FRIENDS FOR LIFE? 5 WAYS TO KEEP IN TOUCH

They say that after seven years, the chances of a friendship lasting a lifetime improve dramatically.  This is excellent news.  As someone who returned home after university, its not the childhood relationships I worry about, but more the incredible connections I made during my three blissful years away.  Having graduated in 2009, by my calculations I have four particularly wonderful long distance friendships entering their eighth year and the ease of which these have been nurtured makes me extremely optimistic about their longevity.

One of these lovely ladies embarked on a six month world exploration with me, across four continents and after spending almost every second together and not arguing once (which we understand is pretty miraculous) the volume of private jokes in our repertoire basically amounts to our own language.  We saw some incredible places, but the adventure taught me that you can visit as many cities, glaciers and temples as you like, but it is the small, silly moments on the way which stick in your mind.  Her favourite memory of me is when I crashed head first through an open train door in Bangkok, right at the feet of a startled conductor, thrusting my ticket at him and saying, ‘We had better not be travelling in that carriage with the goats!’  Similarly, when I think about University, graduation ceremonies and lectures are blurry when compared to their everyday counterparts, like the time four of us spent Valentine’s day bitching about our boyfriends and watching chick flicks, or stumbling down cobbled streets coated with ice in four-inch stilettos.  

Remembering birthdays and anniversaries are all well and good, but it seems to be the supposedly insignificant moments which are the most significant.  With that in mind, I have compiled 5 ways to make sure you keep in touch:

1)  Social media is the obvious one.  Snapchat is ideal for sending your long distance bestie a cup of tea, even if they have to get up and actually make one.  At least you know you’re both thinking about each other while you drink it.

2)  ‘The Prosecco Fund.’  I figure if I was in the same city as my friend when she received good news, the first thing I would do would be pop over with a bottle of fizz to celebrate, so I started The Prosecco Fund.  By transferring a fiver (or tenner if your friend has particularly refined tastes) into their bank account, they can buy themselves a bottle guilt free next time they’re in Tesco.

3)  Set a decent amount of catch up time aside.  Phone calls should not only be centred around a ‘main events’ conversation, but should allow time to slip into casual silliness where you say everything you need to without actually talking about much.

4)  Catalogue reminders.  If you see an image or hear a song which reminds you of someone, record it and send it to them.  It takes two minutes to cause a smile hundreds of miles away.

5)  And finally, effort.  Making the effort, no matter how big or small, will always be worth it.  

THE THING ABOUT LOVE NUGGETS

Earlier today I heard a radio presenter talking about a new phenomenon, or rather a newly coined phrase for an old phenomenon: The Love Nugget.  When we think about the epic relationships in stories, we think of grand gestures like magic carpet rides and Romeo clambering up to Juliet’s balcony (or at least Richard Gere climbing the fire exit to reach Julia.)  However, what happens after the pumpkin carriage has wheeled off into the sunset with the newly-weds?  Enter the Love Nugget…

Last Saturday I went to the beautiful wedding of two close friends and so am feeling particularly pro-relationship.  In 2012, the divorce rate in England and Wales was said to be 42%.  We can do better than this, people!  Now don’t get me wrong, I am all for the extra special treat upon occasion, but there are only so many birthdays and anniversaries in a year.  It is also an unfortunate by-product of today’s society that one too many bouquets of flowers from my other half would just as likely inspire suspicion as gratitude.  However, believe it or not, the theory goes that a few small tokens of affection here and there are just as important as weekends in Paris or shiny shiny jewellery.  So here are my particular Top Ten Love nuggets:

1) A cup of tea in bed (or coffee, whatever floats your boat.)

2) An offer to hold the remote, even if his favourite football team are playing that evening.

3) 3am taxi service for myself and my girl friends.

4) Drawing me a bubble bath, (maybe even with some candles… but baby steps.)

5) Doing the dishes without expecting a medal, even if he cooked.

6) Alone time.  Give one a chance to miss the other.

7) The last rolo.  Or maltesar.  Or anything with chocolate in/on…

8) Pretending a really obvious pimple in the middle of your face doesn’t exist.

9) This is a weird one: Putting tomatoes in anything he cooks.  (He really hates tomatoes; I love them.)

10) Maintaining the basic rules of chivalry: holding shopping bags and doors open are easy to remember for the first six months when everyone is on their best behaviour, but he should start as he means to go on.

Now here comes the catch: the whole beauty of these precious little rays of relationship sunshine is that they are supposed to be spontaneous.  So nagging/bribing your partner into bringing you a cuppa in bed kind of defeats the object, so maybe if you just ‘accidentally’ leave this page open on your laptop...

THE THING ABOUT SUNBATHING

So here’s the thing… I have no idea why I do it!  I like to think of myself as a rational human being (most of the time,) and yet every year, without fail, you will find me frantically soaking up the pitiful British rays at every opportunity and booking my Easyjet flights to warmer climes.  My own behaviour baffles me, for a number of reasons:

I am fair haired and fair skinned.  Although I am thankful that I did not quite inherit my father’s susceptibility to a hew which can best be described as angry lobster, and my brother’s prolific freckles seem to have skipped both myself and my sister, I have not yet managed to get through a summer without singeing at least one area of my body.  In other words, for about a week out of fifty-two, my skin hates me.  I think we can all agree that there is nothing attractive about crimson patches peeking out under your carefully styled summer wardrobe.  How have I not learnt from past experience???  For girls like me, factor 10 is like a slap to an already sun-stung face and yet a bottle still always finds its way into my suitcase.  

It can’t be for the health benefits, because other than some vague mumbles about vitamin D there aren’t any.  And anyway, I never heard of skin cancer standing its ground against a heroic  onslaught of vitamins.  What’s more I doubt anyone in the history of the world who has undergone chemotherapy cares much if they do it with a golden tan.  There is also the whole ageing thing.  Why would I spend considerable sums of money on a complex skincare routine with all sorts of potions to keep me wrinkle-less and then go and subject my poor body to what is essentially a superficial time machine set to ten years in the future?  It makes no sense!

Now, given enough time and the right conditions it is possible for my pasty complexion to bronze into a deep brown.  This happened once and it required 4 weeks in Vietnam with some pretty intense beach time (and a best friend who sneakily spritzed me with factor 50 whenever she felt my skin was giving off an unhealthy glow.)  My tan lasted for weeks after I returned to the gloomy UK and it was no coincidence that my clothes suddenly looked nicer and I barely wore any make up.  But is it worth it?  Monetary expense of having months abroad notwithstanding, the greater cost will surely creep up on me in a few decades?  We all know those ladies of a certain age who have beautiful outfits and shiny soft-top cars… and skin that resembles a prune made of leather.  Is it a modern sign of affluence perhaps?  Less than 200 years ago, our own society dictated that men and women should remain pale in order to announce to their inferiors that they need not labour under the sun in fields.  Even today, women in South East Asia spend their days trussed up in jackets, hats, gloves and long trousers and bleach their skin for fashion.  I have an Australian friend who’s favourite saying is ‘there’s nothing cool about tanning.’  One in three Aussies will contract skin cancer in their lives so this is an understandable adage.  

If you are someone who doesn’t feel the need to worry about the health issues, would it not be simpler to save money on flights and accommodation and lie on an electric sunbed rather than a bed in the sun?  Or, if it is just the colour you want, there are hundreds of creams, mousses and sprays which will simulate it for you in the comfort of your own home?  Feeling lazy?  There are even professional establishments where you can step in a room and come out fifteen minutes later with a fortnight’s worth of tan.

Ok, so so far sunbathing is going to cause unsightly patches, pain, aging and ultimately death.  A normal person would be, if not rushing to hide in the dark cupboard under the stairs, at least grabbing sunblock and a ridiculous hat (you know the ones that show up on satellites?)  So then why am I writing this sat in my garden enjoying the cloudless 26 degree day?  

...Nope, I’ve got nothing.

The thing about where I live... I love it

THE THING ABOUT ONLINE SHOPPING

So here’s the thing… in theory, I am a firm believer that online shopping is single handedly destroying our country as we know it.  Ok, perhaps not single-handedly.  Inept politicians and football culture are probable contributors, but still.  With the possible exception of Oxford Street (where I made the mistake of heading a week before Christmas… I haven’t been the same since,) high-streets throughout the country are littered with closed shops.  The general message from the news seems to be along the lines of small businesses do not stand a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding.  My rather furtive imagination immediately flashes to an idyllic country market town, complete with cricket game on the village green, being rudely disturbed by a bulldozer with ‘.com’ emblazoned on the side.   Less than ideal.

I work in retail and have a particularly vested interest in the ongoing success of the business.  Over the years, I have come to inadvertently categorize my customers, possibly a subconscious method of using the best approach to encourage them to put lots of lovely money in the tills.  One of the most dastardly, low level categories belong to the vermin who have taken it upon themselves to make our beloved nation into a haggling community.  It is not.  From source to shelf, each product has undergone an intricate process of price in relation to cost.  There is a reason why there is a little tag on each item: that is the price.  Just because some obscure website has a table at 50p does not mean you have a legitimate claim to £300 discount.  

Of course there are lots of other slightly more superficial downsides to online shopping.  As a retail aficionado (self-proclaimed) I have done a lot of research into this topic, mainly in the form of shopping trips.  You may have seen me, I am that girl who has to touch every item of clothing and clogs up the changing room system by taking dozens of items in ambitious sizes and then monopolizing the attendant by needing each piece in a, cough cough, size up.  Is there anything better than the anticipation of adding a gorgeous dress to your beloved wardrobe family, (apart from maybe world peace)?  Physical shopping also has the advantage of removing that pesky delay period while you await delivery.  Where the prospect of new clothes is concerned, even next day delivery seems interminable.  There is also that depressing moment when the top you have been waiting for is too tight or too bright or too… something.  Somehow the built up anticipation makes the disappointment all the worse.  If this happens in a changing room you can simply throw the offending item off and replace it with another likely prospect.   It never even happened!  

Even I am shocked by the strength of my argument.  You would be forgiven for assuming that I have never put my debit card details into one of these villainous websites.  But no, I am surprised the appropriate numbers on my laptop are not worn out and steaming from overuse.  You guessed it: I am a big fat hypocrite.  I love online shopping!  The .com bulldozer?  I might as well be driving it.  I am on a first name basis with my local Hermes, DPD and Royal Mail delivery drivers.  They are like modern day Santa Claus’, bringing gifts to all the boys and girls bored out of their minds at work.  I overcome the devastation of an unsuccessful haul with the knowledge that I have another glorious parcel on its way to me in a day or so from another store and there is none of the horrendous overhead lighting involved which shops bafflingly insist on using in their fitting rooms.  

Even with such a perpetual moral battle being waged in my head I still have no trouble sleeping at night, for the same reason I keep my kindle on a fully stocked bookshelf, I do both!

THE THING ABOUT HAPPILY EVER AFTER

So here’s the thing: I feel like it is high time somebody kicked out the elephant in the fairy-tale room.  As children, every one of our inspirational, disneyfied stories all tell us exactly how to land our man, but not one of them feels the need to expound on the nitty gritty details of our happy endings.  And so, I am here to point out certain details which good old Walt forgot to mention…

Picture this: your handsome prince (cute single guy) has swept in (bumped into you at the bar) slayed the dragon (bought you a double vodka) and valiantly taken you away on his magnificent steed (opened the door of his mini cooper so you could hop in.)  But that is not all.  You go back to your place and talk all night (yes, talk!) and all is looking rosy when he calls you the very next day for a repeat performance.  This, I believe, is what most modern girls would see as a dating success story.  Sure there might not be any misty moors or enchanted castles, but even us Disney fanatics have learned to keep it real out of necessity.

But wait! There’s more...  You’ve met his parents (delightful,) he’s met yours (went swimmingly,) and he is now your brother-in-law’s go to guy, helps your sister with the washing up every Sunday, avidly debates with your father over the football scores which no-one else cares about and, what’s more, treats you like, yes you guessed it, a princess. This is the best case scenario.  And so my grievance is not with the false advertising of our handsome prince, but more the fact that happily ever after is not quite as plain sailing as implied by the fairy godmothers and talking woodland creatures.

For example, every lady loves to be treated.  It is our right as the heroines of our own stories.  The handsome prince knows this and thus date night is born.  However, after three years of our happily ever after, all the restaurants in the local area have been tried to death, our bank accounts are drained by what is effectively that week’s petrol money (after all, every self respecting princess of the 21st century offers to split the bill in honour of her suffragette sisters of old) and most significantly, all the rich food and yummy desserts have left us with a stone of excess chub around the waistline.  

This leads me on to my next issue.  Why are we no longer quite as attractive as we were pre-H-E-A?  Our Prince Charming, as dedicated to the cause as always, never slips up in telling us how beautiful we are and while he was out fighting dragons, we were in the tower fighting our own battles with hair straighteners, mascara wands and the evil wax strip.  Three years later it occurs to us that we are adored just as much in pyjamas and bare-faces as we were in our best LBD and Kurt Geiger combo.  Before we know it, Slouchy Sundays become slouchy any-day-of-the-week.  Now I don’t know about you, but this sounds more like a tired fifty year old who has been laid waste by the birth of three children, decades of school runs, vicarious pregnancy scares, mortgages... (cue empathetic stress shudder.)  All of a sudden the evil witch of our original story doesn’t look quite so run down….

And so, what is to be done?  Because at the end of it all, external sympathy for our princesses will be in short supply.  The world is rife with, not only real problems (war, famine, global warming etc,) but also is populated by millions of couples with genuine marital deficiencies and singletons.  Therefore, my ponderings are aimed at those who have already experienced their happy ever afters and who are merely re-jigging their perception of bliss.  Here is what I propose: let’s not take it out on the prince.  All men are flawed.  The Beast was, well a beast, Derek was too short, Aladdin was a kleptomaniac, Prince Charming was actually christened ‘Charming,’ and in real life Simba would have been sleeping with all of Nala’s friends, sisters, cousins… you get the idea.  But they do their best and therefore we should adapt.  Next time order a soup and salad combo at the restaurant, it’ll be cheaper and the calories will be negligible.  Then take the leftover funds and replenish the wardrobe and make-up stocks.  The evil wax strip has been discovered to have regenerative properties and so needs to be conquered again and again; the mascara wand truly does hold a vast amount of magic when used properly and a solid pair of GHD’s have repeatedly proven themselves to be the affordable version of a girl’s best friend.  

Of course all this advice goes out the window if Prince Charming turns out to be more like Prince Douchebag in which case consider all suggested accessories weapons against said Prince in order to steal his steed in order to, literally, get back on the horse.

THE THING ABOUT WRITING

So here’s the thing: I am a writer.  I know this.  My family knows this.  My friends all know this.  

When booking childhood holidays my sister would point to a picturesque villa in the brochure and say ‘...and look, siss, you can spend your siestas writing on that balcony,’ or when looking at perspective houses to move our family to my Dad would point to a bay window and say, ‘... and can’t you just see yourself writing your first novel on those cushions?’  I devour books for breakfast, lunch, dinner and the occasional midnight snack.  Books of all shapes, sizes, genres and ages.  And yes I might be more than just a little bit partial to a dashing hero but, let’s face it, what self-respecting girl would turn down Mr. Rochester, psycho wife notwithstanding?  

And so it was with this awareness of my innate literary leanings that I blissfully swanned through school and found myself ensconced in a prestigious university which managed to combine all the facilities of a modern educational institution with an intensely romantic medieval history, and all because I couldn’t keep my nose out of my Complete Works of Jane Austen when I was younger.  Three years later what better way to gather fodder for my imminent breakthrough works than to travel the world with my best friend?  My adventures brought me all I could ever wish for and thus I returned to the bosom of my family business and have been perched on the edge of a comfortable cloud of retail ever since, scudding across the beautiful lush green landscape of Wales, furnished with a framed Bachelor of Arts and a dozen bookshelves packed with novels, plays, criticism and poetry.

And yet I can’t help noticing that, other than my beloved collection of journals and essays, none of the words on the pages are actually mine.  How can I be a writer if I haven’t written anything?

And so, it is with much trepidation that I am, if not diving head first off my comfy cloud, then at least browsing ebay for some arm bands of ambition to give me a fighting chance against the tide of self-proclaimed critics out there.  As of yet, being a writer has merely been a state of mind, helping to define my personality type and give my brain something to ponder when it reluctantly gives me the ‘ok’ to put the book down, turn the light off and go to sleep already!

Of course the benefit of not ever writing anything means that I have yet to fail.  But it also means that I never did get to scribble a storyline on an Italian balcony overlooking a vineyard, or snuggle into a bay window and wait for inspiration to hit. And so here goes.  Even if this is the only combination of words which I ever show anyone, at least I can now say with certainty that the armbands fit and are waiting to be blown up: I am a writer.