The Fairy Tale …

‘Edward, we are not having sex this morning. You might as well go to work.’

‘The kids are at school. Come on’

Now readers you would presume that I had heard this conversation through the walls, but no myself, my aunt and my uncle are all sat round the kitchen table. Whilst they discuss their sex life I am gagging over my Crunchy Nut. God knows why they think I need to hear this. My aunt has also come to tell me when they have/ haven’t taken part in this activity.

‘I had to go into Reading today. Ed had the day off and there was no way I was going to be chased around the house all day by those exploring hands!’ Again something I don’t need nor want to hear. Or even worse ‘Yep did it earlier and I’ve done the cleaning. Accomplished quite a lot really.’ The smile that beams from her face insures me of two things 1) sex is part of the weekly housework and 2) accomplishments come in many different shapes and sizes.

Now I being a Nun and not experiencing the wonders of sex or, in fact a relationship that has lasted long enough for the whole ‘let’s have sex’ thing to crop up in a while, I don’t actually remember how these scenarios are dealt with. But from what I do remember sometimes you just don’t want to have sex. And the most infuriating reply to that ‘not tonight mate’ is ‘it makes me feel like you don’t love me when you say that.’

Now I want to reply ‘well you know what makes me think that you don’t love me:  1) Whenever I refuse to have sex you have a paddy and bring up the idea of ‘breaking up if we aren’t happy’ (I’m perfectly happy, go have a wank and you might realise happiness can be reached independently) 2) The act of giving you head as you thrust your dick into my mouth I can’t help but wonder is my body being used as sausage casing? 3) When you leave skid marks down the loo and you know I’ll be going in after you.

That all being said sex can be a wonderful moment joining two people together in an intimate and if you’re lucky pleasure inducing moment. However, sex can also be very awkward, positioning yourself correctly for instance. All this rolling around people do in films with their legs going everywhere and hair perfectly posed is obviously a load of bollocks. To the naive 16 year old thinking about having sex with her spotty beau such grand expectations will be sorely squashed the moment she hears one of three things 1) I can’t get it in 2) Its gone soft or 3) Do I have to wear a condom? (Always wear a condom unless you want to have a baby or you like sexually transmitted diseases. It’s awkward enough telling your mother you’re having sex without having to add on the words chlamydia or pregnant.)

This all got me thinking about Fairy Tales and for a long time I really believed that everyone had a soul mate, a person who was going to change your life and add a kind of value that can only exist when you’re truly loved. But the older I get the more I realise how rare love like that can be and if you are lucky enough to find someone who will ignore the skid marks, perform sexual favours  and asks before you leave the house if you have everything, then you really are incredibly lucky. My aunt and uncle may speak ‘inappropriately’ (in my opinion) in front of me, joke about sex and mutter under their breath for the other one to fuck off,  but that kind of love is beyond the realms of lust and infatuation. They need one another to answer the simplest things. As my aunt says ‘I can do almost everything alone, but I’ll always need Ed to mow the grass and fix the car.’

So my advice to those in love, you’re lucky and don’t think the grass is greener because I’m sure a lot of the time it’s exactly the same colour, you just need to keep on top of the watering. For those of us who are single out there, maybe don’t look for the Fairy Tale, look for a person who will water the grass with you and if you’re feeling a bit ill or mopey, someone who adds a few plants just because they can. 

To tweeze?

So readers you will be happy to know that I landed a job! A real, full time, yearly salary kind of job. In London, in Covent Garden no less. Yes check me out, a bustling career woman, six inch heels and a killer suit ….
Errr no, I don’t know why the fuck I thought that was a possibility. I’m not working for either Mode or Runway. Those dreams of a high flying job in a lucrative business have been well and truly dashed. I am in fact sat in what was a white office, now turning grey due to the accumulation of dust that has settled itself firmly upon the desks, some of it has even taken its place on the walls. I am, however, surrounded by stylishly dressed colleagues. The gentleman who sits next to me, Pete (definitely the kind of man who would press his crouch into your arse on the tube) is dressed in luminous trousers which he has fashion consciously rolled up to reveal his polka dot (purple and white) socks. But let’s be thankful that he doesn’t insist on showing us his underpants. For all the colours he is revealing I do believe they would be a worn greyish colour. I’m sure he saves that for the romantic moments he experiences with his newly shackled wife.

Obviously you are wondering what I wear! Well let me divulge, because I am running around, buying someone a note pad, emptying the rubbish, organizing the cupboards, and making tea. Mentally taxing stuff I assure you! Do I buy Earl Grey? Or would they prefer PG? Elderflower or lime cordial? Ask them if they’d like tea now or when I’ve had a chance to do a bit more shredding? I wear my trainers, they are Converse so they have a bit more weight than my Nike running shoes in the style stakes and have an incredibly flat heel, allowing me to run at great speeds round the city of London. And for clothes I dress demurely in H&M jeans, and some kind of sweat resistant top. Sorry women don’t sweat, just like they don’t shit, they glow with perspiration and defecate with purity of heart and mind.

So my first adult job isn’t quite what I thought, but the job market ‘isn’t what is used to be. You are lucky to have a job in this economic climate darling.’ As my mother continually stabs into me. But I don’t have one job, I have two. I do it for an extra £40 a week, it pays for me to go out and boogie on down …. Well that’s clearly a load of bull shit! It pays for the DVD box sets I watch peacefully alone. Anyone at 22 who says ‘boogie on down’ clearly needs to stop spending all their time with their elderly aunt.

Anyway let’s move away from my failings as a modern woman and onto the failings of the commuters I have been eyeing up. So I get the x from x to x and there is a middle aged woman, dark hair, olive coloured skin and tired looking (like everyone else, including myself). To the unobservant she is perfectly normal/ average, whatever those words mean. However, I may have stared a while too long and saw something that shocked me so much I actually felt like a prude afterward. Something I have never experienced. So this woman brought out a compact mirror, like most I imagined she would glance, touch her eyes and sigh, close the mirror and be done with it. However, she then proceeded to draw from her purse a pair of tweezers. Again touching up her eyebrows? Mistook it for a nail file? Perfectly understandable. Now this is where I am sorry to inform you that she took those tweezers and began to pluck her chin hair. Now okay we all have hair in places we would rather not. I myself have been mistaken for a man. But I deal with this issue in the privacy of a locked bathroom, or if it is needed you pay someone for the pleasure of waxing whatever you wish hair free. But no this woman got out her mirror and tweezers and had a good old pluck. I almost admired her, the boldness to say as a woman ‘I have a bit of a beard.’ It was kind of inspiring. But then she scratched her lower regions and I began to wonder ‘is this woman actually a man?’ I’ll leave that up to you to decide. I am sticking to her being a woman.
The commute is full of life, people picking, scratching and expelling all sorts. I just wonder if I’ll ever become one of them?

Playing House

Now readers I am at that age where it would be safe to presume that I might live on my own. Just like people could presume I was married, with children, a good job and a few friends. But the living alone thing is probably more plausible let’s face it. Now I have always thought that I would like living alone, because for most of us living with other people is just a pain in the arse. You walk downstairs into what was a perfectly clean kitchen to find it has been desecrated by the heathens you live with. Or at 3 in the morning you need a wee, too much tea before bed again, and half asleep, with eyes pretty much shut, you sit your bare arse down on the loo. But because you live with three boys the loo seat seems to have gone missing and you are brutally awoken by the awful reality that you are in fact stuck down the shitter with cold water brushing against your inner thighs. One of the many positives to living with men. If I ever get married, I will be having my own bathroom, in fact I may just have a separate house.

So anyway, I was spending a few days alone in my aunt’s home. They had all skipped merrily off to the city of love, Paris. That name was soon to be tarnished by the screaming my aunt was going to inflict upon it. Soon it would be known as the city of hearing aids. So I ended my day with a cup of tea, a few biscuits (packets) and The White Queen, lots of blood, people in bad outfits and questionable staging. I brushed my teeth, shut all the curtains, turned off the lights and got into bed. I closed my eyes and the deathly silence that filled the house started to play tricks. But I knew it was just me so I tried harder to sleep. Now this is when living with three boys comes in handy, any noise being made is always them. I heard something, or as my imagination was inflicting upon me, someone, tapping at my window. So I did what any respectable, mature, intelligent 22 year old would do. I hid under my covers and hoped it would go away. You know the people you scream at in horror movies who don’t leave the house and have all the lights off? That evening I proved myself to be one of those idiots. Now as my mind was racing, firmly under the covers I looked out and saw what had been troubling me, a moth. A large moth!! So I did the humane thing and let it into the open air, where in all likelihood it would be eaten by some kind of bird.

So if any of you are like me and want a clean house and not to fall down the loo but don’t want to live alone, either find equally clean people to live with or hire a cleaner. Problem solved x

Foul Language

I have been looking for a ‘real’ job, the kind that includes an annual salary and isn’t a 0 hour contract. Now this process has meant a lot of emails being written, a lot of emails being discarded and absolutely no responses. So the usual when applying for jobs. However, out of the sky shone a beacon of light! I received a phone call offering me an interview for an administration job ten minutes down the road. Wonderful! I literally jumped for joy, as did my step father who I have steadily been putting into financial debt from about the age of 8. Now I know ‘administration’ sounds shit dull, but this ‘office based, fast paced, no two days the same’ job would allow me to extend the abundance (a synonym for lack of) of skills I already have on my CV. The job I applied for asked for the minimum of a 2:1 degree, an ability to communicate and organisational skills. I had those so I believed I stood a good chance. Now this belief was destroyed after about a minute of entering the interview room.

“Florence?”

“Yes, hello, Mr Gold?”

“Yes, Yes. Come on in.”

Now at this point I still wasn’t completely sure why I didn’t feel very welcome, but I was definitely not comfortable. I think the main issue was Mr Gold’s appearance, he resembled the kind of man you could imagine having done some time as a sex offender.

“So Florence, I have read your blog.” Now this sentence I have heard a lot, and usually people have two reactions, 1) It’s a bit shit but keep trying! And 2) yeah it was funny. Mr Gold’s reaction was neither, and he was looking directly into my eyes. In the dog world this is seen as a sign of aggression, so I think Mr Gold was trying his best Rottweiler, and unfortunately for him I don’t think it took too much effort.

“Really Mr Gold. What did you think?” Now the Rottweiler was slowly turning into a Doberman as his nose was jutting forwards and his yellow teeth (a lack of dental treats I fear) were barking these words at me.

‘Florence, I DETEST foul language in the public forum. It was truly shocking. I have never read, heard or seen anything so rampant with expletives. I think you should remove it from the internet.’ Now I am all for saying your opinion, but fuck me! Has he never watched Nip & Tuck, Game of Thrones, or any kind of reality television show? Just watch someone reading the Daily Mail and from all the spelling mistakes you can’t stop ‘stupid bastards’ from coming out of your mouth. In Sex and the City Samantha physically sexes men to death, and here I was be chastised for a few less than civilized words.

Well to give Mr Gold his due it was a strong opinion, not one I was going to take a bit of notice of but still, I respected him slightly. But with his matted hair, moth eaten jumper and stuffed fish on the walls, my respect was starting to disappear. At this point his wife entered, the duo were suddenly transforming into a pair of under groomed Poodles, as her hair had clearly never seen a bottle of Frizz Ease. She piped in with a voice like she’d been inhaling helium ‘Oh no, how terrible, what sorts of words’. At one point I was genuinely scared they were going to turn around and start sniffing each other’s middle class, boring as shit arses, but instead they just stared at me. At this point I decided that I had no intention of working for Tweedle dip shit and Edward Scissor Hands.

To all of you job seekers out there do not let this put you off, it was an experience I will treasure and it gave me another story for this blog of mine. If people don’t like what you say, tell them not to listen, if they don’t like what you write, tell them to stop reading and if they don’t like you, two little words … Fuck off.

The ‘F’ word

‘Henry, Henry, I am not going to say this again. Yes we all pass wind.’

‘No mum it’s called farting. Everyone’s farted some time.’ My aunts face is pink with anger, disappointment and annoyance that she is about to have to say the f word ‘fart’. In our family you can say fuck as much as you like, but you say ‘fart’ and you’re suddenly walking on thin ice.

‘Right Henry darling, so everyone farts (muffled, definitely doesn’t count) but that does not mean that 1) we need to be made aware every time you do this 2) that you make other people, especially strangers aware that they have done this, and 3) no more telling strangers that you or I have just done the thing that we are discussing. Do you understand me?’ My cousin is looking blankly at my aunt.

Now readers to put this enjoyable conversation into context, my aunt, her husband, their two kids and I are all driving to Spain. It’s going to take two days. We have been in the car for about 7 hours, when the two apples, 1 packet of sour Haribo, a handful of blueberries and a carton of orange juice is causing havoc with Henry’s youthful stomach. I have the joy of sitting in the back with this child and I am continually being gassed into the realms of the unconscious. My aunt is trying desperately to teach Henry the social niceties concerning bathroom habits. And as she keeps relaying ‘the best way of dealing with what happens in the bathroom is to pretend it never happens.’

‘Mum its better out than in. Remember that’s what the BFG said and he’s met the Queen. The Queen farts, you fart too I heard you earlier.’ At this my aunt turns to my uncle and seethes.

‘I told you not to let him watch that bloody film! It’s about a giant with flatulence issues. I mean come on! It is hard enough as it is! He let his teacher know last week that he had managed to pass wind 5 times and when exiting the bathroom he told the teaching assistant what he’d flushed! He’s 8 years old! There is no need for anyone to be told this information, and it is deeply embarrassing when strangers inform me that my son needs to eat more fruit to help with his ‘system’.’

‘The BFG is a classic, and it’s not about a farting giant!’ My uncle’s statement may seem simple enough to you, but he has used the dreaded ‘f’ word. Blasphemy in the eyes of my aunt.

‘Ahhhhohhhahhhh, For fucks sake! I cannot believe you just said that. I am trying so desperately hard to manage Henry’s bad language and look at you using it so casually! You should be very ashamed!’

I of course by this point have rolled the window down and am laughing hysterically. For those of you mulling over the idea of a road trip, please yes go ahead, they can be fun! But I will warn you that if for some unknown reason you have decided to have children and are considering taking them with you, just don’t do it. The magic of seeing Paris may seem wonderful whilst your tucked up in bed with the Sunday Times and a cup of coffee, but when your child has to pee in a bottle because there is nowhere to pull over, and he then tells you that he can’t hold off his number two any longer that beautiful dream becomes a shitting nightmare.

The Bitch of the 21st Century

From time to time readers I wonder, what the fuck does this all mean? Literally I exclaim this whilst looking in the mirror. I was talking to a friend today and she is re decorating her bedroom, and her main life altering problem to date is held in this sentence. ‘I have no idea what colour scheme I want!’ And I feel her pain, my problem is pretty much the same ‘I have no idea what kind of life I want.’ I have no idea what colour I want my sky to be, or my grass, or the hedges, or trees, or flowers. Do I even want hedges? This all got me thinking about this stage in my life. I literally feel like Jack sinking into the depths of the freezing cold ocean, because I was stupid enough to fall in love with an over sized woman who can’t move her arse 3 inches so we can both survive! But if there is one thing helping me in this life, it’s technology, in particular social networking, can you hear the sarcasm or should I make it more clear? Not only does it mean that future employers can check me out before they decline to offer me the job, but it also means that people I randomly meet not only have access to information about me, but also a million (exaggeration) different avenues of contact that I have no control over. And with Facebook’s new ‘seen’ on private messages, there is no longer the excuse ‘I didn’t see that message, how odd!’

Now if I want to meet the man of my dreams (with 40 acres of land, an old manor house and two very dead parents) I not only have to go out to the correct places, I also have to be available via Facebook, Snap chat, have invested in Whatsapp, be a user on Youtube, have a Twitter account, have set up a voice mail, and an email account. And that is excluding bog standard calling and text messaging. When I was 14 I loved it all! It meant I could carry on talking to the friends I’d seen from the hours of 9 till 3, until the hours of 10 or 11 at night without having to leave the comfort of my own home. However, all I had then was a Nokia 3310 and msn live.

At the ripe old age of 22, I am sick to death of it all, I wake up in the morning to be greeted by my phone that offers me different emails, messages, missed calls, voicemails, Whatsapps, Snapchats, and Facebook notifications. This is where my love life gets me down, and that is before I have even thought about breakfast and brushing my teeth.

I’ll give you an example:

My summer ball, pretty average, some ‘famous’ bloke singing for about 20 minutes, diving into the crowd and hitting the floor! Anyway, so I am daydreaming because it’s at least 1.30, the three glasses of wine I’ve sipped have been eradicated by the amount of dancing I’ve been able to accomplish and I am concentrating solely on the pain that is radiating from my feet. Beautiful shoes, gold, and sparkly. I am approached, (more like shoved), by a 6ft (5.8) boy, (I leave the word ‘man’ as I still don’t consider myself a woman. I just don’t know how I can be considered a woman when for 75% of my awake time I walk around in pyjamas, when that stops I’ll be a woman.)

‘Ever had any Irish in you?’

I was tired, I didn’t immediately get that it was a chat up line so I just thought that from my pale complexion and dark hair that he was questioning my heritage.

‘Why, yes I do. My mum and dad are both Irish’ (Slight lie, they have Irish parents.)

He wasn’t deterred by this, ‘That was a chat up line, but yeah I have Irish in me too.’ I being the child that I am thought of about three rude things that I could have replied, but silenced myself and let him talk.

‘So having a good night?’ He was shouting into my ear, but it deflected my attention from the pain pulsating through my toes. Anyway this is where the dating routines of the 1920’s, my mother’s generation, were completely lost. Instead of what’s your name?

‘Can I add you on Facebook? Put your name in there.’ He hands me his phone! Already modern technology is integrating its way into a situation that really has no need for it. Also due to the powers of 3G, in less than 10 seconds time I receive his friend request. To be honest, we could have then faced opposite directions and started private messaging each other, saves on oxygen.

But to be fair, due to modern technology my touch typing is flawless! The only time I get a little confused is when the inbuilt dictionary thinks it knows more about what I’m trying to say than I do! But that can be saved for another blog!

So we parted ways, I smiled, he smiled, all through emoticons and then I got home and slept.

The next evening I am surfing the news feed of Facebook, when bam!

Instant message from (code name) Jason Bourne (I wish!): Slante (wtf?)

Instant message from (code name) Fenelope (thank God that’s not my name!) huh?

I get the feeling that “Jason” had taken my Irish heritage too seriously, so I do what modern technology is there for, I Google it! It means health in Irish … wonderful!

Now unfortunately this gentleman (he pinched my arse about five minutes after meeting so I use the term loosely) wasn’t the man of my dreams, I also feel I wasn’t the woman of his dreams either. But it did teach me something very important, if you like someone walk up to them, ask for their name, introduce yourself, get their number, call them the next day and ask them out for a drink. No internet or apps!

Jackson …

This blog is about the excruciatingly painful comedy set that seems to be taking over my life. So let’s begin. The end of University, woop! No more exams. No more books. No more library. No more awkwardness with people you hardly know.

Yeah that last one was a load of bullshit. The awkwardness, just like bills, my continual unemployment, and the fact that Matt Damon isn’t, and never will be my husband continues on after University. In fact it gets worse as you’re now expected to be a fully-fledged, wiping your own arse adult. My C.V tells prospective employers that I have impeccable communication skills, with the added bonus of being outgoing, friendly and confident. And in no way does my C.V suggest that I am sexually aggressive… wait for it.

Well I have been wiping my own sensitive derriere for a considerable amount of time now, and having given a total of 6, (yes 6!), presentations I consider myself socially competent. (Of course, in all of them I was sitting down and reading from a sheet of paper, and at the correct intervals I even had in red when to breathe). Therefore, like so many almost graduates, I have developed the skills to enter a sophisticated bar (Wetherspoons), and communicate with my fellow University peers in a polite, and socially appropriate manner. However, like we all know, I am not at all like ‘so many almost graduates.’ I believe when I am the ripe old age of 90, with all my teeth missing, and an enlarged tongue that prevents me from speaking, that yes, then I will be ready to enter society.

Now this is where the tale of my descending social standing begins, and as we all know it was never that high to begin with. I decided to go out for the evening with a friend, and her classmates that I know of, but have the usual;

(Fuck, eye contact)

‘Hi’

‘Hi’

‘How are you?’

‘Yeah good thanks. Soo much reading, you know how it is! You?’

‘Yeah same, so much work, but good’

Both smile, part ways and refrain from any form of communication for the rest of the evening.

However, as I was going out with these people, interaction had to happen, and may I clarify before I continue this tale, I mean and meant talking, conversation, dialogue, and in no way was I referring to anything else.

For my sanity the person in question will remain anonymous, we will call him Jackson. Up to this point everything had been relatively normal. Drinks in hand, the basic ‘How are you?’ ‘Good, you?’ Normal, bland, unoriginal, yet polite statements were being thrown back and forth. When Jackson decides to extend the social boundary with this …

‘I was thinking of skinning a cat.’

I looked from side to side, nodded my head and said ‘We all have dreams.’ I went on to laugh, not even a laugh, more of a slight, drawn out ‘Haaaa’ bit of a nervous squeak at the end. My friend during this time was talking to two other gentlemen and I no longer had her knowledge of Jackson to bounce off of. But Jackson soon went back to his funny, engaging, and seemingly ordinary self again when …

‘Would you like to skin that cat with me?’

My friend had now returned and she gave him a look that I believed was speaking the words ‘What the fuck are you going on about, you nutter.’ Now bear in mind, I was a bit nervous, never really spending much time with these people, it was past 10 pm i.e my bed time, and I was drinking coke; the shaking had begun. I proceeded to ask Jackson …

‘Are you trying to fuck me?’

You notice the missing ‘with’ … yeah so did he. I was so hoping he hadn’t, the absence of that word had changed a seemingly comical, let’s be friends statement, into deep seated narcissism, an accusal of sexual harassment and an almost predatory, sexually aggressive nature, all on my part.

My friend and Jackson laughed for a while, whilst informing the rest of the pub of my embarrassment. To be fair Jackson was trying to ‘fuck WITH me’, as I had previously told my friend that I was unsure of his humour. However, he was most definitely not trying to ‘fuck me’ and that is where I lost my argument, and any kind of likelihood of making a new friend. Again remember no matter how bad things get at least you have never asked someone ‘Are you trying to fuck me?’

A weekend away ….

“Gemmi, Angy, my darlings come along, we really must get home, the horses need feeding AND we need to get you two to tennis, AND I promised I’d make your father his favourite meal.” The woman looks as if she bathes in Joules, blonde hair, sunglasses protecting her scrutinizing eyes from the ray of sunlight edging its way through the black clouds. Her gilet protecting her from the poor … oops I meant the weather!

She pivots on the spot, shouting in all directions, as if her two children weren’t standing directly in front of her. The beauty of Matlida Goodhead (the name is entirely misleading) was known to every mother in the playground. Mainly due to this rehearsed and recycled display of motherly devotion. I, being a new addition to the afternoon pick up routine enjoyed the show. I even considered placing a 20p into her Modalu handbag. However, I believe a woman like that is paid in attention, and she got plenty of that from me. At one point I got out my Walkers crisps and just stared, like people do when they go to the zoo and a gorilla starts scratching its arse.

Of course no Alpha, middle class, stay at home mother is anything without her posse of equally middle class stay at home mothers. I introduce you to Lilian Lingus and May McCock (terrible names, and equally terrible teeth). Lillian is fashioning Crew, you’d think she’d been on an afternoon hike, ‘Oh well you know the usual, Waitrose, the bottle bank, came home fed the Labs, cleaned the kids rooms, and now back at school, I couldn’t face the gym today!’ She looks over at this point to see the reaction of her two cage mates. Matilda pushes her glasses down her nose, bows her head, and raises an eyebrow. The desired effect is immediate; Lillian blushes, looks down and punishes herself for the doughnut and Starbucks coffee she allowed herself to indulge in! The lashing I’m sure will come later. May can see that Lillian’s suffering will be eternal and feigns distraction by smiling at her delightfully rotund child.

Mrs McCock is sporting a Barbour jacket, Chanel sunglasses and a Waitrose bag for life, she begins her speech “I’m terribly concerned about the environment. We recycle!! I always use my bag for life.” She launches the bag up into the air, both hands enclosing the long lasting material. The entire playground of mothers arch their necks and squint their eyes, as the rays of sunlight hit the bag for life. Even Simba didn’t get this much attention! You can almost hear Elton John’s ethereal voice in the wind. Then the squeaky voice of May returns “Eco- friendly cleaning products! Terribly important.” She later washes her bed sheets at 60, but vows to not use the car for three days.

You may be asking yourself, where do such women exist? I found this common creature in the town of Henley, Henley on Thames. Most famously known for the University boat race. Oxford and Cambridge battle it out on the high seas, fighting against the tide, using the strength of highly intelligent men against the raging waves of nature. In reality I fear that it’s less Battle of the Titans and more The Adventures of Tink Winky, Dipsy, Lala and Po. I also imagine that tradition causes the influx of spectators, rather than genuine interest. So Henley (on Thames) is posh, posh, snor. Beautiful, but dull! The most exciting incident to happen is when Marg, the neighbourhood nutter (Yes even Henley on Thames has one), is allowed out of her cage and attacks family bike rides, who have the audacity to occasionally slip on to the pavement. The police have been called and they sedated the situation with some forceful words and powerful head shaking.

I do wonder if we spent less time judging each other and more time helping one another maybe the world would be a better place. But then again I’d have nothing to write my blog about! Every cloud!

My Prince Charming

Now being chatted up can sometimes be the beginning of a fairy tale romance; resulting in marriage, 3 kids, a Labrador puppy called Bilbo, a family estate and a draining mortgage. For those who have accomplished this, Congratulations!! However, if your flirting history is more Saw III than Sleeping Beauty, then please come in from the cold, and enter my house of dating disasters, flirting faux pas and cheesy chat up lines….

The art of wooing a woman seems to have dramatically changed in the last 150 years. When Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice, a man would propose, and a woman would accept before they had, how shall I put it, tested the merchandise? Now, in this economic climate, men and women are less inclined to enter into negotiations without a couple of test drives, and an STD test. But like all good shoppers, they read the fine print and are aware that they can return their products, but the likelihood of a refund is pretty slim.

Once upon a time, in a far off land named Canterbury, a young woman entered Asda, a shop that, if price comparison websites are anything to go by, sold goods a lot cheaper than the other Supermarkets. On this wonderful Sunday afternoon I was offered the most affordable Prince Charming in the shop, he was discounted by 50%, so I think he saw himself as a pretty good deal. Supermarkets are now becoming the hotspot for meeting your ideal man, in between recycling your glass, and buying loo cleaner, you can also purchase a half price prince. And with Asda’s price promise, he’s a bargain all year round! Lucky me.

I have just finished my shopping, got the usual essentials, Sensodyne toothpaste, a bar of Dairy Milk, 5 Mars Bars, 4 Twix’s, a packet of Sour Patch kids and a Terry’s chocolate orange. All in all a healthy week. I am placing my items on to the check out, and am approaching, what I would classify as a seemingly regular 40 year old guy.

‘Alright gorgeous, looking good.’ A bit friendly for our first meeting, but I’m a single 22 year old woman, who has been mistaken for a man, I take compliments where I can get them.

‘Good afternoon.’ I smile and nod awkwardly, whilst opening up my bag for life.

The greying fox … well more badger, asks through the beep, beep, beep, ‘You er come here much then?’ I notice one of his front teeth seems to have gone missing. I’ll most definitely be asking for a damage discount.

‘Erm probably once a week, depending on how much I buy.’

‘Yeah ha, well I’m here most days’ (Him: wink) (Me: wince) Now I am a polite person and as he was still beeping through my shop, I ask ‘Do you like working here then?’

‘Well you know it’s okay, boss is a bit of an arse, but what can you do. You have lovely … eyes.’ His eyes are firmly placed on my chest and every time I place a bag into the trolley they move to my arse. My bargain prince putting on the moves with such finesse and subtlety I feel like true love’s kiss isn’t far off. I just have make sure I don’t accidentally choke of a poisonous apple, prick my finger, get locked in a really tall tower or run out of the shop without paying.

‘That’ll be 22.50 please love’

I insert the card, beg it to ask me for my pin number, pin number entered. Now here is where mere words became action, as my half price prince charming gallantly hands me the receipt. His sweaty hand takes hold of mine, he flicks in between staring deeply into my eyes and piercingly at my cleavage (it exists, you just have to look closely) and says the words that all women since Eve have wanted men to say ‘Do you fancy ya know, a fine filly like you needs a good ride.’

Now not necessarily the most stereotypical of lines, most women expect at most ‘You’re alright, wanna go out?’ or ‘Yeah marriage isn’t a bad idea, means I’ll always have clean socks.’ But really what I received was sexual harassment. Ladies and gents, this is the kind of man I attract, way too old for me, a bit creepy, missing his front tooth, and completely devoid of social niceties. So if you ever become disheartened at your love life, just read this tale of a budding romance in all its glory, and revel in the awkward silences, dramatic pauses and pornographic chat up lines. I’m sure it will make you feel a whole lot better.

“Excuse Me Sir”

Daily trip into town, sun shining, slight breeze; by all counts a beautiful day.

Until, I enter Tesco.

I’m walking amongst the isles, checking out the best deals on Cheddar cheese (I only like Mild, so that can limit my choice) when I hear a gruff voice speak the three words no self-respecting 22 year old female ever wants to hear …. ‘Excuse me SIR.’

Now I would have understood this slight misunderstanding, if 1) I had short hair 2) I had a beard or 3) I hadn’t been wearing a skirt. But no, I was in a skirt, and my legs bare, ( I had shaved!).Of course this is when I started to wonder; how can I make myself look any more feminine? I’ve pondered over this question with friends, and they have all agreed that a boob job is the only thing to be done. I happen to like my below average sized breasts, I can run and they don’t move. One of the many perks of having grapes for breasts.

This is where my embarrassment hit levels I still hadn’t fully experienced in adult life. For a second time the Tesco employee proceeds to look me square in the eye, and says ‘Excuse me sir.’ I look around, completely forgetting the Cheddar Cheese, hoping to spy a gentleman in the vicinity. No such luck! Had I forgotten to bleach my tash? No I did it about a week ago. Legs? They were still hairless. Hair chopped off during the night? Nope it was still present. Gruff voice? I don’t remember speaking!

All in all this experience taught me one thing. If someone says ‘Excuse me sir’, and you’re a female, just assume that they aren’t talking to you, and if they continue this persistence in questioning your gender then telling them to fuck off, may not aid in your fight to be gendered female, but it will sure make you feel better.