Saturday, August 16, 2008
I have moved...
You can find my new blog over at http://alexbettylou.wordpress.com/ complete with all these posts and more!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Life Without Plastic
It's a Saturday afternoon and I'm sat in my pyjamas, having achieved the sum amount of nothing today. I should be out shopping, at the cinema, meeting friends for lunch, on a weekend away - any number of things but couped up on the sofa with the Hollyoaks omnibus. To be fair, I haven't had time to watch Hollyoaks this week so it's a bonus, but I'm not a big fan of lazing around when there's a big world outside I could be experiencing. Unfortunately my small part of that world is torrential and I don't fancy tottering around knee deep in rain water.
But it's not the rain that's the issue, it's the cost of life. Every activity seems to involve some form of expenditure, and since I'm on a mission to save a few thousand pounds with which to escape to New Zealand, I have taken to living my life without plastic. Plastic cards, that is - namely of the debit and credit variety. I'd been doing alright until today. If I was bored I'd go out for a walk, or window shopping (although I have no idea why I torment myself looking at pretty things I can't buy), but there is only so much a person can take before the desire to rebel sets in. I'm on the verge of cutting up my cards just to prevent myself from giving in to the urge to hotfoot down to town and render myself penniless - max out my credit and bleed my savings dry. Or, since it's raining, log in to eBay and partake in some extreme e-commerce.
I've run out of ideas of how to live even a slightly eventful life whilst on a shoestring. As mentioned in a previous post, A jammy dodger, July 2008, I'm lucky enough to be able to do nice things without paying out. But I can't always rely on my lucky streak. I get bored very easily, perhaps why I'm beginning to spend time blogging when I've never managed to previously. It's a free form of keeping myself entertained. So what to do when I've not got a coupon, voucher or competition prize of some sort to cash in? I've not found the answer, hence why I am itching for a cheeky purchase of some sort, just to tide myself over, relieve the boredom. Like methadone for a recovering spendfreak.
I never thought I was particularly extravagant until I reigned in my spending habits. When I go out, I don't spend much because I'm not a big drinker, I don't shop unless I have an item of clothing that is falling to threads and needs replacing, I don't buy DVDs or CDs, I'm really savvy on a food shop with picking up bargains. The list of my tightarse ways is endless, but I didn't realise it's the little things that add up. I loved a Starbucks every couple of days, a few of those chavvy chat magazines (the ones with Jeremy Kyle and Trisha writing the agony columns), a muffin and coffee with friends, a bottle of wine here and there for a meal... It all adds up, little by little, to an extra £100 odd that I could put onto my increasing overdraft.
Since deciding to emigrate, in April, it's all stopped. I've become money obsessed - keeping track of every penny. The number of times I have to tell my friends that I can't do lunch, or I'll come to the pub but I'm not drinking - even soft drinks; or I'll totter around town with a friend while she shops and I look on enviously, or request we go to a particular coffeehouse just so I can use my vouchers. I love them all for putting up with my madness.
But finally, acting strapped for cash is paying off - literally. I've paid off my overdraft (after two years of pretending it was my money to spend), I've bought an overpriced one way ticket to New Zealand and I've managed to save up half my target savings for emigrating with - with another 4 months to save the rest. And it's taught me alot too, about the value of a penny when I'd only really known the value of a pound. I'm now the queen of stretching leftovers to last a couple more meals, and making bizarrely tasty concoctions out of tinned food - I could give Jesus a run for his money, feeding the 5 million to his 5 thousand, with 5 loaves of bread and a couple of trout.
So, life without plastic is going well, even if it's frustrating. And as it's getting increasingly difficult to stop myself thinking 'just one little skirt/dress/pair of shoes/lunch out' won't hurt, I am taking to leaving my cards locked away at home, away from temptation. Because I know it'll all be so worth it once I'm in New Zealand, trebling my money - dollar for pound. I just hope I don't go crazy once I'm there...
But it's not the rain that's the issue, it's the cost of life. Every activity seems to involve some form of expenditure, and since I'm on a mission to save a few thousand pounds with which to escape to New Zealand, I have taken to living my life without plastic. Plastic cards, that is - namely of the debit and credit variety. I'd been doing alright until today. If I was bored I'd go out for a walk, or window shopping (although I have no idea why I torment myself looking at pretty things I can't buy), but there is only so much a person can take before the desire to rebel sets in. I'm on the verge of cutting up my cards just to prevent myself from giving in to the urge to hotfoot down to town and render myself penniless - max out my credit and bleed my savings dry. Or, since it's raining, log in to eBay and partake in some extreme e-commerce.
I've run out of ideas of how to live even a slightly eventful life whilst on a shoestring. As mentioned in a previous post, A jammy dodger, July 2008, I'm lucky enough to be able to do nice things without paying out. But I can't always rely on my lucky streak. I get bored very easily, perhaps why I'm beginning to spend time blogging when I've never managed to previously. It's a free form of keeping myself entertained. So what to do when I've not got a coupon, voucher or competition prize of some sort to cash in? I've not found the answer, hence why I am itching for a cheeky purchase of some sort, just to tide myself over, relieve the boredom. Like methadone for a recovering spendfreak.
I never thought I was particularly extravagant until I reigned in my spending habits. When I go out, I don't spend much because I'm not a big drinker, I don't shop unless I have an item of clothing that is falling to threads and needs replacing, I don't buy DVDs or CDs, I'm really savvy on a food shop with picking up bargains. The list of my tightarse ways is endless, but I didn't realise it's the little things that add up. I loved a Starbucks every couple of days, a few of those chavvy chat magazines (the ones with Jeremy Kyle and Trisha writing the agony columns), a muffin and coffee with friends, a bottle of wine here and there for a meal... It all adds up, little by little, to an extra £100 odd that I could put onto my increasing overdraft.
Since deciding to emigrate, in April, it's all stopped. I've become money obsessed - keeping track of every penny. The number of times I have to tell my friends that I can't do lunch, or I'll come to the pub but I'm not drinking - even soft drinks; or I'll totter around town with a friend while she shops and I look on enviously, or request we go to a particular coffeehouse just so I can use my vouchers. I love them all for putting up with my madness.
But finally, acting strapped for cash is paying off - literally. I've paid off my overdraft (after two years of pretending it was my money to spend), I've bought an overpriced one way ticket to New Zealand and I've managed to save up half my target savings for emigrating with - with another 4 months to save the rest. And it's taught me alot too, about the value of a penny when I'd only really known the value of a pound. I'm now the queen of stretching leftovers to last a couple more meals, and making bizarrely tasty concoctions out of tinned food - I could give Jesus a run for his money, feeding the 5 million to his 5 thousand, with 5 loaves of bread and a couple of trout.
So, life without plastic is going well, even if it's frustrating. And as it's getting increasingly difficult to stop myself thinking 'just one little skirt/dress/pair of shoes/lunch out' won't hurt, I am taking to leaving my cards locked away at home, away from temptation. Because I know it'll all be so worth it once I'm in New Zealand, trebling my money - dollar for pound. I just hope I don't go crazy once I'm there...
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Emotive Art
I get teary eyed over music, mainly when I hear a beautiful vocal piece as I'm passionate about singing but haven't been blessed with an incredible natural talent for it. I have been known to sob like a little girl watching films or TV (for example Max's death in Hollyoaks and any emotive moment in Friends - even when watching an episode for the billionth time). I was overwhelmed when I saw The Lion King on stage and cried from the opening note to the closing curtain. To round it up, when it comes to emotional reactions to cultural experiences (highbrow or not), I am unashamedly affective. And so I felt compelled to write about a gargantuan artistic creation which inexplicably moved me.
It was presented to me in the form of a video during an Arts Marketing conference earlier this week. During what was otherwise an unimpressive seminar came this snippet of something magical, unbelievable, astounding, dumbfounding in some ways and I found myself completely drawn into it - even watching it second hand. I'm writing about The Sultan's Elephant, an event which took place last year and the clip of which doesn't begin to do it justice but was the best I could find. From 4th to 7th May 2007 the streets of London were transformed into the scenery of a storybook - the story of a little girl and a time machine in the form of a giant mechanical elephant. I'd never been aware of it until now, which is unsurprising since what goes on in London stays in London, because the UK starts at Uxbridge and ends in Seven Oaks. Hmmm, topical...
It seems as though a large percentage of the capital's population did know about the event however, as it was guesstimated over 1 million people spilled out onto the apparently gold paved streets of London to see what the craic was all about. And I would confidently say that not one person was disappointed; nobody who turned out that day was not touched by what they saw. The 'little girl' that the story revolves around is recreated as a 20ft giant puppet. And yet she is so real, as she walks along the street, looking around doe-eyed and with such innocence, she could be everyman's child. As several grown men struggle to dress her in socks and boat sized shoes, she instantly appears more vulnerable than her size would suggest. As children play with her - swinging on her arms - she becomes even more human, making eye contact with each child as though sharing in the experience mentally and emotionally. It's easy to forget that you're watching a puppet, and this is reflected by the reaction of the crowds. The clip I have linked to doesn't show the audience, but as the story draws to an end for the finale performance, there is a sea of people crying as the 'little' girl returns to whence she came.
It could be deemed an overreaction, but I can appreciate that the atmosphere at the event must have been extraordinary. The crowd do not just watch a performance - they collectively form an emotional bond with this child and being so close to her within the performance space, they become part of the tale. Over a million people enjoying, loving the mutual experience they are sharing is something so scarce that a powerfully warm ambiance would have incited a similarly strong, warm reaction.
The Sultan's Elephant costed millions of pounds to create and stage, and some would argue it is wasted money in a world with universal poverty issues, but I would disagree. The arts can cross language and culture barriers and remind us we are essentially the same. The arts remind us not to take life too seriously, they remind us how to feel and they make us think. The arts add magic in a world where scientific and technological advances disallow any room for wonderment, folk tale and imagination. Cultural experiences are so important for bringing people together when we would otherwise become immersed in our individual lives. The little girl giant is the child inside all of us - our innocence from a time where every experience was new. It is the arts that allow us to carry on experiencing new things from cradle to grave. And you can't put a price on that.
It was presented to me in the form of a video during an Arts Marketing conference earlier this week. During what was otherwise an unimpressive seminar came this snippet of something magical, unbelievable, astounding, dumbfounding in some ways and I found myself completely drawn into it - even watching it second hand. I'm writing about The Sultan's Elephant, an event which took place last year and the clip of which doesn't begin to do it justice but was the best I could find. From 4th to 7th May 2007 the streets of London were transformed into the scenery of a storybook - the story of a little girl and a time machine in the form of a giant mechanical elephant. I'd never been aware of it until now, which is unsurprising since what goes on in London stays in London, because the UK starts at Uxbridge and ends in Seven Oaks. Hmmm, topical...
It seems as though a large percentage of the capital's population did know about the event however, as it was guesstimated over 1 million people spilled out onto the apparently gold paved streets of London to see what the craic was all about. And I would confidently say that not one person was disappointed; nobody who turned out that day was not touched by what they saw. The 'little girl' that the story revolves around is recreated as a 20ft giant puppet. And yet she is so real, as she walks along the street, looking around doe-eyed and with such innocence, she could be everyman's child. As several grown men struggle to dress her in socks and boat sized shoes, she instantly appears more vulnerable than her size would suggest. As children play with her - swinging on her arms - she becomes even more human, making eye contact with each child as though sharing in the experience mentally and emotionally. It's easy to forget that you're watching a puppet, and this is reflected by the reaction of the crowds. The clip I have linked to doesn't show the audience, but as the story draws to an end for the finale performance, there is a sea of people crying as the 'little' girl returns to whence she came.
It could be deemed an overreaction, but I can appreciate that the atmosphere at the event must have been extraordinary. The crowd do not just watch a performance - they collectively form an emotional bond with this child and being so close to her within the performance space, they become part of the tale. Over a million people enjoying, loving the mutual experience they are sharing is something so scarce that a powerfully warm ambiance would have incited a similarly strong, warm reaction.
The Sultan's Elephant costed millions of pounds to create and stage, and some would argue it is wasted money in a world with universal poverty issues, but I would disagree. The arts can cross language and culture barriers and remind us we are essentially the same. The arts remind us not to take life too seriously, they remind us how to feel and they make us think. The arts add magic in a world where scientific and technological advances disallow any room for wonderment, folk tale and imagination. Cultural experiences are so important for bringing people together when we would otherwise become immersed in our individual lives. The little girl giant is the child inside all of us - our innocence from a time where every experience was new. It is the arts that allow us to carry on experiencing new things from cradle to grave. And you can't put a price on that.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Florita's - Miami or Medley?
And so back to topic, Apartment has now been brought into line with its sister venues, which speaks volumes about the success of this particular niche in the market which Vibrant Ventures has found. Thematic bars, not of the tacky variety championed by the likes of Buffalo Joes or Baja Beach Club, but of the retro cool kind. The newly named Florita's is described as a Miami Bar and
The music with which to soak up Florita’s atmosphere is a fusion of party anthems and old classics which will definitely inspire your dancing shoes to start tapping and as there’s a lack of seating in the main room, there is a lot of floor space for making shapes. The drinks are priced similarly to most of Newcastle’s trendy bars, with soft drinks around £2, pints around £3 and cocktails in the £5 range. The cocktails are delicious and well worth parting with your pennies – particularly so for the gargantuan sized cocktails for sharing at around £17 each. They could well contain several portions of your daily guideline amount of fruit, all made using fresh ingredients and finished off with a tropical twist, served with fruit and a piece of greenery for good measure.
The drinks are served by bar staff who appear barely past legal drinking age, with table service provided by pretty young things tottering around in the latest fashions and unnaturally bronzed skin - much like in Miami I would guess, so at least that adds genuinity. There is a VIP area downstairs, although it is stressed that by VIP they do mean celebrities and footballers - which are thin on the ground in Newcastle so I'm unsure how they will manage to fill the area provided without allowing in the usual VIP crowd of WAG wannabes.
Florita’s is apparently a temporary arrangement for Vibrant Ventures, and after the summer the bar will be transformed again. It may not be the
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A shameful tale
I'm going to tell you something shameful. I hope you won't judge me on it, as it was just for the craic at the time. A couple of years ago, I signed up on match.com... I am cringing just talking about it, but I'm open to trying anything once and at the time I was bored, single and ready to mingle (I say that with my tongue firmly in cheek). I've already explained that I am a lady who loves a freebie, and what better way to spend an evening enjoying free drinks and talking about my favourite subject - myself. Let's face it, for a woman, dating is a ticket to indulging at a man's expense whilst waxing lyrical about your life, hopes and dreams. Don't get me wrong, I am a modern girl - I offer to pay my half, and who am I to argue when inevitably the offer is turned down. Men love to flash their hard earned cash - a wad of notes is like a peacock's tail, it's part of the mating ritual.
Anyway, it started from sceptically clicking through one of those flashing adverts on a website, 'get married and have 2.4 children within 2 months, or your money back.' I had to see the kinds of geeks and weirdos that signed up to these sites. I searched for profiles in the Newcastle area and had to admit I was pleasantly surprised with what came back. At the time I was a sucker for a shaven headed, blue eyed, bulky muscled, tattooed hunk of manliness (I say 'at the time' because Kiwi has an abundance of dark curls, dark eyes and no permanent bodily markings - I guess there's no accounting for change in taste). So, a particular profile caught my eye - he had it, muscles and all. In fact, several profiles caught my eye - I couldn't believe it, match.com was a sea of hot, eligible men And they weren't all socially retarded - a few guys were back from years of travelling and were new to the area and wanted to meet people; a few were musicians who worked weekend nights and didn't get the chance to properly meet people. Anyway, yes I am trying to justify the fact that I became one of the supposed geeks and weirdos, by signing up.
I gave the aforementioned muscly skinhead (let's call him Mark, for that was his name), a 'wink'. A 'wink' is effectively just a nudge in someone's direction, encouraging them to check out your profile. Mark checked mine out, liked what he saw and we exchanged messages. Much like meeting in a bar and chatting, with the bonus of knowing a few key pointers which may make or break an initial interest before conversing. (More justifying of my inexplicable new penchant for e-meeting men). Mark was 30, he was a Property Developer, we seemingly had a few things in common and to cut a long story short, we arranged a date.
This is where I forewarn you of the perils of Internet dating, for I was in for disappointment. I met Mark in Osbornes, Jesmond. I did a double take because the man I met was significantly smaller than the man in the photos I had seen (the hot, topless, holiday pics in which he was a tanned and toned Adonis). I could be forgiven for thinking that I had met up with his older, scrawnier brother. He wasn't 30, as it turned out he forgot to add a '-' in the middle of the '0'. He was 38. Oh dear. He wasn't a sexy skinhead, he was balding. Oh dear, oh dear. Not to be rude, I decided that the night was young and although I most definitely had no plans for anything more than a platonic night of friendly conversation, he was a man with stories to tell and he may even teach me a thing or two. Mark had a unique plan for our night too, which I found irresistible. After finishing up a few drinks in Osbornes, he took me to Zonzo's in Sandyford, where we had a starter, on what would be a 3 course meal across 3 restaurants. We enjoyed some beautiful rosemary bread, glistening with olive oil and with ample amounts of rock salt and rosemary leaves; along with the best seafood salad I have experienced. No batter, no breadcrumbs, just fresh squid (and not the rings - the whole baby squid, tentacles and all), dressed to perfection. I'm no food critic, but I recommend it.
The conversation flowed and amongst other things I learnt that Mark owned properties abroad and a motorcycle on which he had travelled across Thailand. He had some amazing tales, and I never once (after the initial shock, and before the night drew to a not-so great end), felt like the night was a mistake, or awkward in the company of a man 18 years my senior - I was enthralled to begin with. Next stop was a ride into town to El Torero, the tapas restaurant on Side. Here we shared a main course of several tapas dishes, and plentiful amounts of wine. Mark was a wine connoisseur, and throughout the night the alcohol was flowing - I mixed far too many cocktails, vino, liqueurs and spirits that night. A bar crawl through the Toon followed the main course, on which it seemed that Mark knew every bouncer in Newcastle, and I picked up a slightly Mafia-ish lifestyle of which I'm not sure I would have liked to have known the details. As the date went on I couldn't help but feel like I was out with the Phil Mitchell of Tyneside.
We finally finished the night around 2am, in an Indian restaurant on Quayside, where Mark chose an aperitif of eastern light bites, instead of a dessert. I just sat patiently, finger tapping and hinting at tiredness, as he was at the stage where he had had far too much to drink and was beginning to irritate me, as I couldn't make much sense out of his inane drunken mumblings. Not forgetting to be a Gent, even under the influence, Mark caught a taxi home and dropped me off on the way. As we sat in the taxi outside my house, I had gotten my bag strap caught up in my seatbelt and frustratingly fought with it for a few minutes, getting more and more tangled (I was slightly tipsy afterall). Mark just looked at me, as if to say 'what?' and I asked him if he was planning to help me out. He looked me deadly serious, in the eye, thought for a moment and said 'I think you're a bit mad.' Well, that was it for me - I tore my bag out of the taxi and slammed the door. I'm not patient when it comes to drunken rudeness.
The following day, Mark tried ringing me several times. He then emailed me, asking if I'd got home alright as he'd had a 'whitey' and had forgotten half the night. I told him I had, thanks for an enjoyable night but I wouldn't be seeing him again. He apologised for his drunkenness and said he'd like to make up for his behaviour. I told him to find someone his own age. And so, that was the beginning of my experience with match.com. I won't say it was the end, because that would be a lie, there are a few more comedy tales to tell - and one nice tale, which could have gone somewhere, if we didn't live such different lives.
Anyway, it started from sceptically clicking through one of those flashing adverts on a website, 'get married and have 2.4 children within 2 months, or your money back.' I had to see the kinds of geeks and weirdos that signed up to these sites. I searched for profiles in the Newcastle area and had to admit I was pleasantly surprised with what came back. At the time I was a sucker for a shaven headed, blue eyed, bulky muscled, tattooed hunk of manliness (I say 'at the time' because Kiwi has an abundance of dark curls, dark eyes and no permanent bodily markings - I guess there's no accounting for change in taste). So, a particular profile caught my eye - he had it, muscles and all. In fact, several profiles caught my eye - I couldn't believe it, match.com was a sea of hot, eligible men And they weren't all socially retarded - a few guys were back from years of travelling and were new to the area and wanted to meet people; a few were musicians who worked weekend nights and didn't get the chance to properly meet people. Anyway, yes I am trying to justify the fact that I became one of the supposed geeks and weirdos, by signing up.
I gave the aforementioned muscly skinhead (let's call him Mark, for that was his name), a 'wink'. A 'wink' is effectively just a nudge in someone's direction, encouraging them to check out your profile. Mark checked mine out, liked what he saw and we exchanged messages. Much like meeting in a bar and chatting, with the bonus of knowing a few key pointers which may make or break an initial interest before conversing. (More justifying of my inexplicable new penchant for e-meeting men). Mark was 30, he was a Property Developer, we seemingly had a few things in common and to cut a long story short, we arranged a date.
This is where I forewarn you of the perils of Internet dating, for I was in for disappointment. I met Mark in Osbornes, Jesmond. I did a double take because the man I met was significantly smaller than the man in the photos I had seen (the hot, topless, holiday pics in which he was a tanned and toned Adonis). I could be forgiven for thinking that I had met up with his older, scrawnier brother. He wasn't 30, as it turned out he forgot to add a '-' in the middle of the '0'. He was 38. Oh dear. He wasn't a sexy skinhead, he was balding. Oh dear, oh dear. Not to be rude, I decided that the night was young and although I most definitely had no plans for anything more than a platonic night of friendly conversation, he was a man with stories to tell and he may even teach me a thing or two. Mark had a unique plan for our night too, which I found irresistible. After finishing up a few drinks in Osbornes, he took me to Zonzo's in Sandyford, where we had a starter, on what would be a 3 course meal across 3 restaurants. We enjoyed some beautiful rosemary bread, glistening with olive oil and with ample amounts of rock salt and rosemary leaves; along with the best seafood salad I have experienced. No batter, no breadcrumbs, just fresh squid (and not the rings - the whole baby squid, tentacles and all), dressed to perfection. I'm no food critic, but I recommend it.
The conversation flowed and amongst other things I learnt that Mark owned properties abroad and a motorcycle on which he had travelled across Thailand. He had some amazing tales, and I never once (after the initial shock, and before the night drew to a not-so great end), felt like the night was a mistake, or awkward in the company of a man 18 years my senior - I was enthralled to begin with. Next stop was a ride into town to El Torero, the tapas restaurant on Side. Here we shared a main course of several tapas dishes, and plentiful amounts of wine. Mark was a wine connoisseur, and throughout the night the alcohol was flowing - I mixed far too many cocktails, vino, liqueurs and spirits that night. A bar crawl through the Toon followed the main course, on which it seemed that Mark knew every bouncer in Newcastle, and I picked up a slightly Mafia-ish lifestyle of which I'm not sure I would have liked to have known the details. As the date went on I couldn't help but feel like I was out with the Phil Mitchell of Tyneside.
We finally finished the night around 2am, in an Indian restaurant on Quayside, where Mark chose an aperitif of eastern light bites, instead of a dessert. I just sat patiently, finger tapping and hinting at tiredness, as he was at the stage where he had had far too much to drink and was beginning to irritate me, as I couldn't make much sense out of his inane drunken mumblings. Not forgetting to be a Gent, even under the influence, Mark caught a taxi home and dropped me off on the way. As we sat in the taxi outside my house, I had gotten my bag strap caught up in my seatbelt and frustratingly fought with it for a few minutes, getting more and more tangled (I was slightly tipsy afterall). Mark just looked at me, as if to say 'what?' and I asked him if he was planning to help me out. He looked me deadly serious, in the eye, thought for a moment and said 'I think you're a bit mad.' Well, that was it for me - I tore my bag out of the taxi and slammed the door. I'm not patient when it comes to drunken rudeness.
The following day, Mark tried ringing me several times. He then emailed me, asking if I'd got home alright as he'd had a 'whitey' and had forgotten half the night. I told him I had, thanks for an enjoyable night but I wouldn't be seeing him again. He apologised for his drunkenness and said he'd like to make up for his behaviour. I told him to find someone his own age. And so, that was the beginning of my experience with match.com. I won't say it was the end, because that would be a lie, there are a few more comedy tales to tell - and one nice tale, which could have gone somewhere, if we didn't live such different lives.
Monday, July 21, 2008
A jammy dodger
Anyone who knows me, knows I am the Queen of blag. I guess even before buckling down to save for my move abroad, I have always had tight arse tendencies. I love vouchers, competitions and freebies - any chance of getting something for nothing, or nearly so, and I'm game. I have been known to walk around Fenwicks on a weekend, because on Saturdays and Sundays you can guarantee that the food hall will have food or drink samplers - and the portions are generous. I used to walk back and forth past Millies cookies in Eldon Square during weekdays (as a student working shifts), just to grab the free cookie chunks from a basket on top of the counter. The basket has since been removed, perhaps they cottoned on. I also used to trawl Northumberland Street for any Marks & Spencer's employees who used to hand out free coffee vouchers to passers by. More recently I actively hunt down the Kaffecino's owner who stands around Monument handing out vouchers for a free hot drink when you spend £1 or more, or make a detour past Starbucks to see what samples they happen to have on offer, either as free ground coffee, or sometimes free cake or mini frappucinos.
I have always considered myself pretty lucky in cheeky steals, ever since I opened a packet of Hula Hoops when I was 10, and found a little blue packet inside with a £10 note in. Once, back in the days as a barmaid at the Hilton in Gateshead, I cheekily picked up a raffle ticket for free - the tickets were £5 a pop, for guests at the ball that I was working at. I won a champagne meal for two at The Lounge on Grey Street. Over the last year I have won or managed to blag; a meal for two at As You Like It, 6 tickets to see Groove Armada at Carling Academy, 2 tickets to see The View, tickets to both the opening and finale performances at the NewcastleGateshead Comedy Festival, a free round of drinks at the Glasgow Radisson... in fact, there are too many occasions to remember the niggly bits I've also managed to net.
I have tried to use my lucky powers to the greater good of others. I always enter competitions for stuff I don't want - like tickets to see Barney live, so I can treat friends from work who have kids, but as the law of sod predicts, I've not won yet. Currently I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a meal for four at Tavistock, a meal for two at Starters&Puds or £50 of Eldon Square vouchers. I'll keep you posted. But in the meantime, a tip from me to you - pick up a copy of Citylife, produced by Newcastle Council. There's always competitions in there, and you never know, beginner's luck and all that... I might spark off the inner-blagger in you.
I have always considered myself pretty lucky in cheeky steals, ever since I opened a packet of Hula Hoops when I was 10, and found a little blue packet inside with a £10 note in. Once, back in the days as a barmaid at the Hilton in Gateshead, I cheekily picked up a raffle ticket for free - the tickets were £5 a pop, for guests at the ball that I was working at. I won a champagne meal for two at The Lounge on Grey Street. Over the last year I have won or managed to blag; a meal for two at As You Like It, 6 tickets to see Groove Armada at Carling Academy, 2 tickets to see The View, tickets to both the opening and finale performances at the NewcastleGateshead Comedy Festival, a free round of drinks at the Glasgow Radisson... in fact, there are too many occasions to remember the niggly bits I've also managed to net.
I have tried to use my lucky powers to the greater good of others. I always enter competitions for stuff I don't want - like tickets to see Barney live, so I can treat friends from work who have kids, but as the law of sod predicts, I've not won yet. Currently I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a meal for four at Tavistock, a meal for two at Starters&Puds or £50 of Eldon Square vouchers. I'll keep you posted. But in the meantime, a tip from me to you - pick up a copy of Citylife, produced by Newcastle Council. There's always competitions in there, and you never know, beginner's luck and all that... I might spark off the inner-blagger in you.
Feel the fear and do it anyway
I'm in the middle of pulling together my copywriting portfolio in order to create something spangling and attractive online for prospective clients, so I can dip my toe in the freelancing pond. Having taken a Marketing diploma, I'm procrastinating with thoughts about my target audience, market positioning, competitive enviroment and unique selling points. It's supposed to help the process of refining who I'd like to work with and what I'd like to do (or rather write about), but really it's an excuse to hold off just a little longer before taking the plunge. I'm unsure what's holding me back, the fear of the unknown; will I be out of my depth?
I don't know where the niggling worries of failure come from; I am experienced enough to know my own capabilities, but I am unaware of my limits. I have not come across anything yet that I've been unable to turn my hand to, but with the safety net of working within an established agency comes complacency. My portfolio highlights experience mainly in working within the cultural sector - copy for arts organisations and tourism marketing, writing what's on guides, event brochures and websites. But outside of the bosom of employment, is there enough work in this particular 'niche' of mine? Having started out in new business, (and again, studied Marketing), I am aware of the difficulties of breaking into new industries - will my particular portfolio work with me as a strong presentation of expertise in an area, or against me to suggest I am lacking in abilities to branch out?
I feel a few weeks of work ahead; finding different publications from various industries, rewriting and creating new copy for them, in order to present some versatility. A 'fake' portfolio, if you like. At the end of the day, real client or no, how else am I to prove my abilities. And who knows, maybe I'll discover a new niche for my writing style, or a gap in the copywriting market. I've just got to forget the fear, and dive straight in.
I don't know where the niggling worries of failure come from; I am experienced enough to know my own capabilities, but I am unaware of my limits. I have not come across anything yet that I've been unable to turn my hand to, but with the safety net of working within an established agency comes complacency. My portfolio highlights experience mainly in working within the cultural sector - copy for arts organisations and tourism marketing, writing what's on guides, event brochures and websites. But outside of the bosom of employment, is there enough work in this particular 'niche' of mine? Having started out in new business, (and again, studied Marketing), I am aware of the difficulties of breaking into new industries - will my particular portfolio work with me as a strong presentation of expertise in an area, or against me to suggest I am lacking in abilities to branch out?
I feel a few weeks of work ahead; finding different publications from various industries, rewriting and creating new copy for them, in order to present some versatility. A 'fake' portfolio, if you like. At the end of the day, real client or no, how else am I to prove my abilities. And who knows, maybe I'll discover a new niche for my writing style, or a gap in the copywriting market. I've just got to forget the fear, and dive straight in.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Burning bridges
On Friday night, having developed cabin fever due to knock on effects of the credit crunch. No, not the actual credit crunch, but the one Kiwi has imposed on me so I stop impulse spending and start saving for our trip. Anyway, me and Kiwi took the opportunity of what would otherwise have been a night in, to walk to the Quayside for one of 'NewcastleGateshead's' so called world-class events, Bambuco. I'm unsure when Newcastle and Gateshead became one uber-city of dual proportions - I believe it was for the purpose of a stronger application for the City of Culture award a few years ago. The plan backfired however, as Liverpool received it - it seems that the City of Culture award is given to the city that needs it most, and as Newcastle already has a thriving cultural scene it wasn't deemed in need of support.
Gateshead on the other hand is, and may have been more successful in winning if Newcastle hadn't been on the scene - it is crying out for funding and cultivation of the arts. Its entire offering is made up of The Sage and Baltic and iconic though they are, a city can not rely on just two buildings within a few hundred square metres to call itself cultural. For a short while Gateshead had Tyneside Cinema drawing the usually Newcastle centric crowd toward Gateshead's centre, but that has now moved back to its original home, leaving the town centre to the perils of the Tescos buy-out of any business they can monopolise. Somehow I don't think Tescos will be lending a helping hand in generating a cultural scene - the town centre will become a commercial asylum, with new office developments offering a lower cost alternative to the outlets North of the Tyne, keeping any sign of cultural activity South of the river firmly located around the small section of the Quayside known as Baltic Square.
That's a long winded digression, I began this post with Bambuco in mind, a review of what turned from a hauntingly beautiful idea into a frustratingly slow let down. Having walked down to the Quayside we were met by the sound of wooden instruments, which reflected the general theme of the event - bamboo. Bambuco is an art installation - a temporary bridge constructed out of bamboo. The bridge can not be crossed by anyone but the Bambuco team so it holds very little purpose during its three day stint, except for photographic benefit, adding a little something extra to the panorama of the Quayside's already numerous bridges. Friday's event marked the completion of the bridge, and the beginning of the SummerTyne festival, a weekend event for which occasion the bridge was built for. It seems bizarre to me, as the bridge has been under construction for three weeks, to have it taken down after three days, but I thought perhaps Friday's event would make it all seem worthwhile.
I had read that over 700 flames would be lit across the bridge, as the Bambuco team skilfully crossed its wire platform from one side of the Tyne to the other, and had epic visions of tightrope walkers juggling flames as they tiptoed across using bamboo rods to steady their balance; perhaps fireworks. On arrival we could see a boat lit up with candles floating ominously across the river, and my imagination went into overdrive, picturing people traversing between the high bridge and low boat somehow - aerial artistry, something visually awe inspiring. As every time I hold high expectations, I was sadly disappointed. We stood for an hour as the Bambuco team rigged their way up either side of the bridge (two structures which resembled a giant game of Kerplunk), painfully slowly, simply lighting hundreds of candles on their way up.
After the hour stood watching (im)patiently, wondering if there was to be an impressive finale, the candle lighters reached the top of the Kerplunk towers, and began to edge their way towards the centre of the bridge, still painstakingly slow. Realising there was to be no zip wiring with fireworks of any sort, me, Kiwi, James and Conor who had joined us, had had enough, and like so many others in the crowd, decided to disperse. It was a shame, because the idea was fantastic; the wind instruments offered an eerie addition to the mood lighting formed by the late summer's eve sunset, and the twinkling candles made for a romantic atmosphere. But I am the product of a society in which impatience is a virtue - if we hadn't wanted everything quick and easy, would the internet have taken off? And so, the 'wow' factor of the visually stunning 'burning' bridge was lost with each minute that crept by. A world-class event? I wouldn't say so, but it was impressive nonetheless.
Gateshead on the other hand is, and may have been more successful in winning if Newcastle hadn't been on the scene - it is crying out for funding and cultivation of the arts. Its entire offering is made up of The Sage and Baltic and iconic though they are, a city can not rely on just two buildings within a few hundred square metres to call itself cultural. For a short while Gateshead had Tyneside Cinema drawing the usually Newcastle centric crowd toward Gateshead's centre, but that has now moved back to its original home, leaving the town centre to the perils of the Tescos buy-out of any business they can monopolise. Somehow I don't think Tescos will be lending a helping hand in generating a cultural scene - the town centre will become a commercial asylum, with new office developments offering a lower cost alternative to the outlets North of the Tyne, keeping any sign of cultural activity South of the river firmly located around the small section of the Quayside known as Baltic Square.
That's a long winded digression, I began this post with Bambuco in mind, a review of what turned from a hauntingly beautiful idea into a frustratingly slow let down. Having walked down to the Quayside we were met by the sound of wooden instruments, which reflected the general theme of the event - bamboo. Bambuco is an art installation - a temporary bridge constructed out of bamboo. The bridge can not be crossed by anyone but the Bambuco team so it holds very little purpose during its three day stint, except for photographic benefit, adding a little something extra to the panorama of the Quayside's already numerous bridges. Friday's event marked the completion of the bridge, and the beginning of the SummerTyne festival, a weekend event for which occasion the bridge was built for. It seems bizarre to me, as the bridge has been under construction for three weeks, to have it taken down after three days, but I thought perhaps Friday's event would make it all seem worthwhile.
I had read that over 700 flames would be lit across the bridge, as the Bambuco team skilfully crossed its wire platform from one side of the Tyne to the other, and had epic visions of tightrope walkers juggling flames as they tiptoed across using bamboo rods to steady their balance; perhaps fireworks. On arrival we could see a boat lit up with candles floating ominously across the river, and my imagination went into overdrive, picturing people traversing between the high bridge and low boat somehow - aerial artistry, something visually awe inspiring. As every time I hold high expectations, I was sadly disappointed. We stood for an hour as the Bambuco team rigged their way up either side of the bridge (two structures which resembled a giant game of Kerplunk), painfully slowly, simply lighting hundreds of candles on their way up.
After the hour stood watching (im)patiently, wondering if there was to be an impressive finale, the candle lighters reached the top of the Kerplunk towers, and began to edge their way towards the centre of the bridge, still painstakingly slow. Realising there was to be no zip wiring with fireworks of any sort, me, Kiwi, James and Conor who had joined us, had had enough, and like so many others in the crowd, decided to disperse. It was a shame, because the idea was fantastic; the wind instruments offered an eerie addition to the mood lighting formed by the late summer's eve sunset, and the twinkling candles made for a romantic atmosphere. But I am the product of a society in which impatience is a virtue - if we hadn't wanted everything quick and easy, would the internet have taken off? And so, the 'wow' factor of the visually stunning 'burning' bridge was lost with each minute that crept by. A world-class event? I wouldn't say so, but it was impressive nonetheless.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Save it for a rainy day...
...I've been saving the post which talks about me, myself and I for a rainy day - an answer to the question "who is this girl who writes random posts about nothing imparticular?" Today is that day and I'm beginning to wish I had some Jeremy Kyle-esque life story to enthrall you with - you know the sort; "my father's my mother, my brother's my husband, I had the first of my ten kids at the age of nine and I'm only 24." If you're after something ground-breaking, you may as well go and buy yourself a copy of Pick Me Up, cause you're more likely to find it in there.
One thing is true, I am 24. I have no children that I am aware of - in fact I'm certain I don't, as after Ms Claire Voyant predicted a sprog (see Mystic Maybes, July 2008), I took a pregnancy test just to see if she knew something I didn't - she was thankfully wrong. My life, in short involves growing up in Harpenden, Hertfordshire with my mum, dad and brother. Fast forward to 19 years old when I moved to Newcastle upon Tyne to do an English Literature degree at Newcastle University, and hence that is where I have stayed, five years on. To keep myself in trashy magazines, peanut butter, Kaffecino's muffins and impulse eBay buys (my vices in no particular order), I am a Copywriter. I wasn't given that job title, I kind of took it upon myself to start calling myself one. But that is what I do, I began my current job in new business and have ended up copywriting out of circumstance, so I started to use the title in my email signatures, and that, to me, makes it official...
If you have read the rest of my blog, you will be aware I have a Kiwi as my other half. We live together with another couple (James and Conor, who I have also mentioned) in a lovely house in Elswick (and yes, Elswick and 'lovely house' do go in the same sentence). Kiwi and I are emigrating to New Zealand in January - well, I am emigrating, he's just returning home. The plan from then on is to freelance as a Copywriter and try to make a living whilst travelling as much as possible. It's my dream to write from exotic and foreign surroundings, and as I'm jacking in my job to move downunder anyway, it's definitely the right time just to go for it and try to make that dream come true. I'm hoping to work with companies remotely; more specifically earning the pound whilst spending NZ or Aus dollars, or whatever currency from the country I happen to be in - be it Thailand, India or Canada (just a few examples of my top destinations list).
Saying that, I am unsure that there's anywhere in the world that I will love as much as Newcastle, and it'll be an emotional goodbye when we come to leave at the end of December. More to the point, I'll miss my friends, family, my job, the people I work with - I can't imagine feeling as comfortable and homely at work anywhere else. It's the unknown that gets to me - the prospect of becoming unemployed, even if it is by choice, and how successfully I will be able to set up alone. And yes, I'm aware I should just shut up about my 'woes' because really I'm amazingly lucky and nothing else matters, what will be will be.
It's still six months away, so for now I'm in limbo between starting to wind things down here, and prepare for the move. I'm sure this blog will become increasingly more about our preparations nearer to the time. Our holiday to Ibiza in September will mark the end of an era here, and the beginning of another, as on our return I will be handing in my notice at work, and beginning the process of arranging to have my life packed into boxes and shipped overseas; closing bank accounts; redirecting mail; spending quality time with the people I love. There will be tears and probably tantrums, but my Kiwi is my rock and I know he'll make sure it's an easy transition physically - even if mentally I might fall apart just a little. On that note, I'm feeling a little weepy - I really need to get a grip.
One thing is true, I am 24. I have no children that I am aware of - in fact I'm certain I don't, as after Ms Claire Voyant predicted a sprog (see Mystic Maybes, July 2008), I took a pregnancy test just to see if she knew something I didn't - she was thankfully wrong. My life, in short involves growing up in Harpenden, Hertfordshire with my mum, dad and brother. Fast forward to 19 years old when I moved to Newcastle upon Tyne to do an English Literature degree at Newcastle University, and hence that is where I have stayed, five years on. To keep myself in trashy magazines, peanut butter, Kaffecino's muffins and impulse eBay buys (my vices in no particular order), I am a Copywriter. I wasn't given that job title, I kind of took it upon myself to start calling myself one. But that is what I do, I began my current job in new business and have ended up copywriting out of circumstance, so I started to use the title in my email signatures, and that, to me, makes it official...
If you have read the rest of my blog, you will be aware I have a Kiwi as my other half. We live together with another couple (James and Conor, who I have also mentioned) in a lovely house in Elswick (and yes, Elswick and 'lovely house' do go in the same sentence). Kiwi and I are emigrating to New Zealand in January - well, I am emigrating, he's just returning home. The plan from then on is to freelance as a Copywriter and try to make a living whilst travelling as much as possible. It's my dream to write from exotic and foreign surroundings, and as I'm jacking in my job to move downunder anyway, it's definitely the right time just to go for it and try to make that dream come true. I'm hoping to work with companies remotely; more specifically earning the pound whilst spending NZ or Aus dollars, or whatever currency from the country I happen to be in - be it Thailand, India or Canada (just a few examples of my top destinations list).
Saying that, I am unsure that there's anywhere in the world that I will love as much as Newcastle, and it'll be an emotional goodbye when we come to leave at the end of December. More to the point, I'll miss my friends, family, my job, the people I work with - I can't imagine feeling as comfortable and homely at work anywhere else. It's the unknown that gets to me - the prospect of becoming unemployed, even if it is by choice, and how successfully I will be able to set up alone. And yes, I'm aware I should just shut up about my 'woes' because really I'm amazingly lucky and nothing else matters, what will be will be.
It's still six months away, so for now I'm in limbo between starting to wind things down here, and prepare for the move. I'm sure this blog will become increasingly more about our preparations nearer to the time. Our holiday to Ibiza in September will mark the end of an era here, and the beginning of another, as on our return I will be handing in my notice at work, and beginning the process of arranging to have my life packed into boxes and shipped overseas; closing bank accounts; redirecting mail; spending quality time with the people I love. There will be tears and probably tantrums, but my Kiwi is my rock and I know he'll make sure it's an easy transition physically - even if mentally I might fall apart just a little. On that note, I'm feeling a little weepy - I really need to get a grip.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Mystic Maybes
After a friend recommended a Clairvoyant who had read her Tarot cards and predicted a series of events which have since unfolded as predisposed, I wanted to find out what the future has in store for me. I rounded up some friends for a night of wine and psychic action and arranged for - lets call her Claire Voyant - to pay a visit, partly for the craic and partly with the hope she'd reach into my soul and lay my life out on a plate... or just give me an insight into the next year or so. With so many plans involving turning my life upside down (literally down under); leaving my family, friends and cushy employment for the unknown, I needed some reassurance it would all be alright.
I was sadly disappointed however, not because Ms Voyant's predictions suggested all would not go smoothly, but because she seemed to have no idea what was in store for me. And Kiwi's Tarot reading didn't shed any light for us either.
Having chosen 14 cards out of a pack of 78, they were lain out in front of me before I was given a narration of what they all meant. Claire Voyant decided to give me my 'bad' cards first, to get them out the way. She said there was to be no deaths or serious illnesses for me or people 'surrounding me. ' She spoke often of these people 'surrounding me' and I'm still unclear as to whether she means my friends and family who I am emotionally close to, or my literally close neighbours, who I've never spoken to. But, whoever she meant, they, like me, will spend at least the next two years alive and in reasonable health. She did, rightly, tell me that I have IBS but it's just a petty stomach problem, but this was about the only thing she picked up on.
So, for the 'bad' cards, Claire Voyant believes I am in for a shock. That's it. Just a shock. I watch scary movies quite regularly, so perhaps she could be onto something. A little more specifically, she predicts 'there's going to be an argument, it'll start quite petty, but it'll escalate.' Apparently if I swallow my pride, I will win the argument anyway. Don't forget this argument, for it comes up later. The last 'bad' thing to prepare myself for was the most specific of all. There's a liar and petty thief in my life, who will steal £5 from me. £5, Ms Voyant was very defiant, 'it's not much, but it is if you work hard for it, and they'll lie to you.' Keep this in mind too, for she might have been right.
The rest of her predictions were so general, Claire Voyant didn't go into depth:
I'm going to go travelling; there's a proposal, a wedding and a birth; I'm going to sign a legal contract in the next two years; a man with blue to hazel eyes will offer me three jobs which I must consider seriously; I'm going to get a promotion and a pay rise at work; I'm not going to move house in the next six months; a woman called Laura will come into my life and be a good friend; there's a silver car (I see hundreds everyday, I have no idea what she means); a man with naturally dark skin and dark eyes means money for me (Kiwi has Maori blood, so he'll be the dark skinned man, woo bonus, I have a sugar daddy in the making); I'm going to do a course (I still have one module left of my uni course to complete, so she's sort of right there).
Generally, Claire Voyant says I'm just plodding along nicely in my life and I should just keep plodding, because I'm winning - I will be successful in everything I do. My cards were all good, and she says when I travel I will never go hungry, there will always be money, and I'll make a friend wherever I go. She sensed a lot of boredom in my cards - this is true, I have the attention span of a 3 year old and I get bored very easily. She says I'll travel because I just want to see what's out there, just for the sake of it, because of this boredom. She didn't predict my planned journey to New Zealand.
When she read Kiwi's cards, she told him he'll move to London for two years before moving back to Newcastle. And considering she told us there will be no break in our relationship, I have no idea how this will work with him in London and me travelling... Also, she predicted we were going to have a baby relatively soon. Cue the argument from earlier - it started off petty - just a conversation about what we'd do if I was pregnant, sparked off by Claire Voyant herself. It soon escalated to how differently we'd bring up this baby, and so the prediction was correct. One thing we did agree on is that Kiwi can consider my womb Fort Knox - he can double up, babies are not part of the big picture quite yet. On the up side, all Kiwi's cards pointed to one thing - money! He's going to set up his own business and he'll be successful, there's riches in his cards. But no travel - I'm surprised she didn't even make the assumption he'd move back home based on his accent.
Oh, one thing I neglected to mention is that there's going to be two 'lovers' for me. Claire says I have an admirer at work who will make themselves known and I will make a choice between them and Kiwi. Interesting, considering she told Kiwi that there will be a third party in our relationship, and he will make the choice. It's all a bit conflicting and confusing. Plus, I think the guys at work would rather gaffa tape my big gob than offer themselves to me. One last thing she was right about was that £5 though. I paid £5 of Kiwi's fee to Claire Voyant, and he refused to return it - I never had him down for a petty thief...
So, of my Clairvoyant experience, I would be intrigued to meet a real Clairvoyant. I truly believe they do exist - I'm a big believer in fate, and I do think there must be people out their who can read your chosen path. But not this particular lady, she was worth it for entertainment value; but Kiwi, myself and our phantom baby are not convinced.
I was sadly disappointed however, not because Ms Voyant's predictions suggested all would not go smoothly, but because she seemed to have no idea what was in store for me. And Kiwi's Tarot reading didn't shed any light for us either.
Having chosen 14 cards out of a pack of 78, they were lain out in front of me before I was given a narration of what they all meant. Claire Voyant decided to give me my 'bad' cards first, to get them out the way. She said there was to be no deaths or serious illnesses for me or people 'surrounding me. ' She spoke often of these people 'surrounding me' and I'm still unclear as to whether she means my friends and family who I am emotionally close to, or my literally close neighbours, who I've never spoken to. But, whoever she meant, they, like me, will spend at least the next two years alive and in reasonable health. She did, rightly, tell me that I have IBS but it's just a petty stomach problem, but this was about the only thing she picked up on.
So, for the 'bad' cards, Claire Voyant believes I am in for a shock. That's it. Just a shock. I watch scary movies quite regularly, so perhaps she could be onto something. A little more specifically, she predicts 'there's going to be an argument, it'll start quite petty, but it'll escalate.' Apparently if I swallow my pride, I will win the argument anyway. Don't forget this argument, for it comes up later. The last 'bad' thing to prepare myself for was the most specific of all. There's a liar and petty thief in my life, who will steal £5 from me. £5, Ms Voyant was very defiant, 'it's not much, but it is if you work hard for it, and they'll lie to you.' Keep this in mind too, for she might have been right.
The rest of her predictions were so general, Claire Voyant didn't go into depth:
I'm going to go travelling; there's a proposal, a wedding and a birth; I'm going to sign a legal contract in the next two years; a man with blue to hazel eyes will offer me three jobs which I must consider seriously; I'm going to get a promotion and a pay rise at work; I'm not going to move house in the next six months; a woman called Laura will come into my life and be a good friend; there's a silver car (I see hundreds everyday, I have no idea what she means); a man with naturally dark skin and dark eyes means money for me (Kiwi has Maori blood, so he'll be the dark skinned man, woo bonus, I have a sugar daddy in the making); I'm going to do a course (I still have one module left of my uni course to complete, so she's sort of right there).
Generally, Claire Voyant says I'm just plodding along nicely in my life and I should just keep plodding, because I'm winning - I will be successful in everything I do. My cards were all good, and she says when I travel I will never go hungry, there will always be money, and I'll make a friend wherever I go. She sensed a lot of boredom in my cards - this is true, I have the attention span of a 3 year old and I get bored very easily. She says I'll travel because I just want to see what's out there, just for the sake of it, because of this boredom. She didn't predict my planned journey to New Zealand.
When she read Kiwi's cards, she told him he'll move to London for two years before moving back to Newcastle. And considering she told us there will be no break in our relationship, I have no idea how this will work with him in London and me travelling... Also, she predicted we were going to have a baby relatively soon. Cue the argument from earlier - it started off petty - just a conversation about what we'd do if I was pregnant, sparked off by Claire Voyant herself. It soon escalated to how differently we'd bring up this baby, and so the prediction was correct. One thing we did agree on is that Kiwi can consider my womb Fort Knox - he can double up, babies are not part of the big picture quite yet. On the up side, all Kiwi's cards pointed to one thing - money! He's going to set up his own business and he'll be successful, there's riches in his cards. But no travel - I'm surprised she didn't even make the assumption he'd move back home based on his accent.
Oh, one thing I neglected to mention is that there's going to be two 'lovers' for me. Claire says I have an admirer at work who will make themselves known and I will make a choice between them and Kiwi. Interesting, considering she told Kiwi that there will be a third party in our relationship, and he will make the choice. It's all a bit conflicting and confusing. Plus, I think the guys at work would rather gaffa tape my big gob than offer themselves to me. One last thing she was right about was that £5 though. I paid £5 of Kiwi's fee to Claire Voyant, and he refused to return it - I never had him down for a petty thief...
So, of my Clairvoyant experience, I would be intrigued to meet a real Clairvoyant. I truly believe they do exist - I'm a big believer in fate, and I do think there must be people out their who can read your chosen path. But not this particular lady, she was worth it for entertainment value; but Kiwi, myself and our phantom baby are not convinced.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
All the joys of Eurovision...
Kiwi and me went to see the musical Eurobeat, Almost Eurovision last night, and had to make a quick post about it simply because it was immensely funny. Think lycra-clad, tangoed men, greased up to the max and prancing around; horrendous, below-the-belt innuendos; xenophobic jokes and a mixed bag of fake accents, all together in a celebratory parody of the best of the Eurovision song contest. And you even get to feel like it's the real deal as the Audience votes for their favourite countries to win.
What made it even better (if it were possible) was the addition of the legend Sir Terry Wogan himself, introducing the show with his dulcit tones. Plus, if I wasn't such a tight arse at the moment, (self-imposed, I refuse to spend any money until I get to New Zealand and my bank account trebles into NZ dollars...) I digress - if I wasn't tight, I would have purchased every piece of memorabilia available to me - hand clappers, horns, flags, badges, a CD of all the tracks, with which to intensify the Eurovision fever. If you missed it, or if you want to relive it, there are video clips online. Clicky here.
What made it even better (if it were possible) was the addition of the legend Sir Terry Wogan himself, introducing the show with his dulcit tones. Plus, if I wasn't such a tight arse at the moment, (self-imposed, I refuse to spend any money until I get to New Zealand and my bank account trebles into NZ dollars...) I digress - if I wasn't tight, I would have purchased every piece of memorabilia available to me - hand clappers, horns, flags, badges, a CD of all the tracks, with which to intensify the Eurovision fever. If you missed it, or if you want to relive it, there are video clips online. Clicky here.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Anti-Feminist Fairy
I have always considered myself somewhat anti-feminist. Not in the sense of being a misogynist - it would be difficult, if not bizarre to hate one's own gender - but in the sense that I am a believer of absolute equality between the sexes. Feminism, to me, represented the oppression of men, rather than the advocating of equality. I could appreciate and thank how many years ago the Sufferagettes fought for women's rights where there were none, but current feminist issues I have completely misunderstood as taking a step too far to unbalance the gender scale at men's expense.
I am of a complacent generation where women's rights are a given - and taken for granted. I'm not at a stage within my career where I am experiencing differing pay scales between myself and any male colleague due to gender issues - difference in salary is based on my age and therefore relative experience. I've had my eyes completely closed to the possibility that there's more to feminism than social equality, salaries and voting rights, until today when the Guardian forcefully peeled my eyelids open and encouraged me to stop sitting on the gender fence.
Kira Cochrane's article, Now the Backlash, points out how women's bodies are considered public property - to be scrutinised and picked apart within the media. If you've read my post The Great British Body, June 2008, then you'll be aware that this hits a sore spot for me. It is the growing media obsession with bodies that has left me lacking in self confidence of late. And as Kira aptly recognises, women are derided for being too thin, too fat, having cellulite, spots, veins... "what is implicit but unsaid is that there is no objective standard of beauty, no level of perfection that a woman could reach at which her body would be perceived as acceptable and in control."
Women have lost something which I feel to be far more important that the matter of a few grand between male and female colleague's salaries. We've lost ownership of our own skin, lost strength of self and gained an inferiority complex within our own sex. Male chauvinists are no longer the enemy - other women are. When values have become so materialistic, women of my generation are somewhat weaker than before. We're (myself included to an extent) fighting to be the skinniest, well-toned, golden skinned, silken haired, and if we're not then we're left feeling inferior.
With women in the limelight being criticised more than ever, and a lack of female unity as the criticism stems from within our own sex (it's not men who sit around in the Heat offices, circling cellulite patches on celebrities), I can only wonder if we've taken step back to times when women were expected to be little more than eye candy and spend their days concerning themselves with how to best look attractive to men.
I could go on to deeper feminist matters about the sex industry, abortion, working motherhood and rape convictions, but it's all too depressing...
I am of a complacent generation where women's rights are a given - and taken for granted. I'm not at a stage within my career where I am experiencing differing pay scales between myself and any male colleague due to gender issues - difference in salary is based on my age and therefore relative experience. I've had my eyes completely closed to the possibility that there's more to feminism than social equality, salaries and voting rights, until today when the Guardian forcefully peeled my eyelids open and encouraged me to stop sitting on the gender fence.
Kira Cochrane's article, Now the Backlash, points out how women's bodies are considered public property - to be scrutinised and picked apart within the media. If you've read my post The Great British Body, June 2008, then you'll be aware that this hits a sore spot for me. It is the growing media obsession with bodies that has left me lacking in self confidence of late. And as Kira aptly recognises, women are derided for being too thin, too fat, having cellulite, spots, veins... "what is implicit but unsaid is that there is no objective standard of beauty, no level of perfection that a woman could reach at which her body would be perceived as acceptable and in control."
Women have lost something which I feel to be far more important that the matter of a few grand between male and female colleague's salaries. We've lost ownership of our own skin, lost strength of self and gained an inferiority complex within our own sex. Male chauvinists are no longer the enemy - other women are. When values have become so materialistic, women of my generation are somewhat weaker than before. We're (myself included to an extent) fighting to be the skinniest, well-toned, golden skinned, silken haired, and if we're not then we're left feeling inferior.
With women in the limelight being criticised more than ever, and a lack of female unity as the criticism stems from within our own sex (it's not men who sit around in the Heat offices, circling cellulite patches on celebrities), I can only wonder if we've taken step back to times when women were expected to be little more than eye candy and spend their days concerning themselves with how to best look attractive to men.
I could go on to deeper feminist matters about the sex industry, abortion, working motherhood and rape convictions, but it's all too depressing...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Clubbin' Antics
I took Kiwi to Glasgow for his birthday last weekend. He bought me an iPod Nano, pretty in pink and engraved with 'Always' for mine, so I did consider splashing out on some gadget for him in return - a Wii, an Xbox or PS3, but the fact is it would end our relationship. I wouldn't be able to peel him away from the TV screen, and he already has an especially time-expending habit with his computer, being a web designer, so I wouldn't like to actively encourage any other technological dependencies. So, I treated us to a weekend away, to a city where neither of us had been before, on the recommendations of my parents who took a trip a few weekends ago - call it the gift of memories rather than material possessions.
It turned out that Glasgow is home to one of the world's top 50 clubs, The Arches, as voted in some DJ magazine that Kiwi has kept in the hope of fulfilling an ambition to visit every club on the list. Unbelievably (to me), Newcastle's Digital is also on the list. I can't make my mind up about the place - student nights used to be good craic, but weekends are a different story. It's not the DJ sets - Kiwi and I saw Arman van Helden there a few weeks ago and the music was immense, but my experience was completely marred by the large number of self obsessed punters surrounding us. The atmosphere is unwelcoming and intimidating, and it takes a certain type of person to feel at home there - one of the "mini Kate Mosses, Pete Dochertys and Amy Winehouses," that I have mentioned before (see Blu Bambu, June 2008). Whilst trying to dance next to Kiwi, I was physically bumpered out of the way and pushed around until I was nearly on the floor by four mini-Kate's, incessantly offered drugs by one mini-Pete, then generally made to feel frustrated and upset by mini-Amy's throwing insults at me when I deigned to wash my hands where they were gathered around the taps in the Ladies.
Digital is too packed to move, the toilets are filthy, the dance floor is covered in broken glass, and it's just generally unimpressive. So I'm stumped as to how it got onto the list as one of the world's best. I didn't hold my hopes high for The Arches, so I was happy to find that I loved my experience of it.
Unsurprisingly, The Arches is set in some arches, so the interior is reminiscent of dark and dingey tunnels on a dark night - damp brick walls sloping overhead and concrete floors, but all adding to a unique atmosphere rather than taking away a sense of comfort. The club is divided through 3 arches - first with a bar and seating area, second with a dancefloor and DJ box, and third with another bar, dancefloor and second DJ box. Without doors dividing the arches, walking between the two 'rooms' is an aural assault, clashing rhythms until you're not sure where one DJ set ends and the other begins. The club is unpretentious, made obvious by the lack of dress code and men walking around topless - something Digital would never allow for fear they would be perceived as a relaxed, friendly, unassuming establishment. Why is it that a club is more sought after if it has an arrogant air about it?
The welcoming feeling of The Arches was supported by its all encompassing filming of both the DJ and the crowd, played back on giant screens at one end of each arch. Rather than being up on a pedestal - set back under a veil of darkness, the DJ's appeared at one with the crowd, their every move and expression up on screen, enhancing the experience of the music as though your personal enjoyment and the atmosphere you were part of was inspiring an original mix, live.
Lastly, The Arches attention to detail - water jugs and plastic cups on the bar for all to access; a cleaner in the Ladies keeping it stocked with toilet paper and soap; a first aid point - restored my faith in the club industry. I wouldn't call myself teetotal, but I don't drink much if at all on a night out, so I'm never too bladdered to care about the state of where I'm dancing. It gets on my tits to have to paddle through piss-soaked floors, hover over a toilet seat and just when you're feeling a bit grubby, have no access to soap. Or to fight my way to the bar to ask for tap water and be told I have to buy bottled and it costs more than a vodka and coke...
I used to think maybe it's just me, I'm not cut out for clubbing, but I'm beginning to think that some clubs just aren't cut out for me. We're off to Ibiza in September, to go to another three clubs on the top 50 list, so I'll just have to wait and see what lies in store, and come to a conclusion then...
It turned out that Glasgow is home to one of the world's top 50 clubs, The Arches, as voted in some DJ magazine that Kiwi has kept in the hope of fulfilling an ambition to visit every club on the list. Unbelievably (to me), Newcastle's Digital is also on the list. I can't make my mind up about the place - student nights used to be good craic, but weekends are a different story. It's not the DJ sets - Kiwi and I saw Arman van Helden there a few weeks ago and the music was immense, but my experience was completely marred by the large number of self obsessed punters surrounding us. The atmosphere is unwelcoming and intimidating, and it takes a certain type of person to feel at home there - one of the "mini Kate Mosses, Pete Dochertys and Amy Winehouses," that I have mentioned before (see Blu Bambu, June 2008). Whilst trying to dance next to Kiwi, I was physically bumpered out of the way and pushed around until I was nearly on the floor by four mini-Kate's, incessantly offered drugs by one mini-Pete, then generally made to feel frustrated and upset by mini-Amy's throwing insults at me when I deigned to wash my hands where they were gathered around the taps in the Ladies.
Digital is too packed to move, the toilets are filthy, the dance floor is covered in broken glass, and it's just generally unimpressive. So I'm stumped as to how it got onto the list as one of the world's best. I didn't hold my hopes high for The Arches, so I was happy to find that I loved my experience of it.
Unsurprisingly, The Arches is set in some arches, so the interior is reminiscent of dark and dingey tunnels on a dark night - damp brick walls sloping overhead and concrete floors, but all adding to a unique atmosphere rather than taking away a sense of comfort. The club is divided through 3 arches - first with a bar and seating area, second with a dancefloor and DJ box, and third with another bar, dancefloor and second DJ box. Without doors dividing the arches, walking between the two 'rooms' is an aural assault, clashing rhythms until you're not sure where one DJ set ends and the other begins. The club is unpretentious, made obvious by the lack of dress code and men walking around topless - something Digital would never allow for fear they would be perceived as a relaxed, friendly, unassuming establishment. Why is it that a club is more sought after if it has an arrogant air about it?
The welcoming feeling of The Arches was supported by its all encompassing filming of both the DJ and the crowd, played back on giant screens at one end of each arch. Rather than being up on a pedestal - set back under a veil of darkness, the DJ's appeared at one with the crowd, their every move and expression up on screen, enhancing the experience of the music as though your personal enjoyment and the atmosphere you were part of was inspiring an original mix, live.
Lastly, The Arches attention to detail - water jugs and plastic cups on the bar for all to access; a cleaner in the Ladies keeping it stocked with toilet paper and soap; a first aid point - restored my faith in the club industry. I wouldn't call myself teetotal, but I don't drink much if at all on a night out, so I'm never too bladdered to care about the state of where I'm dancing. It gets on my tits to have to paddle through piss-soaked floors, hover over a toilet seat and just when you're feeling a bit grubby, have no access to soap. Or to fight my way to the bar to ask for tap water and be told I have to buy bottled and it costs more than a vodka and coke...
I used to think maybe it's just me, I'm not cut out for clubbing, but I'm beginning to think that some clubs just aren't cut out for me. We're off to Ibiza in September, to go to another three clubs on the top 50 list, so I'll just have to wait and see what lies in store, and come to a conclusion then...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Heinz Meanz Inconsequential Answerz
I have received an unimpressive response to my email of complaint to Heinz, (see Mayonnaise for Gays, June 2008);
Dear Southern Fairy
Thank you for your recent email regarding the Heinz UK commercial for Deli Mayo. Consumer feedback is very important to us and we appreciate the opportunity to respond.
Heinz pulled the ad in the UK because our consumer research showed that the ad failed in its attempt to be humorous and offended people on all sides.
Heinz apologises for its misplaced attempt at humour and we accept that this ad was not in accordance with our long-standing corporate policy of respecting everyone's rights and values.
Again, our sincere apology to anyone who felt offended. We appreciate you taking time to contact us to express your opinion and allowing us to address this issue.
Liz Pickstock
Consumer Contact Department
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Mayonnaise for Gays
You could be forgiven for thinking that I am campaigning for gay rights after my last post (see Big Brother, June 2007), but yesterday my housemate drew to my attention the current media news about Heinz's withdrawal of an apparently offensive advert:
"Heinz has withdrawn its Deli Mayo TV ad that featured two men sharing a kiss and apologised to viewers after the advertising regulator received about 200 complaints that it was offensive and inappropriate." View the full article (and advert) here.
I'm astounded that Heinz didn't think that rather more than 200 people - i.e. the gay population, and basically anyone with an open mind and creative intelligence, would be either be offended or bemused by the withdrawal of the advert, and instead decided the minority rules. My housemate started a Facebook group - quite rightly, because Facebook has pretty much taken over the world and I truly believe it is a powerful tool to turn things around. If you're interested, join it here.
So, I thought - since I usually stay politely quiet about most things, I never like to get involved in politics, I usually come out feeling sheepish because I'm basically shite at arguing - anyway, I thought I'd do my bit to fight the cause too. Well, less fight the cause and more offer a tongue-in-cheek 'telling off'... I wrote Heinz an e-mail (forgive grammatical errors, it was an incensed email of quiet passion and I had no time for accuracy):
I just wanted to let you know I am troubled by the withdrawal of your advert.
The 200+ complaints received about the advert would pale in comparison to the number of people who, a) are offended by staunch bigots stamping their feet about 1950's 'values' or, b) don't care about the apparent homosexual connotations of the ad and actually appreciate having a decent, funny ad on TV, instead of crap like Barry screaming about his Cillit Bang.
Heinz stands for variety, doesn't it? "Heinz 57..." and all that jazz. So, celebrate the variety the advert offers - be it variety in sexuality or mayonnaise. Grow some balls and reinstate the advert. Don't let some old, grey, right wing, misrepresentation of our modern, cosmopolitan society, dictate what goes on our television screens. I find it hard to comprehend their ignorance, let alone Heinz's compliancy in their anti-gay tirade.
I will keep you posted if I receive a reply.
"Heinz has withdrawn its Deli Mayo TV ad that featured two men sharing a kiss and apologised to viewers after the advertising regulator received about 200 complaints that it was offensive and inappropriate." View the full article (and advert) here.
I'm astounded that Heinz didn't think that rather more than 200 people - i.e. the gay population, and basically anyone with an open mind and creative intelligence, would be either be offended or bemused by the withdrawal of the advert, and instead decided the minority rules. My housemate started a Facebook group - quite rightly, because Facebook has pretty much taken over the world and I truly believe it is a powerful tool to turn things around. If you're interested, join it here.
So, I thought - since I usually stay politely quiet about most things, I never like to get involved in politics, I usually come out feeling sheepish because I'm basically shite at arguing - anyway, I thought I'd do my bit to fight the cause too. Well, less fight the cause and more offer a tongue-in-cheek 'telling off'... I wrote Heinz an e-mail (forgive grammatical errors, it was an incensed email of quiet passion and I had no time for accuracy):
I just wanted to let you know I am troubled by the withdrawal of your advert.
The 200+ complaints received about the advert would pale in comparison to the number of people who, a) are offended by staunch bigots stamping their feet about 1950's 'values' or, b) don't care about the apparent homosexual connotations of the ad and actually appreciate having a decent, funny ad on TV, instead of crap like Barry screaming about his Cillit Bang.
Heinz stands for variety, doesn't it? "Heinz 57..." and all that jazz. So, celebrate the variety the advert offers - be it variety in sexuality or mayonnaise. Grow some balls and reinstate the advert. Don't let some old, grey, right wing, misrepresentation of our modern, cosmopolitan society, dictate what goes on our television screens. I find it hard to comprehend their ignorance, let alone Heinz's compliancy in their anti-gay tirade.
I will keep you posted if I receive a reply.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Big Brother
I'm getting reeled into Big Brother and I can't seem to help myself. It's definitely out of sheer boredom and laziness to get off my derriere and away from the television, which is increasingly burning my eyeballs. But I've tasked myself with three, four mile runs this weekend and apparently my dire fitness levels can't cope with any level of activity above this. I'm dead from the waist down - my legs are lead, so I'm stuck with Davina and her house of numpties.
Actually, truth be told, I'm *slightly* enjoying this series of Big Brother. Kathreya is "hilar-wious" and Luke's dry narration in the Diary Room of the daily activities is amusing. Mario is another story... HOW does Lisa humour his constant drivel about himself? Is she secretly deaf, another addition to the quota of disabled housemates? The ability to switch a hearing aid off when Mario starts talking about his fan club or military excellence would definitely be the answer to a successful relationship between the two - otherwise, I just don't understand how anybody could be that tolerant to insane levels of egotism.
Don't get me started on slagging off the token stereotypical gay housemate. It's no wonder that 99%* of the heterosexual population still come out ignorant quips like "oh my god, he doesn't look gay," and a look of utter surprise if a homosexual male isn't prancing about in hipster jeans and a sleeveless top, wearing either one of a cowboy's, policeman's or builder's hat or Indian head-dress; if BB is the only insight into the variety of people in the British populus. (* Please note, % are based on complete exaggeration and no research was undertaken for this post).
Anyway, this post is about as pointless as Big Brother itself. I just had to get it out of my system. Garrrgh.
Actually, truth be told, I'm *slightly* enjoying this series of Big Brother. Kathreya is "hilar-wious" and Luke's dry narration in the Diary Room of the daily activities is amusing. Mario is another story... HOW does Lisa humour his constant drivel about himself? Is she secretly deaf, another addition to the quota of disabled housemates? The ability to switch a hearing aid off when Mario starts talking about his fan club or military excellence would definitely be the answer to a successful relationship between the two - otherwise, I just don't understand how anybody could be that tolerant to insane levels of egotism.
Don't get me started on slagging off the token stereotypical gay housemate. It's no wonder that 99%* of the heterosexual population still come out ignorant quips like "oh my god, he doesn't look gay," and a look of utter surprise if a homosexual male isn't prancing about in hipster jeans and a sleeveless top, wearing either one of a cowboy's, policeman's or builder's hat or Indian head-dress; if BB is the only insight into the variety of people in the British populus. (* Please note, % are based on complete exaggeration and no research was undertaken for this post).
Anyway, this post is about as pointless as Big Brother itself. I just had to get it out of my system. Garrrgh.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Carving Out My Niche
I think I've finally found my niche in life. Couldn't imagine working nine to five, day in, day out, in a job that doesn't fulfil me mentally or creatively. Fortunately I found a job in a design agency two years ago. Neither myself or the boss were entirely sure what my job role would entail when I started - I was just stoked I bagged a 'real' job straight after graduating, and his exact words were 'come in, and see what you think needs doing.' I started off as a call-girl - now don't be filthy, I'm talking telesales here, trying to bring in new business - well, not exactly telesales - more telemarketing. And there is a subtle difference between the two; telesales involves a lot of haranguing and loud bull-shitting until the other party gives in to whatever you're offering, so they don't have to listen to your voice anymore or try to filter your endless phone calls. Telemarketing involves a bizarre conversation, dancing around no particular subject, after which both parties hang up, questioning exactly what the point of the dialogue was. The frank point of differentiation between telesales and telemarketing is the ability to sell... I didn't have it. Not over the phone anyway. What it turned out I did have, was the ability to blag my way into winning contracts with the power of the pen (well... keyboard).
From writing proposals, tenders, case studies and any number of internal documents, the boss was suitably impressed and set me to working with clients on ad copy, websites, brochures and anything else that's thrown at me. I'm finally embracing the role of official copywriter, doing a creative job in a creative environment. My perfect job, and I love it. But knowing I'll be leaving the job I've carved out for myself has made me question exactly how employable I am in what I thought was my niche. Turns out I may have underestimated the task of a copywriter. I have a lot to learn - proofreader's marks, copy editor's marks, SEO, NLP and all sorts of marketing psychobabble to enable me to write commercially effective copy to entice consumers.
I'm studying for a marketing accreditation in my 'spare' time outside work, so I'm on a step in the right direction, but it seems as though this further education route is a long and winding road. What next? Do I take a proofreader's course, a copywriting course, a publisher's or journalist's? Do I want to do travel writing, press articles, technical documents, fiction or children's books? The answer is, I want to do it all. I want to be a writer, and I want to dip my nib in every inkwell. And although I know I can turn my hand to anything I want to; without the qualifications will employers take a chance on me? I'll just have to take a leap and see. It's too late to worry about it now - however much I love my cushy little career, I'll never choose it over the chance for an adventure and of course, my life with Kiwi.
From writing proposals, tenders, case studies and any number of internal documents, the boss was suitably impressed and set me to working with clients on ad copy, websites, brochures and anything else that's thrown at me. I'm finally embracing the role of official copywriter, doing a creative job in a creative environment. My perfect job, and I love it. But knowing I'll be leaving the job I've carved out for myself has made me question exactly how employable I am in what I thought was my niche. Turns out I may have underestimated the task of a copywriter. I have a lot to learn - proofreader's marks, copy editor's marks, SEO, NLP and all sorts of marketing psychobabble to enable me to write commercially effective copy to entice consumers.
I'm studying for a marketing accreditation in my 'spare' time outside work, so I'm on a step in the right direction, but it seems as though this further education route is a long and winding road. What next? Do I take a proofreader's course, a copywriting course, a publisher's or journalist's? Do I want to do travel writing, press articles, technical documents, fiction or children's books? The answer is, I want to do it all. I want to be a writer, and I want to dip my nib in every inkwell. And although I know I can turn my hand to anything I want to; without the qualifications will employers take a chance on me? I'll just have to take a leap and see. It's too late to worry about it now - however much I love my cushy little career, I'll never choose it over the chance for an adventure and of course, my life with Kiwi.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
World Headquarters
After consuming two bottles of Absolut Raspberry and Vanilla vodka, (which is unrecommended drank with lemonade - it's reminiscent of cherry drops and dispersible aspirin in some god-awful, medicinal tasting fusion), and a drunken half hour spent dancing with three men to The Best of Whitney, I tottered into town to carry on the frolics at World Headquarters. It took a while to get the aforementioned men (Kiwi and our housemates James and Conor), out of the house first. Kiwi spent the most part of the night plying James and Conor with alcohol to 'seduce' them into clubbing with us, then the three of them spent an hour fannying around ironing outfits and styling each other's hair in some scene from a parallel universe where men have become, well...women.
The occasion was my good friend Roseann's birthday. We caught up with them some three and a half hours late in a little wine bar called The Vineyard. It's barely the size of my front room but it's got a great atmosphere - playing salsa music that you can't help but have a little gyrate too. And if you've nobody to gyrate with, there's always the token Latino ladies-man nearby to help out. Some of the said Latino men are a little greasier than others unfortunately - Kiwi and I watched two pretty ladies being hauled about the bar like salsa puppets by a couple of the greasier ones, look pleadingly at James and Conor to save them. The sentiment was lost however, as James and Conor were too engaged in each other... They picked the wrong type of men to bat their eyelashes at.
When we finally arrived at the affectionately known 'Worldies', I for one was busting to get onto the dance floor. Usually an ecletic mix of reggae, jazz, soul and funk, Worldies plays the likes of Bob Marley, Lionel Ritchie and Stevie Wonder and the DJ has been known to say 'we only play black music.' Bizarre for a club which is based on the likes of Northern Soul - bringing white and black communities together for some international love and dancing. But I like to think the DJ refers to the style of music, rather than the artists' ethnicity. Last night, it was a surprising mix of not only the usual sweet tones of Stevie, but bizarrely some 90's R&B and I think what's known as Garage (or something just as chavtastic). It made a nice change though for the old school classics to be interspersed with songs that I last heard at a school leaving party and could happily bump and grind to. Usually Worldies intersperses the classics with 'hits' only the over 30's would recognise, and if I don't know the lyrics, my dancing shoes don't seem to work.
All in all a fantastical night was had, and I'm typing this from my bed, at nearly 1pm, having not left the arse-shaped crater in the mattress yet... Kiwi tried to for half an hour earlier but he's here next to me now, having crawled back under the duvet mumbling something indiscernible about his head. Time for me to go for a run though. It's a beautiful day outside and as I'm not a big drinker (drunk to me is two vodkas), I haven't got a hangover to excuse me from wasting an entire morning. Today was supposed to be a 'rest day' in our training, but we slacked off yesterday's run, so guilt is dragging me out from Kiwi's side and a day of laziness.
The occasion was my good friend Roseann's birthday. We caught up with them some three and a half hours late in a little wine bar called The Vineyard. It's barely the size of my front room but it's got a great atmosphere - playing salsa music that you can't help but have a little gyrate too. And if you've nobody to gyrate with, there's always the token Latino ladies-man nearby to help out. Some of the said Latino men are a little greasier than others unfortunately - Kiwi and I watched two pretty ladies being hauled about the bar like salsa puppets by a couple of the greasier ones, look pleadingly at James and Conor to save them. The sentiment was lost however, as James and Conor were too engaged in each other... They picked the wrong type of men to bat their eyelashes at.
When we finally arrived at the affectionately known 'Worldies', I for one was busting to get onto the dance floor. Usually an ecletic mix of reggae, jazz, soul and funk, Worldies plays the likes of Bob Marley, Lionel Ritchie and Stevie Wonder and the DJ has been known to say 'we only play black music.' Bizarre for a club which is based on the likes of Northern Soul - bringing white and black communities together for some international love and dancing. But I like to think the DJ refers to the style of music, rather than the artists' ethnicity. Last night, it was a surprising mix of not only the usual sweet tones of Stevie, but bizarrely some 90's R&B and I think what's known as Garage (or something just as chavtastic). It made a nice change though for the old school classics to be interspersed with songs that I last heard at a school leaving party and could happily bump and grind to. Usually Worldies intersperses the classics with 'hits' only the over 30's would recognise, and if I don't know the lyrics, my dancing shoes don't seem to work.
All in all a fantastical night was had, and I'm typing this from my bed, at nearly 1pm, having not left the arse-shaped crater in the mattress yet... Kiwi tried to for half an hour earlier but he's here next to me now, having crawled back under the duvet mumbling something indiscernible about his head. Time for me to go for a run though. It's a beautiful day outside and as I'm not a big drinker (drunk to me is two vodkas), I haven't got a hangover to excuse me from wasting an entire morning. Today was supposed to be a 'rest day' in our training, but we slacked off yesterday's run, so guilt is dragging me out from Kiwi's side and a day of laziness.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Great North Run
After getting frustrated with my complete lack of self control when it comes to chocolate and biscuits, I decided to start jogging a few months ago. This is a miraculous feat considering I once ran across the street before collapsing and crawling home for a nap. For once in my life I'm motivated to take myself out for some exercise. I'm loving the fresh air and freedom to run all over Newcastle - from Leazes Park to Exhibition Park, across the Town Moor, or to Ouseburn and up into Jesmond Dene. Obviously I'm not running the whole way - there's a fair bit of walking in there too, but I'm working on it.
Seeing me all motivated has sparked off Kiwi too. He started jogging with me, then got a bit carried away and signed himself up for the Great North Run. He's got to raise £250 for it too - if that's not motivation for sticking to a new running regime, I don't know what is. I think he's insane, but I'm really proud of him too and together we've started the BUPA training programme - which prepares you to run a half marathon in 12 weeks. If I surprise myself with my abilities, I might even try to find a spare GNR entry and run it myself.
And I have been surprising myself. Today, Kiwi and I did the furthest run we've managed, all in one go - no stops, and neither of us died. We have to run 3 miles on Sunday. In 10 weeks time we'll have to run 10 miles. We've got a long way to go, but I have faith we can do it! Thinking of me toned up in a bikini in New Zealand is the incentive, and for once I am going to stick to something I'm trying to achieve.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The Green Festival
The Green Festival took place in Leazes Park over the weekend. I took a little look around on Saturday, it was all very family friendly with market stalls selling handmade, hand woven, hand stitched, generally all-round hands on clothing, jewellery and accessories. Food stalls were organic, locally sourced, dolphin friendly, non GM modified, no air miles and freshly picked or ground 5 minutes before sale. There were tents and stalls dedicated to people fighting causes internationally, all doing their part to save the world (and making me feel guilty as I skulked past without signing any of the numerous petitions). If I'd wanted to ease my karma from the stresses of this guilt there was a 'healing area' complete with yoga mats...
... You get the picture, if it was tie-dyed, it was on sale; if it did the tie-dying by hand in Peru at the age of 5 unpaid, it had a petition form; if it involved sun salutations or downward dogging, it was an available activity throughout the day. For the sake of getting Kiwi out in the heat wave on Sunday, I took him along with me and was in for a surprise, as although all aforementioned aspects of the festival had carried through to the second day, instead of families flitting about lazily, the entire park was inundated with thousands on thousands of people. There was a music stage (solar or wind powered or similar I think - or perhaps they had a man on a bicycle), plus circus entertainers, steel drummers, and more importantly beer was flowing. The people were pretty colourful - goths, emos, hippies - all the stereotypes were present. Festivals are the kind of place where they're at their most beautiful, from make up to clothing, tattoos and piercings; they take the opportunity to completely immerse themselves in the atmosphere which in turn wouldn't be the same without them.
Unfortunately the atmosphere was short-lived for me and Kiwi as we both had work to do, and I'm gutted I didn't get to chillax in the sunshine with some organic ale and a group of friends. Would like to say maybe next year, but I'll be down-under, and it'll be mid winter. *Sigh*.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
My Sentiments Exactly...
As though fate knew I needed some inspiration in my desire to find a body confident self (see The Great British Body, June 2008), I turned my ipod on 'shuffle' this morning, and India Arie 'Video' came on. It should be my mantra - next time I decide to stick myself into a bikini, I am making no apologies (see A Summer Rendezvous, May 2008). I'll just remind myself 'I ain't built like a supermodel, but I learn to love myself unconditionally because I am a queen'... or something like that.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Great British Body
I'm watching The Great British Body and am increasingly concerned with how preoccupied I've become with how I, and the people around me, look. My concerns have never been related to hair, makeup, clothes, shoes - but with size and shape. I follow form over fashion when it comes to clothing - I love to look at pretty dresses and tops but for some reason I begrudge spending money on something so trivial. Nothing new gets bought until I've worn out the stuff I already own, and then I replace it with something similar. I've got to get in touch with my feminine side, god knows I could make more effort to make it look like I didn't just roll out of bed and crawl into work. But I've always been too lazy to bother getting up early enough in the morning to apply face paint, and about a year ago I gave up my straighteners to embrace my natural bouffant, and with 'hippy' hair comes a couldn't-care-less attitude.
On the other hand, it seems I could care less... Until a year ago I loved my body. I felt comfortable in my curves and confident I looked great. Well, if I didn't love me then who would? But now I can't stop looking at women who have amazingly toned figures like the ones projected in the media with disdain. Yes, it's a case of the green-eyed monster and I'm not sure where it started and why. 'The Great British Body' is imperfect - just ask Trinny and Susannah. Nobody is happy with their body and everyone wants to be more toned, tanned and cellulite free. But it's no surprise I feel the way I do, because let's face it, how many real naked bodies have we all seen, really, to compare ourselves to? The only measurement of my naked self is based on women on television and in magazines, and they aren't of the GBB mould. They are preened and photoshopped to perfection. If we all walked around the streets in our birthday suits, we would develop a healthier and more realistic perception of the way our bodies look. But thousands of years of clothed society aren't going to burn their threads in favour of a nudist community. So that's why I love programmes like The Great British Body and How to Look Good Naked. Anything that gets Joe Bloggs and Jane Doe in the buff to be scrutinised in all their fat to thin and morbidly obese to curvy glory. I love the naked body and I think it needs to be seen more, if anything to stamp out the concerning increase in young girls and women who are so under pressure to be perfect they starve or purge themselves. Bodily perfection should be based on mindset and the ability to come to accept the figure you are born with, completely and positively. And when I finally achieve that glorious state of mind in which I love my body and all its kooky imperfections, I'll do my bit and put it to good exhibitionist use to show off how beautiful my Great British Body really is.
On the other hand, it seems I could care less... Until a year ago I loved my body. I felt comfortable in my curves and confident I looked great. Well, if I didn't love me then who would? But now I can't stop looking at women who have amazingly toned figures like the ones projected in the media with disdain. Yes, it's a case of the green-eyed monster and I'm not sure where it started and why. 'The Great British Body' is imperfect - just ask Trinny and Susannah. Nobody is happy with their body and everyone wants to be more toned, tanned and cellulite free. But it's no surprise I feel the way I do, because let's face it, how many real naked bodies have we all seen, really, to compare ourselves to? The only measurement of my naked self is based on women on television and in magazines, and they aren't of the GBB mould. They are preened and photoshopped to perfection. If we all walked around the streets in our birthday suits, we would develop a healthier and more realistic perception of the way our bodies look. But thousands of years of clothed society aren't going to burn their threads in favour of a nudist community. So that's why I love programmes like The Great British Body and How to Look Good Naked. Anything that gets Joe Bloggs and Jane Doe in the buff to be scrutinised in all their fat to thin and morbidly obese to curvy glory. I love the naked body and I think it needs to be seen more, if anything to stamp out the concerning increase in young girls and women who are so under pressure to be perfect they starve or purge themselves. Bodily perfection should be based on mindset and the ability to come to accept the figure you are born with, completely and positively. And when I finally achieve that glorious state of mind in which I love my body and all its kooky imperfections, I'll do my bit and put it to good exhibitionist use to show off how beautiful my Great British Body really is.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Blu Bambu
Kiwi has never been to Blu Bambu, and it had to be done before we leave so last night was the night we chose. Bigg Market is colourful on a Saturday night. Just as we were arriving outside the club, a man flew in front of us. His eyes were glazed and staring, his mouth open, drooped and drooling, much like something from Dawn of the Dead. His body flew right by us and thumped horizontally onto the pavement, having hit a wall. He was one of the most sober specimens out that night...
Inside the legend that is Blue Bambu, the music is awesome, love to go dancing with my Kiwi and I wasn't disappointed. It's guaranteed tunes to bump and grind to - old school anthems, R&B and chart, without the cheese. The Blu Bambu crowd is a mixture of chavs, inebriated stags and hens, the 'over 40, gonna relive my youth' and the 'under 18 but got in cause my skirt's up my arse and the bouncer wants to bang me'. But everyone is out for a good night, just to drink, dance and be merry. I'm not one who much loves uber cool clubs where the music's so good you've never heard it before, and the crowd resemble mini Kate Mosses, Pete Dochertys and Amy Winehouses.
We boogied into the early hours, but the more beer Kiwi drinks, the slower his dancin' shoes get. So at the point where I was dancing against a man-shaped wall, we left for home, via a dirty burger bar. One of the benefits of living in Newcastle's centre, you can walk home which leaves spare pennies for greasy food, and a brisk totter home makes you feel like you earned the extra calories. All good - until this morning when I woke up and the taste of garlic sauce was as though a skunk had farted in my mouth. Tasty.
Inside the legend that is Blue Bambu, the music is awesome, love to go dancing with my Kiwi and I wasn't disappointed. It's guaranteed tunes to bump and grind to - old school anthems, R&B and chart, without the cheese. The Blu Bambu crowd is a mixture of chavs, inebriated stags and hens, the 'over 40, gonna relive my youth' and the 'under 18 but got in cause my skirt's up my arse and the bouncer wants to bang me'. But everyone is out for a good night, just to drink, dance and be merry. I'm not one who much loves uber cool clubs where the music's so good you've never heard it before, and the crowd resemble mini Kate Mosses, Pete Dochertys and Amy Winehouses.
We boogied into the early hours, but the more beer Kiwi drinks, the slower his dancin' shoes get. So at the point where I was dancing against a man-shaped wall, we left for home, via a dirty burger bar. One of the benefits of living in Newcastle's centre, you can walk home which leaves spare pennies for greasy food, and a brisk totter home makes you feel like you earned the extra calories. All good - until this morning when I woke up and the taste of garlic sauce was as though a skunk had farted in my mouth. Tasty.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
A Summer Rendezvous
Beautiful day today, sun shining as though the world knew I was feeling bright and free after months of uni work looming over me like a dark cloud. Packed up the car with a BBQ and drove to Whitley Bay to show my Kiwi the Rendezvous Cafe. It's right on the sea front, dilapidated on the outside it doesn't look much, but it's a throw-back from a typical English seaside resort that's been left unloved. Traditional places like these should be listed, not left to trickle into nothingness. But for now the Rendezvous Cafe keeps on going strong. It reminisces school canteens and church halls, a fusion of old age pensioners and screaming children; serving up Tunnocks teacakes and icecream sundaes. I indulged in a banoffee cheesecake, while my Kiwi was served up vegetable soup that looked like the kind of gruel served in Oliver, and a white bun in a plastic packet. He looked enviously at my pie, but he knows better than to try and make me share my food.
As usual, it was grey skies and cold winds down by the North Sea, and nobody likes sandy marinade on their BBQ'd chicken legs, so we got back in the car to chase some rays. We found them in Jesmond Dene, where we weren't the only ones who had packed a grill. We were the only one's who packed a football shaped one, but that was Kiwi's choice. I used the rare heatwave to strip off and try out wearing a bikini top in public. Not entirely convinced that it's acceptable to get your belly out unless it's been subjected to at least some exercise efforts so I gave it 10 minutes before putting my top back on. I'm a closet exhibitionist who loves the naked body in all its glory. Just not mine, yet. It's tankini's only until I get going with the new running thing I'm trying out.
As usual, it was grey skies and cold winds down by the North Sea, and nobody likes sandy marinade on their BBQ'd chicken legs, so we got back in the car to chase some rays. We found them in Jesmond Dene, where we weren't the only ones who had packed a grill. We were the only one's who packed a football shaped one, but that was Kiwi's choice. I used the rare heatwave to strip off and try out wearing a bikini top in public. Not entirely convinced that it's acceptable to get your belly out unless it's been subjected to at least some exercise efforts so I gave it 10 minutes before putting my top back on. I'm a closet exhibitionist who loves the naked body in all its glory. Just not mine, yet. It's tankini's only until I get going with the new running thing I'm trying out.
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