Just to reassure myself it could be worse!

Ok, so I don’t blog for a week and then make two posts in one day, there’s nothing like inconsistency!

I’m still vaguely obsessed with Christmas and organising the work Christmas party and remembered an email I had received from Student Nutty Nurse some time last year.

I obviously haven’t saved it, but finally tracked it down on Boreme.com. You’ve got to love the internet!

Anyway, urban myth or not, I’m so glad that I don’t have to organise a Christmas party on a large scale, else I think I’d have the same reaction as this woman!

Enjoy.

The musical air cooler

I think I’ve told you before that the basis of mine and Student Nutty Nurse’s friendship is arguing and playing practical jokes on each other.

Even though we have not worked together for several months now, he is still managing to play tricks on me at work.

The office where I work is in a converted garage. As you can imagine, it’s cramped and, in summer, it’s hot. We have an air cooler to help us not completely melt in summer, but obviously it’s not necessary in winter and it lives under one of the corner desks.

A couple of days ago, I was in the office with a client and a colleague, when all of a sudden we heard ‘Happy Birthday’ playing, swiftly followed by Highland music! After some investigation, we could only narrow it down to the air cooler.

By this stage, I was getting quite frustrated and decided that there was only one course of action. Watched by a very bemused client and an equally bemused colleague, I fetched a screwdriver and dismantled it. It would not shut up.

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by bits of the air cooler, I began to think I’d made a bit of a mistake. Especially when my colleague lent over, took the batteries out and silence reigned.

Ah.

I tried to figure out what had happened. Why had it been playing music? It had never happened before; I didn’t even know that it could.

There only seemed to be one possible solution.

I phoned Student Nutty Nurse.

“You know the air cooler in the office?”

“Yes!”

“Does it play music?”

“Yes!”

“Did you set some kind of timer on it to make it play?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“I wanted to surprise you for your Birthday”

“My Birthday’s not until March. You know that. When did you set it?”

“About ten months ago. I wondered why no-one had phoned me about it!”

So even though we no longer work together, he is still managing to get me into trouble. I managed to repair the air cooler, but I’m not sure it will ever work in the same way again.

However, I have found the instruction book and now I know how to set the timer. I can feel some Christmas music coming on!

Leave the chocolate alone!

I see that the manufacturers have been at it again. They’ve been messing about with the chocolate.

I bought some Galaxy chocolate today, feeling in the need of a reward (which was a bit unnecessary as just by being awake I feel that I deserve some chocolate!). I noticed that on the wrapper was the announcement that they had improved the recipe and it had a new shape.

Oh, shit. I hate it when they do this.

Luckily, it’s ok this time. It tastes the same and they haven’t done too much. They’ve just changed the shape to a slightly wavy one. It’s quite pretty really.

But it got me thinking about how often the manufacturers see fit to go and mess about with the things we know and love, even if it’s just the name. There never seems to be a good reason to do this, I’m sure it’s just to confuse us and make us think that they’ve released a new product.

I mean, take Snickers. They always used to be called Marathon. Now, that name made sense. What sort of name is Snickers?! Marathon always implied that the chocolately, peanutty goodness would help you keep going. But Snickers? What does that mean?

And Starburst. They were always Opal Fruits (well, they still are in my head – just because they change the name, doesn’t mean that I have to agree with it!). Everything else is the same, they just changed the name. Is there a point to it that I’m missing?

The other thing that annoys me is when they just take products out of action. Does anyone remember the Peanut Butter Lions? They were great and saw me through many hangovers in college. Now they’ve disappeared and I can’t find them anywhere!

I don’t mind them adding new things though! Just stop messing about with the ones I like.

A lost art?

I was reading the back of my conditioner bottle in the shower this morning (it’s amazing what you do to amuse yourself whilst you’re waiting for a deep conditioning treatment to work!) and noticed what was written under the ‘Contact us’ bit.

The bottle encouraged people to “Give us a ring, send us an email, or why not go mad and pick up a pen – and combat the global disappearance of handwriting”.

It got me thinking, I rarely write letters anymore and I’m not sure I know anyone else who writes them either. Sure, I write quite a few at work, but they don’t really count, plus, they’re typed. In fact, I only write two personal letters a year, both at Christmas, to two family friends. But when I was younger, letters and notes were a common thing.

When I was kid, every Birthday and Christmas I would have to write ‘Thank you’ letters to anyone who had given me a present. As much as I knew I had to do them, I hated it. I mean, when you’re a kid, what else do you say when you’ve got as far as “Dear Great Aunt Mable. Thank you for my book token. I have put it towards a book.”? I would sit there for ages, trying to turn 20 words into a letter; I would often end up drawing a little picture, just to fill up space.

When I was a teenager, it was all about passing notes in school (when I was there, I played truant a lot!). The notes were far more important than whatever class we were in, but mainly consisted of “Jamie is soooo fit”, “Are you coming for a fag at break?” and “Lucy snogged Darren on Friday!”. Exciting stuff!

It just doesn’t cross my mind to write a letter. Now, if I want to contact someone and don’t want to phone, then I will send them an email. It’s quicker than writing, but I guess it’s kind of sad that no one writes letters anymore.

Is there a sign on my forehead?

Is there something about me?

Do I have some kind of sign on my forehead that I can’t see?

Why do I always attract the loony?

I can be anywhere and the random mad person will find me. It doesn’t matter where; on the bus, in the supermarket, in the doctor’s waiting room, it makes no difference; they will track me down and start talking.

Even when I’m walking to work I’m not safe. In the mornings there is a lady who walks through the city centre at the same time I do. On a regular basis she comes up, tells me a joke (it’s always something about dicks, socks and the cold – I’m sorry I can’t be clearer, but it just doesn’t make sense!) and then wanders off, apparently happy with our interaction.

When I am training for work I will attract the one person on the course desperate to talk about their ‘issues’ and they will spend the entire day trailing around after me and then want to walk back to the train station too. They have also been known to ask me if I want to go for a drink afterwards as I have “been so helpful and understanding”.

No, I don’t.

If we did that, then there is a distinct possibility that my responses will change from the professional ones ingrained into me, to the ones that are actually in my head. I’m really not convinced you want to be told that either; 1) you’re clearly insane or 2) need to stop acting like a moaning idiot and get off your arse and do something about it!

I know I work in mental health and should understand, but it’s no different from a doctor getting asked to diagnose people at parties or a taxi driver being a chauffeur for his kids. You just don’t want to do it. A lot of my friends also work in mental health and say the same thing. It appears that some people do have a sign saying ‘If you are mad/desperate/love to talk about yourself then feel free to come and talk non-stop to me for as long as you want’ stuck on their forehead.

The problem is, that unless I can actually avoid being engaged in conversation from the start, I don’t have it in me to stop them. I nod, smile and make appropriate noises when I’m really inventing elaborate escape plans or writing my shopping list in my head.

I can successfully manage to avoid the charity and survey clipboard people in the street, so maybe I need to employ the same tactics with the random mad people. In the meantime, maybe I should pay attention to what they say and see if there’s any blog fodder in there!

Take one chef, add a dash of TV...

There are so many cookery shows on TV. Ready, Steady Cook, Saturday Kitchen, Master Chef, you can’t seem to change channels without coming across one.

As much as I don’t cook (unless you can call heating things in the microwave cooking), I have occasionally watched these shows and I’ve noticed a couple of things that irritate me.

Firstly, one of the themes that seems to come up a lot is the ‘let’s use your store cupboard basics’. I never have these things in my cupboard. In fact, I only know two people who have things such as risotto rice, garlic salt and different types of mushrooms in there. Now, if they could show me what to do with a tin of beans, some instant coffee and a bit of slightly mouldy cheddar then they may be on to something!

And the chefs never wash their hands! All they seem to do is give them a quick rinse under the tap and then carry on. So what are they saying? Is E-coli a new type of seasoning now?

Oh, and I want to know where to get one of those magic ovens. For those that like to cook, imagine how much time could be saved. These are very special ovens where you can put raw food in, open it again two minutes later and, hey presto, your food is ready and piping hot!

Then we come to the final act of tasting the delights that TV Chef has just produced. Apparently, TV Chefs never make anything that doesn’t taste divine, delicious or like little angels waltzing across your tongue (Yes I did make that last bit up, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it one day!). I would love to hear someone say it tasted bloody awful, rather than practically have an orgasm over a plate of pasta with a side of listeria.

Unfortunately, all that generally happens when I watch these programmes is that I sit there wishing my pizza would be delivered faster…

Avoid eye contact

I have spent a lot of this week on a train, travelling to and from London (hence the lack of blogs). As much as I like travelling by train, it never fails to amaze me the lengths people go to so they don’t have to share their seat with anyone.

Over the years, I have noticed there is an unwritten code of practise for train travel. I don’t agree with it, but it’s there. It basically boils down to the fundamental rule of; unless there is some form of emergency, you must NOT acknowledge your fellow passengers. This can be quite a complicated process and everyone seems to have their own tactics, but there appears to be common techniques used by the majority.

You sit on the seat next to the window, with your bag on the aisle seat, then, either look like you’re reading, put your i-pod on or talk into your mobile. Or all three at once. It doesn’t matter if you are actually doing any of these things, as long as it looks like you are, then you may fool the people that get on at the station after you. One of the most important parts of this process seems to be that you must not make eye contact with people trying to get a seat. If you do, then the good old British sense of duty may kick in and you will end up moving your bag and having to actually sit next to someone for the duration of your journey.

If you find yourself on a commuter train, you will have no choice but to sit next to someone. You will find yourself squashed up against a random person, whilst you all desperately try to avoid the reality that someone you don’t know is about to sit on your lap. However, the tubes are worse in rush hour. There, you are very likely to find yourself in the position of having your nose in someone’s armpit whilst someone else uses your back as a convenient place to lean.

One of the most popular ways to deal with this seems to be to go to sleep. And snore. And dribble. On your neighbour’s shoulder preferably. Then, when you reach your station, you must suddenly leap up and trip over your fellow passenger’s feet as you try and get off the train before the doors close.

Your other alternatives to try and convince yourself you are in fact the only person on the train (or at least irritate the others enough so they might move) are; chat on your mobile, telling whoever’s on the other end that you are on the train (Really? Bloody hell, my mistake, I thought we were on some kind of magic carpet!). Put your bag on the overhead rack and then stand up every five minutes to get something out of it. If you can drop something on your fellow passenger’s head whilst doing this, then that is a bonus. When you have to sit in one of the blocks of seats that face each other, ensure that you place your legs in a way so that no one else can put their legs in a natural position. This way, when you stand up, you will be the only person not to fall over due to the complete lack of blood flow to the lower limbs for the last hour.

Trains are supposed to be a convenient way to travel around the country. Sure, as long as there’s not the wrong type of leaf/snow/rain/cow on the line, then they can be great. However, it involves such a complicated set of rules, that I feel that everyone should be made to take a test before travelling to avoid mistakes!

Public dancing solution!

Some of you are aware that my sense of rhythm is sorely lacking. I have made some progress recently thanks to dancing in Best Friend’s kitchen and embarrassing small children, but there is still vast room for improvement (though I did manage a Burlesque-like shimmy type thing the other day!).

I will not dance in public, unless I am under the influence of a serious amount of alcohol, and even then it’s pushing it. But I think I may have found a solution!

I have recently heard about these things called Headphone disco's. It seems that when you enter the venue, you are immediately issued with wireless headphones. Two different DJ’s play at the same time and you can choose which one you listen to. There is no music pumped into the club, it only comes through the headphones. So if you take them off, all you will see are people dancing to…nothing.

I guess it looks a little odd at first, a bit like a Mime’s disco, but imagine the potential. No one would be able to tell if you were a bad dancer as they would just think you were dancing to different music to them. However, I guess it could also make a good dancer look bad, but I don’t really care about that!

I need to find somewhere where they are using these. Not only could I dance in public without embarrassing myself or anyone who knows me, I would willingly pay good money to see those that think they can dance look as silly as me!

That's (not) entertainment...

One of the things that most of us have a problem with is getting older. We all know that we’re aging and that there’s little we can do about it, but it’s something the majority of us resist. We also all have things we associate with ‘being old’. For me, its things like Bingo (though I did play once on a ‘Butlins’ type holiday and won £90!), bowling on the green, socks and sandals and anything that smacks of Saga.

It also seems worse when you don’t feel like the age you actually are and find yourself in a situation you’ve always thought of as the domain of the more mature.

One of my friends, Ms Not So Innocent, is currently going through this. As we speak, she will be cruising around the British Isles, alighting to visit some of more interesting parts and, whilst on board, being ‘entertained’.

Ms Not So Innocent is…umm…a bit older than me, though really doesn’t act like it. She is very funny, with quite a dry sense of humour, has a naughty streak and can certainly tell you some stories from her younger days. Oh, and she has a massive crush on Jarvis Cocker.

When her husband presented the idea of the cruise, Ms Not So Innocent seemed to be relatively ok with it. Sure, she had some concerns but overall liked the idea of visiting some of the places on the itinerary.

Then she read the brochure again.

Ms Not So Innocent became more and more concerned with the whole tone of the descriptions and the advice given. She recoiled at the suggestion that “Ladies often choose to wear cocktail dresses” and “Gentlemen are encouraged to wear a suit for dinner”. I think she became even more distressed when her husband actually got his suit dry cleaned!

The thought of the nightly entertainment drove her almost to distraction. Listening to someone sing covers of ‘Show Tunes’ is really not her Ms Not So Innocent’s thing. I think there was also a hint of the upcoming delights of shuffleboard and whist – though I suspect she may have blocked the full details from her mind. She did inform her husband that she may not wish to be ‘entertained’ and asked what he advised. Unfortunately the suggestion that she could stay in the cabin was not helpful. I think she may have been keener on mine to get drunk and create mischief!

I have said that next year I will take her holiday. She hasn’t said no yet…

Where everybody knows your name...

Or at least knows what you buy!

It appears that my life is now based on Cheers.

Either that or I am much more of a creature of habit than I thought I was.

I have a terrible Starbucks addiction and go in for my vat of coffee everyday. Recently, there have been the same couple of women on shift when I go in in the morning. I walked in today, still half asleep and on automatic pilot.

I was greeted with “Good morning! Grande, skinny latte as usual, love?” I stood there for a few seconds, initially feeling slightly assaulted by such cheeriness at that time of the morning and also somewhat amazed that she knew what my order was. Having received my coffee, I trundled off to pick up some cigarettes.

I arrived at the kiosk where I end up most mornings. The bloke who normally serves me was there and asked “Do you need all of it, or just some of it today?” (I roll my own, so can have quite a list some mornings). I confirmed that I needed all of it, plus some chewing gum (one of my many other addictions) and a lighter. He commented that I seem to go through a lot of lighters and then waved me on my way.

By this stage, I was beginning to feel I was being monitored by some form of caffeine and nicotine police force.

I probably wouldn’t have thought any more about it if I hadn’t had gone up to the local shop on my lunch break to pick up a sandwich.

As I wandered in, the shopkeeper informed me that they had “those sandwiches that you like”, but had “sold out of your newspaper”.

I live in a relatively small city, but this was ridiculous. I’m all for knowing lots of people, but I’m not great with routine. I didn’t realise how many small bits of my life I repeated day after day.

It’s time to shake things up a bit.

I may go into Starbucks tomorrow and order an espresso!

Macho men

One thing that always makes me smile is when I see groups of lads trying to look ‘hard’.

I’m not talking about the ones that are serious, but the ones who look like they should be at home, having their tea cooked by Mummy Dearest and bartering to be allowed to go out to the local youth club.

You can usually spot them a mile off. They tend to be wearing the uniform of baggy jeans (nicely ironed with a crease down the front – thanks Mum!) that show off their boxers (buy a belt – I will lend you the money if you need it) and sporting a hat that’s kind of perched on the top of their head. The big giveaway is the fake ‘street speak’; they have all the right phrases but unfortunately can’t hide the fact that they were raised to ‘talk properly’ and are making a deliberate effort to drop their T’s and H’s.

I encountered such a group today. I was walking along, when I looked up to see 3 lads swaggering towards me (please stop doing this, I either assume you have a problem with your hips, or that you’ve bought those weird trainers with springs in the soles) taking up the whole path. I carried on, knowing full well that their training would mean they would stand aside to let me pass.

I had to suppress a giggle when all of a sudden I heard “Ow, that hedge got me”.

I glanced round to see one of them rubbing his arm, before giving the aforementioned hedge a very cross glare and checking that he wasn’t bleeding. It was all I could do not to offer to get him a hanky and a plaster.

Sorry boys, it kind of spoilt the effect…

Normal service will resume shortly

I only have a few words to say.

Sponsored walk today.

Slightly sunburnt.

Blisters on blisters.

Very tired, but enjoyed it and, though I didn't do the 15 miles, I'm proud of myself.

Who's meant to be the grown up?

A while ago I went to the cinema with Mini Adult, only to find we had apparently had our own Freaky Friday moment.

We had decided to go off and have a girlie day. Part of the trip was to go and see Charlottes Web. Before it started, we dutifully chose our sweets (pick n mix – always exciting!) which turned out to be quite a complicated process with lots of debate about the merits of each sweet.

I had started to eat mine whilst we were waiting for the film to start (what can I say, I had jazzies in there!) when all of a sudden I was aware of Mini Adult looking at me in disbelief. “If you eat them all now, you won’t have any left for the film” she informed me.

I couldn’t believe it, I was meant to be the adult and the one saying things like that. I really didn’t know how to respond and before I knew it, I had apologised and was sitting there feeling a five year old, just been told off my mum! I’m sure that’s the wrong way round!

It wasn’t the only incident of role reversal that day. I had been a bit worried about Mini Adult seeing Charlottes Web and had prepared myself for a crying person and having the whole life and death conversation. That also didn’t work out – I was the one sat there crying my eyes out. Mini Adult wasn’t fazed in the slightest; as she said to me afterwards, whilst patting my hand, “It’s only a story, she didn’t really die”…

Operation Domestication

Today has been taken up with ‘Operation Domestication’, otherwise known as ‘Shit, The Landlady Is Coming’. To be fair, she’s a pretty decent. I don’t phone her every five minutes with stupid things and she generally leaves me alone; it suits us both. However, she’s coming round with a plumber on Tuesday, so I’ve had to swing into action to make sure the flat is up to Landlady standards. I have spent the day doing all those jobs that you mean to do, but never quite round to, often because it’s all really quite boring. Now, after a few hours of blood (when I scraped my arm on a nail), sweat and tears (again, with the nail), I have a shiny flat with sparkling woodwork, squeaky floors and glistening tiles. I however, am now a complete mess! I hope it’s enough for her to think it’s always like that. I can be a bit slapdash when it comes to cleaning, though it’s never dirty, just messy.

In other news, I have this week off work. I have arranged for my niece, Mini Adult, to come and stay with me for a couple of days. Mini Adult is one of the few kids who I actually enjoy spending time with, she cracks me up and is already showing signs of having inherited her aunts’ perspective on life. It is rare I take parental responsibility for more than a few hours, so two days and a night are going to be interesting!

Bloggers Against Abuse

Whilst I was looking around the web at all the different blogging communities, I came across this. Blogcatalog are running a 'Blogging for a Great Cause Challenge', on September 27th, they are hoping that 1000’s of bloggers will blog about stopping abuse. For full details look here, but basically they are asking people to blog about putting an end toany form of abuse. It is up to each person what they blog about, whatever you're most passionate about. I’ll be taking part; I think it’s a great way to get a message across.

Walk this way...

Ok, I have had yet a further sign that I am slowly losing my mind. I have agreed to take part in a 15 mile sponsored walk at the end of this month. It is for a local group that is raising money to enable people with either mental health issues or physical disabilities to access sporting facilities. As I work in mental health and are meant to advocate the benefits of things like this, I really should take part.

It’s not that I’m lazy, I’m just very specific about what kind of exercise I take part in and walking isn’t one of them, I’m more of a taxi girl. I used to belong to a gym, unfortunately that turned out to be the five most expensive gym sessions of my life until I finally got round to cancelling my membership. I love swimming and things such as rounders if I’m with friends, but walking 15 miles? I’m not sure how that’s going work out. I walk to work everyday and a few other places, but it is rarely more than a couple of miles at a time.

So far I’ve got quite a bit of sponsorship; though I have a feeling many people are sponsoring me for the entertainment value alone!! Best Friend isn’t sponsoring me but is paying me £15 for vodka and cigarettes at the end – they will definitely be needed. She is also going to be my cheerleader, having already made up a chant and will be texting me encouragement throughout the day.

Maybe I should consider doing some training. Do you think increasing the amount of times I walk to Starbucks or the off licence counts…

It's a mistake to eat before dinner!

To me, Sundays are sort of non-days. They have an odd, empty feeling about them, I’m sure this stems from when I was a kid and shops weren’t open on Sundays (yes anyone under 20, shock!, horror!, shops never used to be open 24/7 and they shut for a whole day!), leaving my hometown with a sort of tumbleweed feeling. Even now, when I know I can do anything that I want to exactly the same as in the week, Sundays feel slow and empty. I know I should find them relaxing but I end up itching to do something exciting. However, today I am glad of it. Having had two hideously busy weeks at work, seeing various friends in the week and then being more or less permanently drunk since Friday night, I’m enjoying a day with nothing more taxing than reading the papers and watching Hollyoaks.

Last night was dinner at Miss Nice As Pie’s house. Best Friend and I set off with her daughter, The Cool Kid, stopping on the way to pick up some ice, as requested by Miss Nice As Pie. As we were in the shop, we spotted some sausage rolls and decided to buy them to eat before dinner (The Cool Kid suitably bribed to keep quiet!), this turned out to be a mistake. We were greeted with appetizers of mini duck spring rolls, followed by tacos and stuffed peppers, followed by homemade chocolate cake! Dinner was nice and suddenly the secret sausage rolls, eaten quietly round the corner, seemed to take up a vast amount of room, but I continued to eat as I would not want to hurt Miss Nice As Pie’s feelings. This, combined with more of the same wine consumed in vast quantities on Friday night, made for an uncomfortable, noisy night for my stomach!

On another note, Best Friend and Mr Flirt now know about this blog. Best Friend has the address but Mr Flirt doesn’t at the moment. I’m nervously awaiting their reactions…

A workplace tradition.

Hands up. Who’s done it? And did you feel guilty about it? Yep, throwing a sickie. We’ve all had days when we’ve woken up and just really not wanted to go into work. So then we have two choices – we either go into work, do very little productive stuff and mope about all day, or we call in sick! Now, we know it’s wrong and we know our bosses generally don’t believe us, but we also know that they can’t prove it!

However, there are some general rules and guidelines to pulling a successful sickie. Make it realistic, it’s got to be something that you can realistically ‘recover’ from in 24 hours – so you’re looking at the old faithfuls of food poisoning, migraine or the good old, (very) general stomach upset. Also, think before you phone. Most people automatically put on a ‘throaty voice’ when they call in sick, does it go with what you’re saying you’ve got? The next one is important. Very rarely call in sick on a Friday or Monday, these are the days bosses are looking for. Do not even consider on the Friday before, or Tuesday after, a Bank Holiday. If you do, you might as well call in and just tell them you’re throwing a sickie and you’ll expect your P45 on the desk on your return.

If you choose to deviate away from the illness call and use family emergencies, then remember what you’ve said before. Don’t be the person whose grandmother died four times (in fact, thinking about it, do not kill off family members, it’s just not nice). If you’re female with a male boss, gynaecological problems can be very useful (they can also provide further sick days, in the form of ‘appointments’).

Whilst you’re off, remember you’re meant to be sick. Do not go to the pub or shopping, you will run into someone from work! Also, do not sunbathe. How will you explain a nice shade of lobster when you were supposed to be on the toilet?? Sickies are days for lying on the sofa, watching daytime TV and eating chocolate biscuits!

Follow these guidelines and you should be able to relax and enjoy your day off. Long live the sickie!!

Disclaimer: the author can not take responsibility for anyone following these guidelines, getting found out and losing their job! All sickie throwers do so at their own risk.

Just a trim?

So what kind of girl are you? Brazilian, Hollywood, or au natural? That’s right I’m talking about pubic hair. Pubes, short and curlies, what ever you call them we’ve all got them, but what should we do with them? There seem to be a few theories about why we have ‘hair down there’; mainly around showing you’re ready for reproduction and for trapping pheromones. But at the end of the day it doesn’t matter why we have it, we have to decide what we want to do with it.

It seems each ‘style’ sends a different message. Leaving it alone and doing nothing, generally creates a reaction of ‘so how long exactly has it been then?’ and blokes tend to worry slightly about getting hair trapped in their teeth! There is something slightly disturbing about a brazilian. Yes, it feels nice (once it’s done! Don’t forget there are hairs ‘around the back’ that are also removed, by you getting into some very odd and intimate positions!), it’s clean and increases sensation. But it always strikes me as a disturbing cross between pre-puberty and porn star.

Then there’s the Hollywood. I had one of these, thinking this would be a compromise between the two. Not an overgrown jungle that the poor bloke would have to use a map to get to his destination and not something that would leave me feeling like a plucked chicken! All was going well, until I showed it to him and was met with “A go-faster stripe! Cool!”, not exactly the reaction I was looking for.

There are also those who create their own designs. We’ve all heard of the women who have created a piece of ‘art’, this seems to be around Valentine’s Day, when the popularity of hearts and red dye increases tenfold! I’m also sure we’ve all heard of the woman (urban legend or not) who dyed her pubes green and got a tattoo saying ‘Keep off the grass’.

Blokes don’t seem to worry so much about this for themselves. The most they appear to consider doing is a quick trim, though I suspect that this is to do more with gaining the appearance of a few more millimetres!

I’m not sure what the future of pubic fashion is; it certainly seems to change quite quickly. Maybe the answer is for everyone to get rid of their pubes and wear a merkin! I hear there are some fabulous designs out there…

In these shoes?

Crocs. What is about these shoes? Everywhere I look I see someone with a pair of these moulded rubber things on their feet, obviously very happy with them and feeling ‘trendy’. A walk down your local high street will show you the amount and range of people that are wearing them, I’ve even seen entire families (kids included) sporting these monstrosities.

Originally made as a boat shoe (I’m not going to go into the history, look here or here if you’re really that interested) they gained popularity through word of mouth. As the famous people began wearing them, they became the ‘in’ shoe to be wearing. There are also numerous websites devoted to them, whether you love or hate them. I also see that the company behind crocs are now cashing in and selling other products such as ponchos and T shirts.

Now, I can see that they must be comfortable. And I accept they are hygienic (wipe clean and all that!) and are recommended by podiatrists. But…they are so ugly. Why would you willingly wear a lump of plastic in ‘fun’ colours, just to look ‘cool’? These lumps are never flattering. If you’re on the larger side they do nothing to reduce your size and if you’re smaller you just look like you have freaky, giant feet! And why so many holes? I understand this allows sweat out and so reduces ‘stinky feet’ syndrome, but there is the cynical side of me that says this really must reduce manufacturing costs!

I know there have been cases of employers refusing to allow their employees to wear them to work because of health and safety reasons, as they have no backs. When I first heard this, I thought that there were at least some people with common sense. However, I have since found out that there are many different styles of crocs, including closed in ones, which most people can now wear to work.

I really hope this is a passing phase and people will finally realize that they have, yet again, been conned into a trend by the famous people and the media. I do not have a pair and have no intention of buying them. I can’t get away from the idea that someone has glamorized the orthopaedic shoe!