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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
