recently... don't get me started.
I once had a conversation with a friend who, although she uses her mobile phone for many things, including business, properly resented the fact that this little device meant she was seen as constantly available to people and that people expect you to reply to them. Well, yeh! That's why we all have mobile phones! If you really hated it that much, you would learn to live without one.
I know that "real life" is far more important than any life we may lead through modern technology, and I'm not so sad as to think all my relationships are based on my text conversations with people. But we have to face facts that it's a mobile world now. And I would also like others to face facts that sometimes, it's just really bloody rude to ignore people. So try not to anymore, eh?
Thursday, 28 April 2011
To I.D. or not to I.D? That is the question...
Many of you will know that this blog has been a long time coming.
I was born in 1984 (on the day that Torvill and Dean won gold at the Olympics in case you're interested), which this year meant I celebrated my 27th birthday. Apart from getting slightly more panicked about the fact that I'm nearly 30, I hoped this milestone would herald a much greater achievement; finally being able to buy alcohol without being asked for identification.
It's a wish I make every year, as I blow out the pretend candles on my pretend birthday cake, and a wish that so far... has never bloody come true.
There are many reasons I have a problem with getting asked for I.D. The first is that, although I am still youthful looking, I honest to God, REALLY don't think I look too young to buy alcohol. I mean votes on a postcard if you fancy letting me know but I'm pretty sure that in the grand scheme of things, I don't look 17.
The second reason is that usually, the people who ask me are probably no more than about 18 themselves. You know, those spotty kids who work on the till at Sainsbury's who look like they'd rather be anywhere else, but who's eyes light up when they spot your bottle of Pimms as they've only just been allowed to serve alcohol to people. (Either this or they display a look of sheer panic). This makes these people nearly TEN years younger than me! I mean really. You're asking me for I.D? I quite fancy asking them if they've got any to prove they're allowed to serve me! But that would probably be childish...
Coming in at number three on the list is the way people go about the whole I.D. thing. What seems to happen is that they take a quick glance at me, go to serve me and only then think better of it. In the past, people have actually scanned my booze before questioning me, they're that rubbish at it! It's as if they don't trust their first instincts. I silently try and communicate with them "Go on, keep going, scan the bottle, you know you want to. I'm 27!!" But to no avail.
And fourthly is this: The last time I checked, the legal age to buy alcohol was still 18. Not 21. Not 25. And definitely not 27. I am still waiting for someone to explain to me the whole point of the "Challenge 25" scheme that they now run in supermarkets. "If you look under 25, we have to ask you for I.D. to prove that you're over 18." Erm..... HUH?! Is it just me that is confused by this?? So what you're saying is, if you look at me and think I'm say, 23, you STILL have to ask me for I.D? My mind literally boggles.
Admittedly my friends don't ever seem as bothered about it as I do. They ask me incredulously "But don't you like getting asked? I love it! Doesn't it make you feel young? You'll appreciate it soon!" The answer to all this is no, no and NO. I'm a single woman now. I don't want to be out trying to find a nice man whilst my potential suitors are there thinking "Christ, what's she doing in the pub, she must be 17!" Similarly when I'm out with friends, I don't want to look like the 17 year old hanging around with proper adults!
I just want to look my age. No older, no younger. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing wrong as it stands but something about me must must scream "child". Yes I'll be thankful when I'm 50 and look 40. But for now, checkout people beware. I will still give you a withering look and sneer "I'm 27 actually" if you ask me for I.D!
I was born in 1984 (on the day that Torvill and Dean won gold at the Olympics in case you're interested), which this year meant I celebrated my 27th birthday. Apart from getting slightly more panicked about the fact that I'm nearly 30, I hoped this milestone would herald a much greater achievement; finally being able to buy alcohol without being asked for identification.
It's a wish I make every year, as I blow out the pretend candles on my pretend birthday cake, and a wish that so far... has never bloody come true.
There are many reasons I have a problem with getting asked for I.D. The first is that, although I am still youthful looking, I honest to God, REALLY don't think I look too young to buy alcohol. I mean votes on a postcard if you fancy letting me know but I'm pretty sure that in the grand scheme of things, I don't look 17.
The second reason is that usually, the people who ask me are probably no more than about 18 themselves. You know, those spotty kids who work on the till at Sainsbury's who look like they'd rather be anywhere else, but who's eyes light up when they spot your bottle of Pimms as they've only just been allowed to serve alcohol to people. (Either this or they display a look of sheer panic). This makes these people nearly TEN years younger than me! I mean really. You're asking me for I.D? I quite fancy asking them if they've got any to prove they're allowed to serve me! But that would probably be childish...
Coming in at number three on the list is the way people go about the whole I.D. thing. What seems to happen is that they take a quick glance at me, go to serve me and only then think better of it. In the past, people have actually scanned my booze before questioning me, they're that rubbish at it! It's as if they don't trust their first instincts. I silently try and communicate with them "Go on, keep going, scan the bottle, you know you want to. I'm 27!!" But to no avail.
And fourthly is this: The last time I checked, the legal age to buy alcohol was still 18. Not 21. Not 25. And definitely not 27. I am still waiting for someone to explain to me the whole point of the "Challenge 25" scheme that they now run in supermarkets. "If you look under 25, we have to ask you for I.D. to prove that you're over 18." Erm..... HUH?! Is it just me that is confused by this?? So what you're saying is, if you look at me and think I'm say, 23, you STILL have to ask me for I.D? My mind literally boggles.
Admittedly my friends don't ever seem as bothered about it as I do. They ask me incredulously "But don't you like getting asked? I love it! Doesn't it make you feel young? You'll appreciate it soon!" The answer to all this is no, no and NO. I'm a single woman now. I don't want to be out trying to find a nice man whilst my potential suitors are there thinking "Christ, what's she doing in the pub, she must be 17!" Similarly when I'm out with friends, I don't want to look like the 17 year old hanging around with proper adults!
I just want to look my age. No older, no younger. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing wrong as it stands but something about me must must scream "child". Yes I'll be thankful when I'm 50 and look 40. But for now, checkout people beware. I will still give you a withering look and sneer "I'm 27 actually" if you ask me for I.D!
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