Isn't she lovely?

Lovely. Luhv-lee. What a versatile word it is. It's used to describe days, weather, events, experiences, clothes, and a whole lot more. The dictionary states the word's definition is:

1. charmingly or exquisitely beautiful: a lovely flower. 

2. having a beauty that appeals to the heart or mind as well as to the eye, as a person or a face. 

3. delightful; highly pleasing: to have a lovely time. 

4. of a great moral or spiritual beauty: a lovely character. 

All very positive stuff.

I have an issue with the word. A pretty big issue. When I think of the word that people most use to and about me, it's 'lovely'. That's not a humble brag. I find it a bit beige, when being used about a person. There are so many other words that could be used. And I don't think it's being used in a way that expresses any of the dictionary definitions above, though, of course, they're all apt. (Shut up.) And the only consolation somebody had to offer when I mentioned how disgruntled I was? "Well, it's better than being called 'nice', isn't it?" Oh Lordy! I was taught that 'nice' was not a word that should be in my vocabulary, from a very young age, as it's not a good one, so now I use it when I can't think of anything else to say about something or someone. And I reckon that's how people usually use 'lovely'. See? BEIGE.

The other problem with people seeing you as being lovely, is that some think they can take the piss out of your good nature. Lovely, to them, means gullible, stupid, and an idiot. Their idiot. Well, this 'lovely' person has a gut instinct and intuition that have never proven to be wonky, in 33 years. So if you're being a wanker/liar/cheat, I know about it. Only I choose not to tell you that I know. Oooh, being 'lovely' can be a weapon! That's a plus, I guess. My point is, just because somebody is understanding (not me, obvs.), tolerant (definitely not me!) and every other positive trait associated with being 'lovely', it doesn't mean they shouldn't be granted with the same consideration and caution as somebody who's a git. If people can manage the feelings of somebody who's not such a good'un, for fear of upsetting them, SURELY somebody who is a good'un should be given more mind, as they have high levels of respect for everybody, right? Wrong. That doesn't seem to be how it works.

Lovely, to some, seems to mean reliable. Like an old banger. Or a fall back plan. Or somebody to ditch when they’re not needed for their understanding ear.

“I can let her down, she’ll understand.”

Yep, I understand, but I’m not happy.

“I’ve got a hangover, I can’t be arsed to stick to plans.”

Twat.

“Something better has come along. I’ll bin off plans.”

Again, twat.

Sometimes I’ll internalise these thoughts, and sometimes I’ll vocalise them. The latter seems to cause issues because lovely people are supposed to nod and smile and take all the bollocks others offer them. I used to be a lot more than just lovely. And I'm sure I will be again, someday soon.

A friend of mine categorises people in two groups: radiators and drains. Pretty self-explanatory. There are people who radiate and bring warmth to your life, and there are people who drain you of everything you have to offer. My New Year’s Resolution was to be slightly more selfish. I know that sounds a bit shit, but what I mean is that I realised that actually not many people really look out for each other. Sometimes, it’d be good to be asked how I am, like. I do however, realise that I put my standards on to other people, so I expect something of them. This is unfair on others and one (I'm aware there are more, before somebody pipes up!) of my worst traits. I’m setting myself up to be let down because people aren’t doing what I’d do if I was in their place.

I realise this sounds like a rant. And it is. I’m being a drain but only for this post. It’s not aimed at anybody in particular, or relating to any specific event. It’s me getting years of frustration off my ample chest.

Yes, Mr Wonder, I am lovely. (And uptight (see what I did  there?), spiky, opinionated, and a princess) but from now on, I’ll only be lovely to those who are lovely back, or lovely first. The radiators in my life. I'm becoming selfishly lovely. x

Poison is the wind that blows from the north and south and east?

I was born and raised in England. I’m British. On forms, I’m given the option to tick a box that says ‘British Asian’, which quite pisses me off because my background and cultural heritage do not influence my nationality.

The events in Woolwich were shocking. I don’t think anybody I know wasn’t stopped in their tracks by last week’s horrific happenings. My thoughts and prayers have been with those directly affected since I heard the news. I have a sick feeling in my stomach as I’m becoming aware of what humans can do to one another. What has stunned me, more than anything, are the reactions and comments of those not directly linked to what happened. The aftermath.

Within hours of the chilling news breaking, I had been invited to join several patriotic groups on Facebook. Not religious groups but ‘British’ groups, yet those inviting me were slating Islam. One support page hadn’t even got the charity’s name right (Hero’s – belonging to one hero. Heroes – plural of ‘hero’) They had images of the Union Flag in their profile pictures. They were shouting, in various ways, ‘DEPORT THEM!’. UKIP, the BNP and the EDL exploited the fear and ignorance some displayed. Enoch Powell would have been proud. Are we back in the 1960s?

What made me proud of the country I was born in was its acceptance, tolerance and diversity. What made me like some of the people I know were the same things. My pride in my country and liking of people has suffered increasingly since Wednesday. Seeing the Union Flag fills me with fear. We are not a country united. People I know and am distantly related to are calling for immigrants to be deported. I am the child of immigrants. I am British. My uncle, who came to England from India when he was three years old, has served with the British army and is now part of the Met, is an immigrant. Should he be deported? Also, those who called for Muslims to be deported should perhaps be told that Brits cannot be deported from Britain. The ignorance of some people has baffled, as well as unsettled, me.

People are labelling Islam as an evil religion. When has it ever been okay to stereotype and generalise? My favourite tweet this week asked if we deemed all white men as racists when Stephen Lawrence was murdered. Seems an absurd thing to even consider, doesn’t it? So why are we labelling a whole religion as evil when two men acted in such a barbaric way? It makes no sense. I’m not coming at this from a Muslim’s point of view, I am not Muslim; I’m coming to this from a human point of view. Those shouting that we live in a Christian world, what about the Ten Commandments? I don’t remember there being one stating that we should judge people by others’ acts. I may have misinterpreted what Moses was told on Mount Sinai though. Were all Christians called terrorists when the IRA bombings were a regular occurrence and innocent lives were lost? It is simply bonkers to blame the act of two men on a religion and those who follow it. Religion, race and background are not nasty, people are.

The aftermath of Wednesday has left me feeling like I did in the middle of the London riots, almost two years ago. I’m saddened by the mob mentality people seem to adopt at such time. It’s a different feeling to after the 7/7 bombings. Devastating events brought everybody together, and though completely different circumstances, the next time I felt such unity was at the London Olympics.

One of my idols is Mahatma Gandhi. “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” Fire does not fight fire.

I have issues with the way the press has dealt with the happenings in Woolwich. But that’s for another time.

We, as a society, seem to have a need to blame tragedy on something or someone. The brutal killing of an innocent man, on Wednesday, was not due to a religion. Blame the right people: two men who are under arrest.

I hope there is a time when unity, tolerance, acceptance and diversity are at the forefront of Britain’s beliefs again. And I hope, as a humanist, it’s very soon.

Sweet Disposition

I told you lot I’d be back. And here I am, starting with a mini rant! As some of you may be aware, there’s an English footballer called David Beckham. Mr Beckham is an icon to many, whether it be for his footballing skills and accolades, his fashion sense and ability to wear anything and look good, or THAT advert.

This morning, I woke up to news that Beckham had signed for Paris Saint Germain for 5 months and would donate all of his salary to a local children’s charity. WOW! This made me do a happy cry. A reported £150,000 per week to a charity. It blows my mind that somebody would something so selfless.

What shocked me was the negativity that some people feel towards his decision. How can there be anything but positivity surrounding this situation? I’m looking at this from a layperson’s perspective so I admit, I may be missing something. Here’s some of what I saw:

·         He’s doing it to avoid the tax.

Erm, no he’s not. He’s only there for 5 months and isn’t eligible for the French tax system.

·         That amount is nothing to him.

So, somebody chooses to donate their salary for 5 months to a charity and it’s nothing? It doesn’t matter about his wealth, he will be working for free for those months. Yes, he gets an income from sponsorship deals, but he will be doing his job for free. For 5 months. How many people would choose to do that? Plus, the amount he’s donating will make a difference to the charity – that’s the important thing, surely?

·         He should donate to a British charity.

Should he? Is there something in our heritage that states that we are only able to give our money to charities based in the country we were born in? A local Parisian charity is benefitting from somebody’s generosity. I’ll take some words out of that sentence. A charity is benefitting. Why do people have a problem with this?

·         Lots of people do the same and remain anonymous.

That is their choice. I’m not taking away from what anybody does. That people to donate to charity is a wonderful thing. David Beckham is a huge name all over the world. Imagine the publicity and coverage that charity will get from this, raising awareness for their cause. They won’t need to spend money on marketing.

I’ve recently had a really lovely experience with a small charity. I got in touch with them, after learning about their cause, in December. The ladies at the charity were grateful for my support and contact but, as it was almost Christmas, asked me to make sure I felt able to donate as much as I wanted to, every month. A charity had taken my needs in to consideration. When does that happen? I’m used to getting calls from larger charities I already donate to, asking me to give more. I contacted these ladies last week and said I was setting up my direct debit. Their gratitude was enough to bring me to tears. (Yes, okay, that seems to be quite easy!) They’ve invited me to go and see them when I visit Liverpool, in March, for a cuppa and a chat. Because they’re so thankful that I am behind their cause. In my experience, a larger charity has never invited me in to their office for a cuppa, even after I’ve agreed to donate more over the telephone, having received one of their calls.

My point is, it doesn’t really matter where the money is going or the reason. A person has decided to donate some money to charity. There is no negativity here. We should be humbled that a great cause benefits from somebody’s generosity. A selfless act. Mr David Beckham, props to you! x

When I was 31, it was a very bad year...

My brain has a stupid ability to remember things. Not good things, otherwise I’d be earning mega bucks, but silly things. I can still remember my telephone number from when I was 7 years old.

So, I haven't blogged in ages. It's hard to moan about anything when you're insanely happy and it's hard to find the energy to moan when you're desperately sad about something.

2012 has been an absolute bastard of a year. I'm aware people have it worse than I do so I'm not looking for sympathy and pity, I'm just filling my friends in on stuff.

I entered this year completely broken. A serious relationship - involving saying and feeling the 'L' word - had just ended, and my health wasn't at its best. Let's start with health. After a bit of investigation by clever medical people, a growth was found on my ovary. Non-cancerous but aggressive. After months of treatment, which made me feel like I'd been clubbed over the head and left me internally and externally bruised after every session, it had shrunk enough for it to be removed without causing any lasting damage to the organs left behind. I've since had the all-clear so, aside from check-ups every now and then, I'm fine and physically functioning as I should be. Apologies if that's too much information for some of you. I never could do things in an understated way, could I?!

So, to the relationship. Those of you who know me well, know I’m pretty good at being single. But I entered a proper, serious and long-term relationship. I was HAPPY. It was even serious enough to fill Mum in on stuff; she approved and was thrilled I was so settled. The relationship taught me a few things; mostly that I'm the best girlfriend ever! Considerate, able to compromise and non-confrontational. We never argued. If he did something I found a bit 'off', I'd wait and then explain, calmly, why it had upset me. And he understood. It mellowed me out completely. I’m not saying I’m saintly. Cripes, you lot know me better than that! But in my relationship, I was. Until a year ago. So, back to my brain remembering silly dates, though I'd rather it didn't. A year ago, today, I discovered he'd cheated on me. It totally broke me. I always thought people exaggerated when they said they couldn't breathe, but that's actually what it's like. I'd put off my dream travelling plans for this guy, that's how important he was to me. So, I discovered, I wasn't told, that he'd spent two nights with another woman a few days before. My self-worth, self-confidence and self-respect had been taken. Those things aren't given willingly, so they were stolen from me. By two people who'd not even considered me or my feelings for two days.

I couldn’t function socially. Having a job and going to work was the best thing for me as it was routine and I couldn’t get out of it. But I was dead behind the eyes for a good few months. I also had a rage inside of me I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t surface anger so throwing things and screaming wouldn’t have relieved it. It was a lump of red hot rage that was sat in my stomach. And I had NO idea how to shift it as it was an alien feeling that had come from a huge betrayal I’d had no control over. A friend, on New Year’s Eve, suggested it would be like a “ghost poo”; an invisible thing that would exit from one of my orifices without leaving a trace. And that’s exactly what it did a couple of months later. The reason it passed is because I spoke to various people about it.

I was embarrassed. I mean, when somebody cheats on you, it must be because you're flawed and have done something wrong, right? WRONG. I didn't do anything wrong at all. I wasn't needy or clingy and I didn't drive him away. He put his dick before his relationship, that's what it came down to. It's taken me a year to put myself back together, mentally and emotionally. I've been physically broken, most of this year, due to the health reasons mentioned above, and emotionally broken because of my ex's behaviour. To blog about such events without feeling sorry for myself, before now, has been impossible. But I'm back together now. I had a few guys flashing their Hero Complex around me. You know, the “I’ll fix you!” types. But I wasn’t about to subject myself to a rebound relationship, let alone do it to somebody else. I did have a brief relationship with somebody who was lovely, not so long ago, but that didn’t work out, through no fault of either of us. C’est la vie, as they say, “they” being the French. I also had tragic news not so long ago as a friend passed away.

I'm sorry to those of you I've not been in touch with as much as usual, this year. I've had to be completely selfish in an effort to stay as sane as possible. And I haven’t even managed that most of the time!

So, my one and only post of this year is to tell 2012 it can fuck right off! There have been parts of the year that have been good. But most of it has been a chore. I really don’t mean to sound melodramatic. And, thanks to friends and family who are very supportive, I’ve kept my shit together, for the most part, and now have my sparkle back.

As 2013 approaches, I know I’ll be blogging again as I’m at a point where I can. And I’ve got stuff to moan about!

10pm 6^th December 2011 – I was spinning out and doing everything I could not to throw a glass at his head. A complete mess.

10pm 6^th December 2012 – I will be painting my nails and prepping for my work Christmas party on Friday. And I became an Auntie again today so I can remember this date for very different and happy reasons now.

As Mary J. Blige so eloquently said, NO MORE DRAMA. x

I won’t be the lonely one sitting on my own and sad, a fifty year old reminiscing what I had.

I haven’t spoken to my Dad in nine weeks. This is the second longest stint in my thirty years on Earth that I’ve had nothing to do with him. I’m not sure this lack of radio contact is entirely down to choice and necessity but both do play a part. I don’t know when we’ll speak again, I imagine it’ll be when I decide to pick up the ‘phone to call him as he won’t call me. This isn’t because I’ve done wrong by him, far from it, but because he’s a stubborn old soul.

On the eve of my thirtieth birthday, he called me. “I won’t be able to see you tomorrow. Your Aunt has just come out of hospital so we’re going to visit her.”

“Hello Dad. That’s okay, don’t worry.”

“What will you do tomorrow?”

“I already have plans to go to lunch with Mum and her family and then dinner with friends. They’re picking me up at 7pm.”

“Okay, bye.”

I think he was expecting me to be totally devastated that he couldn’t see me, saying I was now set for a shit birthday because he hadn’t factored in time for me. I had set aside time to see him in the afternoon when making plans for my birthday; years of guilt-tripping from him for not seeing him on my birthday have taught me to do so, whether I hear from him in the lead up to my day or not. And I did think he’d want to see me on my thirtieth birthday but I wasn’t upset when he told me he’d made other plans; his sister-in-law of thirty-four years had just had brain surgery, of course I understood visiting her was important to him.

I woke up on my birthday to a load of text messages, Facebook messages and tweets wishing me well on my very special day. The next few hours were filled with present opening, a lovely breakfast and general birthday merriment, as well as the annual secret competition between the elders of my family – Who Can Call The Birthday Girl First. Lunch with the family was wonderful, unconditional love always is, isn’t it? The three hours I’d kept free for Dad were now mine to do with whatever I wished. So I napped – one of my favourite hobbies - and returned the calls and messages of those who’d contacted me through the day. I had received a text from Dad around lunchtime. “Hapy bday. Lov Dad” – that’s not him being down with the kids and using text speak, he just doesn’t spell very well. I hadn’t replied as a) I was at lunch with Mum and her family and I knew he was trying to interrupt our gathering and b) I knew I’d speak to him in the evening.

At 6.50pm, just as I was applying my second layer of mascara, my ‘phone rang. “What are you up to?”

“Hi Dad. I’m getting picked up for dinner in ten minutes.”

“Oh. I wanted to see you.”

“Oh, sorry Dad, you said yesterday you couldn’t see me today.”

“What did you get up to today?”

I told him about what a brilliant day I’d had and how I’d been made to feel special by everyone, expecting him to be thrilled my thirtieth birthday had been a great one. “You’re only saying all that because you haven’t seen me!”

“Please Dad, of all days, don’t start on me today.” And then he hung up. That was the last time we spoke. I think I half expected him to have been in touch a few days later – not an unreasonable expectation for a child around her thirtieth birthday – but he wasn’t. And I’m determined I won’t be in touch with him for a while yet. Life has been, unsurprisingly, less hassle-filled since that day.

I don’t know why Dad is as he is. He is one of five children and none of his three brothers are as stubborn or traditional when it comes to their children as Dad is. He treats my half-sister differently to how he treated me when I was her age (she is seven) but that’s not a bad thing as he needed to change and be more involved in his offspring’s upbringing. He didn’t really participate in any of my “core” life lessons as a child, they were all down to my Mum, so I think it’s healthy that he is the primary parent in his youngest child’s life.

When I was eleven, my Dad stopped talking to me for a long time. My Mum’s eldest sister who was married to my Dad’s eldest brother (it’s not incest, we’ve been through this before!) had left her husband because he’d battered her so she came to stay with us. At that time, we lived near my Mum’s parents so it was the ideal place for my Auntie to be. Dad used to see me every fortnight and, that weekend, collected me from my Grandparents’ before taking me back to his house. His brother happened to call him a few hours after we’d got there and filled Dad in on what had been happening. Dad went apeshit at me for not telling him my Auntie was at ours – as a ten year old, imparting such news wasn’t as important to me as deciding which toy to play with – so he drove me back to my Grandparents’, left me on the doorstep and drove off after he saw me go in the house without saying goodbye. That was an appropriate and reasonable adult reaction, I’m sure you’ll agree. We only started talking again when he had married his second wife and needed to get back in touch to let me know. He turned up at our old house, he didn’t call beforehand, but we’d moved by then, I just happened to be across the road visiting my old neighbour and I saw him through the window so ran out to see him. Dad recalls that time as only being a matter of months. I was almost thirteen when he remarried. Still, to this day, he thinks he did the right thing.

I don’t know why I have left it so long to call Dad. I may have finally accepted that his promises are always empty. Though he means what he says at the time, he rarely delivers. I’m both shocked and disgusted that it’s taken me twenty-three years to realise this (I was seven when my parents separated) and that it took him being crap on my thirtieth birthday for that epiphany. My Mum, who is usually vocal about family matters, hasn’t suggested I call him. She hasn’t really commented on the situation at all. When I was younger and Dad let me down, Mum would tell me to concede and accept that he’d failed to deliver and tell me I should call him. Even whilst I was a child and he didn’t stick to the court arrangements for maintenance payments, Mum insisted I should maintain my relationship with Dad and sent me to see him every two weeks. The ruling was that he should pay £30 every month. He only ever paid once but still Mum used to make me call him every other Wednesday to arrange him picking me up on the Friday that followed. This time she’s leaving it for me to decide when to call.

I think both guilt and duty combined will make me feel I must get in touch with Dad again very soon, all brought to the forefront of my mind by writing this blog post. I may well leave it another week or so though, mainly because I’m enjoying the Dad-free zone, but partly because I don’t know what to say to him. x

You Wouldn't Know Joy If You Didn't Know Pain... How Could I Complain?

The days that I call "Meh" days are all too frequent now. You know, the ones that merge in to the previous day? These days can't even be called good days. That sounds far more melodramatic than necessary but it seems the best way to describe them as they are not memorable for any reason. What I've learned though, is that these "Meh" days are necessary to make the other days comparable; a yard stick (I'm still resisting the transfer to the the metric system) by which to measure how time has treated me and my existence. And vice versa. There was a day a few weeks ago that I should have written about immediately. It was awesome. I mean that in the traditional sense of the word; breath-taking and astounding, not just "cool" as the overuse of the word implies these days.


My normal working days are non-descript and have seen me hurtle through this sticky summer (ok, it's raining now but it'll be humid again, believe me. I am Indian, I can sense an Indian summer!) as my routine is rigid; I get up at the same time everyday, I get the same train everyday, I get served my usual coffee by the same hot Italian barista everyday - that's not a complaint! - I get to the office at the same time everyday. I then listen to women moan about shit that doesn't really matter. Every. Fucking. Day. Their complaints prompt me to want to shout, "It's only a sodding lipstick! Get a grip!" but I can't and have to pretend that their issue is the worst thing in the world. Until I take up the next complaint, then the fact that someone only got four samples in her bag, rather than five, becomes the most serious matter I've ever had to deal with. You're feeling my pain, right?


So, this day - Wednesday 21st July - promised a break from the monotony and delivered spectacularly. Firstly, I was permitted a day away from my desk! Several brands stocked by the company I work for were visiting our office and educating us in new products. Now, for most of you that probably sounds rather boring but this is the part of my job I love and is why I do what I do. The science behind the products and the way they work with the layers of the skin is all product porn - mmm! And then there's the freebies!


Anyway, after this daytime of fun(!) I was meeting a friend to venture to a venue on Little Portland Street to see Pete Lawrie and his band play. Yes, I'm still obsessed with the man's music. And this gig was even more exciting for me as it was back in my comfort zone on West London rather than the Trustafarian North London site of the last shindig. My working day finished earlier than expected so I popped to the local cafe for an extra hot skinny chai latte (you know I'm particular!) to wait for my friend. I was pleasantly surprised to discover my favourite Italian barista was working. He falls under the "favourite" category mostly because he's young and hot, not for his coffee making skills, unfortunately. The place was empty so The Barista joined me for a coffee and a chat. We've been jokily flirting for some time now so this isn't as weird as it may sound. He was very charming and made me laugh lots, I felt like a fifteen year old with a ridiculous crush as I giggled coquettishly. I tweeted, in my jovial way, about the situation I found myself in. The Barista is a regular tweet topic and my followers get concerned if he's not mentioned for a while. "Having coffee with The Hot Italian Barista. Does this count as a first date?" My followers were appreciative of the update. All except one; A guy I was almost involved with at the time. My friend arrived at the same time as a text from this guy telling me to delete all his details and wishing me luck with The Barista. I didn't realise coffee meant marriage these days! That kind of behaviour would have got sympathy from me and made me feel so guilty just six months ago. Now though, I have no time for it so I fulfilled his wishes. Not even his ridiculous outlook on our, erm, "romance" could dampen my spirits.


So, then the highlight of my day - Pete's gig. I hadn't realised he was gigging until the week before. I'd been called a racist term in the street on my way to work and tweeted about it. Pete was the first to respond with sound advice, "Ignore them, Biscuit". After a few exchanges he informed me that he was playing in Londres so I booked my ticket tout de suite. I also made Pete promise he'd give me a massive hug - well, there must be some advantages to being his favourite blogger! This, before you say anything, is a title he bestowed upon me. Yes, perhaps it was to shut me up but I still wear my crown with pride. Like an excitable pup I entered the venue, got myself a gin and tonic and made myself comfortable in a booth not too far from the stage. I was engrossed in conversation with my friend when a tap on the shoulder and "Where's my hug then?" alerted me to the presence of Pete. A very nervous Pete. We spoke for a little while before he went of to prepare for his headlining moment. As I sat down again I noticed I was being thrown "evils" by some girls. Ho hum. The second act, a guy called Tinashe, was brilliant. He had such energy and a beautiful voice. His drummer reminded me of Animal from The Muppets. No Joke. They were very entertaining to watch.


And then (drum roll please - Elliot?) the headline act - Pete Lawrie and the band. There were teething issues - mic lead, I think - so Pete silenced the crowd in order that he and Elliot could perform the first song without microphones with Pete on guitar and Elliot tapping some box thing. My knowledge of musical instruments is second to none! Normal service was resumed as the lead was found. I was in my element as Pete, Elliot and Mike played. It doesn't take too much to please me, as well you know, but listening to them live seems to transport me to my happy place. There were very amusing points of the evening too - mainly seeing the usually cool Mike getting increasing irritated by the venue's sound guy passing him at least twice during every song to check the levels. Not something that one would usually find irritating but Mike had to move the neck of his bass in the middle of songs every time this guy traipsed past him.


I managed not to shed a tear during Jimmy and the Birds on Fire - one of my favourites as it's about losing a friend - despite crying every time I listen to it, including on my train journeys to and from work. As I spotted the set list, stuck with gaffer tape on the wall near Elliot, I saw a song called HAG which I was hoping Pete had written about me, aside from the unflattering title. Turns out it's actually short for Half As Good. This brought my second goosebump moment of the evening; HAG flowed in to Dust and they are both beautiful songs. So beautiful that I was mesmerised for the few minutes they were played. I almost forgot to breathe.


You see, I can't moan about the "Meh" days because days like the one I experienced wouldn't stand out so much. I'd take them for granted. This day gave me the ReadyBrek glow that not even a text from the aforementioned weird guy when I got home could dim. Please don't pity me. There have been more good, great and awesome days lately for which I am incredibly grateful. As the title of this post suggests, we must take the rough with the smooth. The title, for your reference, is from Pete's song How Could I Complain and he kindly gave me permission to use it. Actually, he's the only one I've ever asked for permission so he should feel privileged!


The only thing that could have made my night slightly better would have been a smile from Elliot. Despite following him on Twitter (and warning him about the time difference as you travel along the M4) and, most importantly, having made eye contact a few times, I was not permitted an Elliot grin. Perhaps he thinks I'm a silly girly groupie type. For your information, I'm not. I save my jockey slutting for Mark Ronson! But next time I see them I'm determined I'll get a smile out of him. I've had one from ultra-cool Mike and several from Pete, Elliot's is the only one I'm missing from the collectors' series.


Oh, the other reason I was thrilled at the gig was although they'd played at Glasto and several other festivals since I'd last seen them, there was still present the humility that captivated me the first time. No airs and graces, just three lads who'd had an adventure together over, what sounds like from Pete's tweets and blog, and epic and amazing summer for them - they even seemed to enjoy their infamously unreliable van being robbed and running out of fuel at inopportune moments.


Pete's new EP, All That We Keep, is out now. I've heard the songs. Two words - buy it. And if you're in London tomorrow night - Wednesday 25th August - he's playing in Soho. Please go. you'll have an amazing time listening to amazing music. I won't be able to go to my happy place tomorrow as I can't make the gig due to funds being tight for various reasons this month. And I haven't bought the EP just yet for the same reason. I'm not being a hypocrite deliberately, honestly. Just because I'm not going doesn't mean you shouldn't. They're probably sick of the sight of me by now anyway!



Remember the name, people - Pete Lawrie. This time next year he'll be huge. x

Don’t Depend On A Guy To Validate Me/I Wish I Was A Little Bit Taller…

“You’re the two Ss really, aren’t you? We should call you S’n’S”. S and S? I’d heard of R and R but this was a new one on me. “You know, short and single!” Oh right, charming. Once again I was reminded of the two aspects about my life that seem to bother other people more than they do me. I won’t reveal who said that as he was horrified when I informed him that had those comments been aimed at someone who was deeply affected by those “afflictions” it could be deemed offensive.

So let’s deal with the two Ss shall we? The two factors of my life that other people have an issue with. I’m the good, little Hindu girl, I’m twenty-nine years old and I’m single. There, I said it. Sorry to those of you who winced at the word. And the idea. As I’ve said many times before, being sans partner doesn’t trouble me in the slightest. That’s not to say I dislike being in a relationship, I do like it, but people’s reactions to my singleness is bizarre!

At a work gathering recently, I was sat with two female colleagues who were talking about how their relationships with their partners were about compromise and sacrifice. “But that’s all relationships, surely?” I piped up, “Whether they be with family, friends or partners we find ourselves in give and take situations with those we care for.” I was given the look that all attached people give; the “pipe down dear, this doesn’t involve you singletons” look. I’m sure you’ve all been privy to it at some point, perhaps having even shot the look at a single person yourselves. The look doesn’t bother me any more than being single does as the way I see it is that I’d rather be involved with the right person, whenever they come along, than the wrong one. We all feel like that I believe, it’s not only singles’ desire.

I was made aware of my singledom at a friend’s barbeque a few weeks ago. Not that being made aware of it affected me negatively at all. I arrived at the barbeque with a single male friend and aside from him and the host I knew nobody. All attendees were incredibly friendly and chatty and all topics of conversation were covered. You know, the normal getting to know you having met you two hours ago type of stuff. An hour or so after the food had been consumed it was time to kick back on one of the million picnic rugs laid out on the sizeable lawn. That’s when it hit me; most of the others were part of a couple! The reason it hit me then is because at this point of any gathering couples gravitate to their partners. Only for about ten minutes of affection but it does happen. They had all snuggled up for a squeeze of the hand, a kiss and a cuddle or to rest their heads upon their partners’ laps as they grabbed a quick snooze. This behaviour doesn’t bother me. I can deal with couples’ public displays of affection up until the point they start sucking face and getting too touchy-feely. There’s no need for those kinds of actions in polite company. Anything that might make an outsider to the relationship feel uncomfortable needs not happen. Anyway, so whilst the couples shared their moment of affection (and I sat their alone - single male friend had found another single man to discuss football with, oblivious to the couple-magnet happenings) I played with my iPhone and updated myself on the goings on in my trusted Twitterworld. And then the female half of one couple asked why I wasn’t sat with my boyfriend. What boyfriend? Aah, the assumption that because I’d arrived with a guy, we must be stepping out. You see? It seems to bother other people more than it does me! That’s how I was made aware of it. I wasn’t offended by it as I’m easy either way. I understand our whole purpose on Earth is to procreate and the emotional side of that means that we seek companionship. But I’m comfortable waiting for companionship to find me rather than seeking it out; is that cool with everyone else?

The thing I know for definite bothers everyone more than it bothers me is my height. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination, not even a seven year old’s, could I ever be considered tall. The aforementioned seven year old is taller than me. But I’m fine with that. I stand at four feet and eleven inches. A fact that doesn’t escape anyone I meet and that most feel the need to comment on at some point. No, I’m not considered a midget and don’t have a disabled parking badge for my car. It may surprise you that I raise these points but they are questions I have been asked in the past so I thought I’d clear up any confusion before it arises. I’m the product of parents who are five feet three-quarters of an inch and five feet eight inches tall. I was never destined to be a giant and that’s ok with me. I grew up being reassured that “small is beautiful”. I’m not quite sure who they were reassuring as I certainly didn’t need it – I don’t mean that I was sure about being beautiful but rather small.

I admit that being short (or horizontally challenged or whatever the politically correct term is these days) does have some disadvantages. The first is that some people taller than me think it an affectionate gesture to pat me on the head. I am not a child or a dog, despite my appearance. It is not therefore affectionate and acceptable, it’s ruddy patronising! Please don’t do it, even to be funny. Imagine if someone that could reach did it to you – it’d get annoying, right? Not because of the height thing but because everybody knows you don’t touch the hair. It’s almost as irritating as a friend of a friend greeting me with the same line every time we meet. It’s not a “hello, how are you?” as that would be most pleasant. No, it’s a “God, you’ve shrunk!” Funny the first few times, granted but after the millionth it becomes tedious. To me that “joke” is what the Crazy Frog song is to others; fucking irritating.

A lot of females resent me at some point of knowing me, even if only briefly, for being my height. I often hear the line, “You’re such a bitch, can’t you go for a short guy so us taller girls don’t get stuck with the midgets?!” I don’t set out to snare men that stand at five foot ten inches or taller, it just kind of happens. Actually, none of my boyfriends have been shorter than that. Well, there was one but he refused to acknowledge we were together - one of those “we’re just friends” types. I didn’t do with my other male friends what I did with him. I still don’t - so he doesn’t really count anyway.

I get overlooked. Literally. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been in a bar and two people, whether I’m there with them or not, have conducted a conversation over my head. It’s just plain rude! That has nothing to do with me having issues about my height, more people’s inconsiderate nature.

The most disadvantages were discovered when travelling on public transport. I have an hour long commute to work during which I experience the delights of South West Trains and the London Underground. I get on the same train every morning; the 7.39 from a sleepy West London station to Waterloo. Luckily the suited masses get on at Putney which is a few stops after mine so there are seats available for my thirty-seven minute journey – all good. What isn’t in the slightest bit good is that I am just the right height for a Putneyite to rest his/her book on my head. My noggin seems to be the ideal distance for someone standing next to me to use as a lectern. If I’m really lucky they’ll be reading The Metro – you know, that free paper that has the same news in it as the previous night’s Evening Standard – so the corner of it flaps down in front of my eye and hinders my vision. I know that the book/paper resters wouldn’t be able to do this to someone taller as their reading material would be too close to their faces so they save it for the short folk – privileged, we are!

The other peril of commuting on the tube is the most dangerous of them all; armpits. I don’t have to tell you how this body part perspires and can be smelly. At my height on a packed carriage my face is often subjected to several armpits at close proximity. More often than not, on the journey home, after these armpits have been in suits and kept warm all day, they don’t smell as fresh as they did in the morning. I’ve become expert now at holding my breath, only inhaling when we stop at a station and everyone shuffles about a bit, sparing my visage of Eau d’Aisselle for a few seconds. Talking of breath, my diminutive stature often means that when people exhale or sigh on public transport, as often happens out of frustration at delays, I get breath on me. Yes, it’s as gross as it sounds. Imagine a stranger’s morning stale cigarette and coffee breath on you. Time and time again. And in the lifts at Goodge Street station people shove right up behind me, pushing me in to the person in ahead. I think they figure because the area in front of their face is clear as they’re a good few inches taller, their personal space isn’t being invaded. Mine is (sometimes with an appendage in between my shoulders). And I can feel their breath on my hair and down the back of my neck; the very same stale coffee and cigarette breath from the tube. Tis a delight, I tell you.

However these disadvantages are far outweighed by the pluses. Firstly, protesting innocence is hardly ever necessary. It’s effortless to avoid blame. “She couldn’t have done it, look how little she is!” Ok, this attitude can also be very patronising but it keeps me out of trouble. The cute factor also plays in my favour when in public as everybody wants to help, in supermarkets especially. There was this one time when I was trying to reach a cereal carton on the top shelf but it was a fruitless tasks as even stretched on my tiptoes I was merely stroking the front of the box. As a tall(er) guy walked down the aisle towards me he saw the struggle and came to my aid. We chuckled at the height difference and he then walked around the supermarket with me for about ten minutes, even getting things for me that I could reach. So chivalrous. His wife wasn’t happy when she finally caught up with him but that’s not the point.

Being short endears me to people. I pose no threat as the worst I can do to anyone is jump up and bite their ankles. As I’m very tactile, people don’t feel I’m invading their space when I do stroke their arm or go in for a hug. It’s impossible for me to loom over someone. I guess people figure that as long as they have a clear area in front of their faces and they’re not inhaling my armpit scent, they’re safe.

I don’t know if being little has made me louder and a bigger personality than I would have been if I was taller. Perhaps I subconsciously compensate for lacking inches by raising decibels when laughing or cracking jokes and surrounded by friends? I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is playing the damsel in distress comes naturally because of my height, or rather the lack of it. In fact, I need someone to get a mug down from the top shelf in the kitchen cupboards at work, so now to flutter the lashes and work my petite charm. Who’ll oblige? The usual suspects? x