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

Don't Look Back In Anger/You Are Your Own Worst Enemy, You'll Never Win The Fight

(Warning! Rant rating: Extremely high)

Those that know me well are probably surprised that I haven't ranted sooner. Or perhaps they see every entry as a rant? Anyway, this is what I'm acknowledging is a rant. Brace yourselves.

I'm bored of being The One After The One That Fucked Him Over. It's like a Friends episode but less funny. I'm not the only girl who feels like this but I am the one who is going to vocalise just how unfair it is on us.

I seem to meet guys, lovely guys not dickheads, whose attitudes towards relationships have been jaded by their previous girlfriends. I come in to their lives just after the One that cheated on him/rinsed him of all his money/swore at his mother in front of the whole family and neighbours at his parents' ruby wedding anniversary celebration. And then it's me that pays for that One's shitty behaviour. The way in which I must pay for Her behaviour seems to be universal; he is non-committal (after a brief period of wooing). Now, this is fine. Well, it's not fine but what I mean to say is that I'm not going to force anyone to get over feeling wronged or hurt sooner than they are ready to. The "grieving" period is so important and I'm respectful of that, goodness knows it's taken me far longer than other people deem it healthy to get over some of my encounters. You can't put a time on feelings and nobody can question them. But Boys, once you're over it please don't assume that I'm going to behave or make you feel as She did. I'm not going to cheat on you/rinse you of your money/swear at your mother or any other family member and here's for why; I'm not Her.

I'm not being unsympathetic, please don't misunderstand me. I'm always understanding when I hear the "I'm not ready for anything serious yet" line. I'm not one to railroad any guy in to something he's not ready for as that wouldn't be a healthy relationship from the off. You don't have to be Columbo to work that one out. I always try to be as poised as possible, remaining composed and not revealing just how much I feel hurt/cross at his actions, not screaming, "You're pissing away the best thing for you right now!". (I don't mean I'm the best thing, I mean the "thing" we had.) And I know after only a few weeks, shouting that at him may sound a little (/a lot) demented but it's not as intense as it seems when written - if everything else is working at the time, if we can talk and laugh and get on wonderfully, it's a shame the things that are breaking it all is Her actions and his hesitation from feelings of past.

I don't go through my relationships thinking that the person I'm with at the time will do to me what the previous occupiers of that role did. If I did think like that then none of my relationships would ever work... Oh, wait, I'm single. Jesting aside, I learn something from all my relationships but the lesson learned is about myself not about the next guy I get involved with and how to punish him for how someone else made me feel and how he fucked me over. You see, If I did, I'd assume that every future partner would do, amongst other things, one of the following; have me as his "other woman" for years (without me knowing I'm his mistress), shag a prostitute in Amsterdam on his best mate's stag do and not tell me until almost a year later when we've broken up or lie to me at ever opportunity, even about his parents who I've met several times. And the worst yet; leave me feeling so rejected, disillusioned and so broken that even breathing hurts (I know this sounds melodramatic but you've all been dumped out of the blue after a long term relationship and are acquainted with that feeling, right?). I would have serious trust issues if I allowed the behaviour of my past boyfriends to influence my future relationships. That would be absurd, almost as absurd as their actions. I know you agree with me, Boys - for this reason you must realise you should let go and stop unintentionally making the next girl feel inadequate for something she has no control over; your insecurity.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I haven't shat on someone in the past (not literally. I'd charge for that request!) so I'm not perfect, not by an stretch of even the most vivid imagination. I hurt someone quite badly. I didn't do anything terrible - prostitutes in Amsterdam aren't my thing - I fell out of love and ended the relationship when he was still very much in love with me. No doubt I handled the break-up situation extremely badly but it was a long time ago and I learned from that too. I don't intend to hurt people, any person in my life, in any capacity. I do everything I can to avoid hurting other people, perhaps hurting myself in the process but at least I spare them the badness, eh? And no doubt the girl after me in the break-up I handled badly paid for my actions to some extent. Poor soul.

I vowed to myself (after The One That Very Deliberately Embarrassed Me Beyond Repair In Front Of Our Mutual Friends) that I would go in to everything with a clean slate. Nobody should have to go through emotional punishment for someone else's, or my, actions and reactions. So I throw myself in to every potential or new relationship and friendship with a renewed sense of optimism and enthusiasm. Everybody gets 100% of my trust and 100% of me. And I refuse to assume they will abuse either of those things. So please don't assume it of me. And don't assume it of yourselves, Boys. If you don't think that you'll want to hurt me in some way then you're forbidden to assume you're going to unless you know for certain you will. It's up to me where I place my trust and what I decide to get myself in to so don't stop it happening. You know what they say about assumption.

I'd be lying if I said this rant hasn't been prompted by some recent events but this isn't actually aimed at anybody in particular. Far from it. Having spoken to a friend this morning who finds herself in a similar situation to the one I'm in, I realise this is a common occurrence. We're both the One that because of the Boy's past experience with girls he's not willing to take the chance on, the One he's scared of hurting and being hurt by, the One whose company he really enjoys, can talk to about everything and feels a "connection" of sorts with but is unwilling to take the risk on. And all those factors are things we cannot control or have any sway over at all as they have nothing to do with us as people. Shit biscuits!

Boys, no actually, Boys and Girls, don't not do something because you're worried about what may be in six months or a year or next week even. You'll never do anything then except mosey through life. We've all been burned and some of us worse than others but that doesn't mean we can't go in to everything with open eyes, open minds and open hearts. (Oh shit, I'm sounding a bit "Lifestyle Coach" here!)

To quote a great lyricist again (the second of the title's is one of hers too), Cheryl Cole sang, "All you can do is make the best of it now, can't be afraid of the dark." Ok, I was being sarcastic when I said she was one of the greatest lyricists for she didn't actually write the song but it makes sense, doesn't it? Live for the now and don't worry about the future for it's coming whether you prepare for it or not.
Feel the fear and do it anyway - your life will be enriched for it, I promise.

Rant over. As you were... x

Bang, Bang! They Shot Me Down...

I'd postponed visiting Dad for long enough successfully but couldn't continue doing so as the day dedicated to him approached - Father's Day. If ever there's a day where self-imposed guilt for being a crap daughter is prevalent, it's that day. Every year. I called him a couple of days before to book in my visit - I'm aware that makes it sound like one of us is doing porridge, not sure which of us though. Once Dad realised it was me on the 'phone he turned in to a comedian. "Who? Oh, you! I'd forgotten your name seeing as you haven't been in touch for ages. What do you look like again?" Apparently, being the child in this relationship means I should call him, not the other way around. But we all knew that anyway.

On the Sunday I was feeling a little fragile of ego having been stood up the day before (that's a story for another time) and fragile of mind having got drunk on copious amounts of lychee martinis with friends the night before so I had to suck it up to the best of my ability and muster up more patience than usual. As I walked through the front door I was bombarded with lectures disguised as questions. "Where's your hair gone?" was the first. As you may be aware, Dad hates that I take care of my appearance and refuse to be a 'plain Jane'. I had my hair cut a couple of weeks ago - it's still long but instead of being half way down my back, it's now just below my shoulders. Dad had issues with the fact that I was wearing it down, that it has a style and that I flick it about like I've just stepped out of a salon. He'd also rather it was hip length with no style and always, always, worn in a plait. Thus not getting in the way when performing good, little Hindu girl duties such as cooking, cleaning and sitting demurely in a corner.

After the hair lecture came the usual ones but a different order to last time; make-up, nail varnish, not visiting enough, inappropriateness of the clothes I was wearing, loyalty to Mum and, of course, marriage. Ah, my old, faithful friend - the marriage sermon. I think it was on its way to pay me a visit anyway but was hurried along on its journey by my mentioning a friend was getting married that week and I was doing hers and her bridesmaids' make-up. This received two tuts; the first was because my friends are getting married and I'm not and the second was for me daring to continue with my exploration of the creativity of make-up artistry. Why can't my hobby be retraining to become a lawyer? Or finding a husband who is a lawyer? Or a doctor? Or a dentist? Or an accountant? You get the gist.

The second lecture on nail varnish came soon after the first. Dad moaned at me now about the shade of my nail apparel, rather than its presence. I hadn't chosen a subtle colour (it's summer, subtle shades are useless!) but a vibrant, pillar-box red. Or 'whore red', as I call it. "It'll get you unwanted male attention!" Erm, who said it's unwanted? I resisted the urge to say that though what very nearly did slip out of my mouth was, "If you think this is bad, Dad, you should see my underwear collection!" but I value every bone in my body being unbroken so I kept schtum.

The next two hours passed pretty quickly as I helped Brat-Child do her homework, got shouted at by Brat-Child for helping her do her homework and got told off by Dad for helping Brat-Child do her homework properly. I then, for one moment, managed to impress Dad with my chapatti making skills. It was only a fleeting praise-inciting incident, no need for concern as I was not in any danger of becoming Golden Child. And then I was home again, back in the sanctuary that is my boudoir.

Whilst at Dad's, I'd given him a card. On the front it read, "Happy Father's Day From A Fabulous Daughter" - the irony was wasted on him as what he acknowledged it with, "(Insert Brat-Child's name) made me a card, look". For years I made him cards, years, and he never appreciated my efforts, instead binning my handmade tokens of love and appreciation the very next day.

A week later, Dad drove past me around the corner from my house. As he tooted his horn I waved, as it was natural instinct to do so but it was only when I caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror I realised Dad was angry. It took me a couple of seconds to register why but then as I looked down I worked out why. Shit biscuits! It was a scorching day, absolutely boiling, and I was wearing a v-neck vest top with a sheer cardigan over it and a skirt with the hem-line a good few inches above my knees - Uh oh, legs and cleavage on show! I expected a lecture via the telephone all evening but the call never came.

The next day was Dad's birthday. I called him in the evening to play the dutiful daughter. Just as he was about to launch in to a sermon on how crap I was for leaving it so late in the day to call (he'd conveniently forgotten he'd left it even later to contact me on my birthday) and, no doubt, address yesterday's outfit-gate, I explained that I'd landed myself in hospital on a drip that morning having passed out a couple of times - a valid reason, I think. Obviously his paternal instinct kicked in and after assuring him I was fine and just needed a couple of days to rest, he had forgiven me for not calling sooner or popping round to visit. Instead he promised he'd visit me at home the next day (much to Mum's delight!).

The following day, whilst taking my umpteenth necessary nap, my mobile alerted me to an incoming call from Dad's house 'phone. It was his wife, enquiring after my health. She then asked if the previous day's events had been due to the early stages of pregnancy. It took all the energy I had (and it was in limited supply) to not tell her to fuck off. Of course, Dad was out of earshot when she asked that question, I'm his good, virginal, little Hindu girl, remember? I don't know why I was surprised she'd asked such a ridiculous question; this was the woman who, less than twelve hours after I was admitted in to hospital with a seeping appendix (that burst on the operating table) at the age of nineteen, told me and Mum it was due to alcoholism. Jeepers! See what I have to deal with?! Needless to say, Dad didn't visit me. Another broken promise to add to the collection. Perhaps next time I venture to his I'll lecture him on his lack of visitation skills. I've heard plenty in my time to be well-versed! x

Confidence Is A Preference For The Habitual Voyeur...

I was filling in a questionnaire of sorts a few weeks ago and one of the questions had me stumped - "If your friends described you in one word, what would it be?". I had no idea. So I asked them, well, those I knew would get back to me. I was pleasantly surprised by the responses I received, not that I anticipated anything horrendous but I didn't expect my ego to be massaged in the way it was. (Thank you, people!) My favourites were "honest" and "perceptive" (although smiley and glittering had me feeling the most fuzzy inside) as they are traits I am proud that people recognise in me. I was floating on my cloud of adoration when my phone beeped, alerting me to another text from a friend who had taken the time to indulge me. "Assertive" was his response. My ego was suddenly undergoing acupuncture. Ouch!

I don't think of assertiveness as a positive characteristic. It is too closely associated with aggression for my liking and I've never thought myself dogmatic. Or perhaps I've never wanted to acknowledge it. Luckily (for him) I met up with this ego-deflating friend that evening and expressed, perhaps with too much conviction, that I didn't like the word he'd chosen. Apparently it wasn't meant negatively at all. It was his definition of someone who knows what they want and does what they can to get it. In a considerate rather than ruthless way, I hope. Then I remembered how one of my 'A'-Level History teachers has signed my school leaver's book - "Assertiveness personified. How can you fail?" - and how thrilled I was he'd written such a thing. Eleven years ago I embraced my assertive nature, now I shudder in horror that a friend used it as the defining word for my personality.

This lead to a conversation that has had me thinking for the past few days. When I was younger, I was a more confident and, I hate to say it, conceited person. I think most of us probably were. Youth is a wonderful thing as we all think we know everything we'll ever need to know, thus possessing a confidence that is unrivalled in later life. A cockiness that is forgiven by those who are more mature in years as it's passed off as naivety and the notion that we'll "soon grow up". And grow up we do. That cockiness then turns in to one of two things.

The first of cockiness' evolutions is insecurity. This isn't to say those that grow into this trait are weak and feeble, more humble. A most attractive quality. I find it so endearing when someone doesn't quite realise the power they possess - to me it makes them more interesting. I'm not suggesting that people who fall in to this category don't have self-belief or a sense of self-worth; You can believe in everything you do and know you'll succeed in whatever you do but be aware you've got to work hard and put in lots of time and effort to make it happen. Hence appreciating the end result more and being grateful things have worked out exactly as you wanted them to.

I've never been the type of person who has had things fall in her lap (metaphorically speaking). I really wish I was, things would have been so much easier up until now. I've worked since I was sixteen (far longer than I care to remember!) and still don't have anything to show for it - by this I mean materialistic possessions that are of any real value - but I fully appreciate everything I have chosen to spend my hard earned cash on. Holidays, handbags, shoes and my fabulous brooch. I don't measure success by possessions though. To me, being someone of standing is not related to what car a person drives or how may bedrooms their dwelling has. I think being good to others and giving something back to the Universe is far more important - perhaps that has been brought about by being brought up a Hindu and karma playing an important (guilt-laden) part of my life.
The second apparent evolution of cockiness in youth baffles me - an inflated ego and self-confidence. I think it crucial that people know they hold value, as humans, but some people's idea of self-esteem is way off any scale that my brain can compute! They think themselves better than others but don't base this opinion of themselves on any sort of fact or anything that matters, just what they reckon.

I deal with one of these arrogant sods almost everyday. Someone who thinks, for no real reason, she is above everyone else she encounters. It drives me crazy! This person should well be over it by now as she's in her mid-twenties, and whilst she's good at her job she's managed to rub a good few people up the wrong way, pissing off the masses with her attitude. The really sad thing is, as she's totally oblivious to it all I doubt she'll ever discover humility and change.
I went to a gig on Monday night and came across both types, well, all three types of people. It was in a function room above a pub in Norf London and as my friend and I walked in to the room we were greeted by a very chatty, young(er than us) guy. Gone were my fears that I'd be out of place in an ocean (well, pond, the room was small.) full of people that were "too cool for skool". Those apprehensions soon returned when we got further in to the room. The audience seemed to be made up of a few people like my friend and me but mostly young, confident and older (than them), arrogant types. I was shot daggers as I walked up to the bar in my long floaty skirt and vest top by girls wearing Grecian dresses over skinny jeans. Oops, had I made an Islington fashion faux pas by not checking out what Alexa Chung was wearing that day and copying it to the nail varnish, not embracing the Trustafarian lifestyle? Anyway, so as we settled down in our seats, rum and ginger beers in hand, I noticed a group that was different to the others around us. They were chatting to each other, laughing and looking really relaxed in each others' company, one of them being the friendly guy who'd greeted us at the door. A few minutes later, four of this group, including our greeter, took to the stage - The first support act. As well as some brilliant music, I enjoyed the humility the act showed. It was a pleasant contrast to the two guys stood just by us who thought they were Brand and Lamb; skinny jean and white dap wearing mockney "lads". The female singer seemed almost uncomfortable on stage when she wasn't singing. It was beautiful.

Half an hour later, we were being entertained by the second support artist - a guy who had enjoyed relative success in a group before going solo. He showed a ridiculous amount of humility too, circulating amongst the audience after he'd played his set. We'll gloss over the fact that my friend offended him, just as he sat down with us to listen to me tell him how one of his songs had moved me to tears. Point being that even someone who had experienced a UK number one single in the charts managed to be less arrogant than some dude in a porkpie hat who I'd never heard of or seen before (but that doesn't mean he isn't successful, just a prick with it).

So, two hours after we'd arrived we were being entertained by the act we'd come to see. Entertained is too soft a word, mesmerised more fitting. The banter between the singer and the drummer was as captivating as the music, as was the bassist's natural, utter coolness. And despite having just returned from playing on Radio 1's Big Weekend Introducing Stage there was a sense of modesty that blew my mind. I think that's part of the appeal of this artist for me; he's going to be huge within a matter of months, I know it, but I think he'll always stay grounded and not let the success go to his head. At the end of the gig, just as I was leaving, I grabbed a quick chat with him, telling him how much I'd enjoyed myself and instead of just humouring the little, awkward and embarrassed non-Alexa type in front of him, he seemed genuinely pleased by the compliment. I reminded him that I'd tweeted at him a few days before and he'd replied. He then promised to be in touch the next day. And true to his word, he was, making the now not-so awkward (I was back in West London) non-Alexa type a very happy bunny. I went home and listened to his EP, being just as moved by the songs as I was the previous night. Those of you that know me well know I don't gush about music that much (because I don't know too much about it) so the fact that I'm going doolally over this dude says something (if you forget I just said I don't know much about music). Now, there's a part of me that just wants to keep this artist's music to myself for a little bit longer as the recent exposure means that he'll be a household name in no time but his music is so beautiful that I think everyone needs it in their lives, and to see his on stage relationship with his band. This awesome dude is Pete Lawrie (his drummer is Elliot and bassist is named Mike). Go and find his music now, if you don't you'll regret it in a matter of months. But remember this, it was me that pointed you in his direction. I know full well a few of my friends (you know who you are!) will approach me in a few weeks with the line, "Oh my, there's this dude whose music I've just discovered...". I discovered him (amongst us lot) and told you about him, you remember that!

Anyway, I digress, point is that these three talented acts (“talented” doesn't seem to do them justice, “gifted” seems more fitting), the very reason that we were all in that room on that night, had more humility than everyone else in the room put together. That's a bit wrong, no? Well, it's not wrong as humbleness is a most admirable quality but it was difficult for me to understand how people who have an excuse to be a little conceited (I said a little) were remarkably less so than a good few of the audience. A scary thought, eh? Perhaps their joint “insecurity” that night was they were exposing their souls to a room full of people, some of them strangers, making them vulnerable?
Anyway, I'm off to listen to Pete's "How Could I Complain?" whilst feeling bad for judging people and having a slice of humble pie in the process, remembering I've made no impact on the world unlike Monday night's performers. x