Better To Just Be Real. Show Up, Do Your Job And Be A Nice Person

That Time We Discussed My Declining Years and The Disparity Between Your Early Twenties and Mid-Late Twenties

Oh yes, dear readers, it's another rant.

I've come home from work, quickly demolished two glasses of wine and of course a Blog Post has been born.

Strap yourselves in; it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Buckle up now.

As I am sure I have complained about before, and as we all know, I have studied Law at University and now for some unknown reason have completed the Legal Practice Course at Law School as well.

An example of the many, many hoops I have jumped through thus far on my journey to become a badass solicitor.

Not bitter.

Obviously.

(Although my bank account is still crying from the last round of financial assault the Solicitors Regulation Authority managed to get away with.)

ANYWAY.

The next step after a 4 year Law degree, 2 years at Law School and 6 years' work experience as a paralegal/legal assistant is a 2 year training contract completed on the job and a Professional Skills Course repeating much of what I have already undertaken at Law School.

Do you understand why I have a permanent eye twitch yet, dear readers?!

ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?!

The next step requires training contract applications.  Having waited several years for a training contract to plop itself down in my lap (not really sure why I thought that was a valid tactic), I have decided to take a more pro-active approach to the whole farcical situation.  Better late than never, or so I'm told.

The other night I sat down ready for application hell and discovered...well...exactly that actually.

I was half way through an application when I got to a set of three boxes that enraged me so much that I had to go and watch calming videos of people applying acrylic nail polish to calm myself down lest I fling my laptop across the room.

Oh hush, you big baby, I didn't go through with it!

The application enraged me so much that I have decided to write this Blog Post and correct the glaring errors in employers' ways.

For it is not just one application that is needlessly grueling; all applications seem to be designed to confound, irritate and otherwise perplex.

So, here are my attempts to help those misguided HR departments out there...

1. Questions to Avoid

"Why do you want to work for this firm?"

Stop, stop, stop asking me this.  The answer is, invariably; "Because you have a vacancy and I need money."

Which apparently employers don't like.  Even if it is the truth.

Case. Point.

But then why do I have to explain myself to this stranger in a dodgy pinstripe suit.  Tell me why YOU want ME, Big Partner Solicitor Person.

Apparently employers don't like that either.

The truth hurts, boo.

I know that you are supposed to say a load of buzz words that you have managed to pick out from the firm's website but, let's be honest, it's always a lie.

Is this the way we want to start this new glorious relationship, potential employer?

Oh, apparently it is because I can hear you muttering about how important the work/life balance is in this firm (normally exclusively reserved for Partners who need to spend the afternoon boozing with some clients), progression is available (after 5 years and we dangle that carrot in front of you for the whole time to make sure you work your little yoga bum off) and that our salaries are competitive (competitively shit for this over saturated market you mean).

Ah.  So lying it is then.

And they say lawyers are unscrupulous. 

2. Provide Results From All University Modules, Exams, Driving Test and All Smear Tests

I'm not saying that academic results aren't important; of course they are. Especially in a career in Law.  All I'm saying is, why do I need to provide every single result of every single exam since I was 15 years old?  I got 9 GCSEs, 4 A Levels, a University Degree and a Post-Graduate Diploma.

Do you realise how many exams that adds up to?!

I do: 53.

53 individual exam results I need to include on every single training contract application.

I mean...seriously?! Is anyone even looking at these at this point?

Apparently not.

Isn't it enough to say that I passed them? Can't I just give a vague outline instead of the actual percentage that I got in each module at Uni? (This is not an exaggeration - I have to type out the number for each exam.)

And haven't we got passed that ideal that only academics can make it in the Law world? What if I didn't excel at school but have a great work ethic, an understanding of how to handle clients without wanting to poke my eyes out with a stapler remover and the ability to click buttons in my case management system which generates all the necessary letters for me anyway...don't get me started on that last one.

I understand that employers need a bar by which to judge the multitude of applicants against but why does it need to be in this much detail? If I was a complete fraud and unable to string a coherent thought together I am pretty sure one of these institutions would have outed me by now.

No caption required.

3. My Life Is Empty and Has No Meaning

And, finally, the questions in the training contract application that lead to this Blog Post in the first place:

- List your hobbies/interests and membership of clubs
- List your involvement in the community and/or charity work
- Positions of responsibilities

I was looking at the above questions and pulled this face:-

And am just as cute. Obviously.

Hobbies and memberships of clubs? Err...next.

Involvement in the community/charity work. Umm...

Positions of responsibilities. ...my boss let's me put the clean tea towels out sometimes?

Looking at these questions blankly and scratching my head (which incidentally is turning grey because I'm old) it struck me how geared up these applications were for University students.  In fact, the only things I could include in most of these questions took me all the way back to my early twenties.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became.  These questions started making me question my life: why wasn't I a member of a club? Why didn't I do any charity work? What did I actually do in my spare time?!

My new Facebook profile pic.

And the more I pondered, the more I thought...why the hell should I have to explain myself to you, anonymous and mystical training contract giver?

I like my life.  My life is fulfilling and fun and full of light, laughter, love, family and friends.  If I want to spend the entire weekend in my pyjamas watching Big Bang Theory or bouncing around in muddy puddles with the Boyfriend and Nessie, in what way does that affect my ability to do a fantastic job 9-5, Monday to Friday?

It doesn't and that is what infuriated me so much.  Why should I spend my time filling these boxes with guff from years ago?  What employer wants to know I joined the snow sports team (but only for the socials) or that when I had loads of free time and wasn't desperately trying to pay off Law School loans (thanks again, SRA!) I had the time and inclination to raise money for charity.  I work damn hard in the week and if I want to devote my weekends to doing nothing that is my prerogative.

My thoughts exactly Mr Puss Cat

Why wasn't there a box for 'shit you do really well at work', 'list all the jobs you've had and the experience you gained i.e. leave a URL to your Linkedin here' and 'what is the nicest thing you've done for a colleague' or 'would any of your employers have you back or would they laugh in your face and tell you to take a long walk off a short pier?'

See? I fixed your stupid application, Head of HR.

It was at this point that I put the application away for fear of typing in caps lock 'WHO THE CARES?'

Won't some magical training contract guru think about us, the aging, work weary wretches of the world that didn't get off our arses at Uni and make all these application at the appropriate time?

Please?

Pretty, pussycat please?

In light of the above, maybe it has become clearer to some of the non-Law crowd as to why I have been preparing my lap for the training contact ploppage instead of actually filling out the applications.

Or maybe it just goes to show I'm too lazy to be a solicitor.

Eh.

Paralegal for lyfe, innit?

(I didn't say any of those GCSEs were in English.)

&&Fin.

I'd Rather Lose Than Win By Cheating

That Time I Ranted On About Click Bait Articles


How To Find Out If Your Girlfriend Is Cheating On You? #12 Is Perfect!


This little gem popped up on my Facebook feed recently, dear readers.

Now I know all about lazy journalism (have you read What The Buzz lately?) but these articles are everywhere and, despite hating them, I still click on them! We've all seen them - the click bait articles that lure you in only to shovel the same old nonsense down your throat and you wonder why you ever clicked on the title in the first place.

Such was the case this time.

Although this article, for reasons that I shall make perfectly clear shortly, angered me more than most.

We all know someone or have been in a relationship ourselves which has resulted in one or both parties straying at some point. It's a sad fact of life that I can say this with absolute confidence.

If your partner does the horizontal (or vertical, or reverse, or any which way for that matter) mambo with someone else and you’re not okay with it (open relationships and all that in this day and age); that’s cheating.

(If we’re going to get really lawyer-y about it all: cheating could be defined as your partner engaging in a form of physical or emotional intimacy with another person that the reasonable onlooker would deem to be inappropriate within the defined and implied boundaries of your relationship. But we're not here to decide what makes a cheater, just how to spot them. Call me the David Attenborough of the relationship world.)

Who doesn't David?

In any event, most of us can therefore relate to this article on a personal level and I know that people really do worry about their partners roaming.

So, instead of rolling my eyes and slinking off quietly, I am going to go through the points raised in this article one by one and provide some helpful commentary/criticism.

Because n’yeah.

Firstly, let's be clear:

Say it with me now...

Now, on to the article itself:




Oh. Good. Lord.

Okay. Let's just dive right in, dear readers.

If your partner (be they male, female or anything else on the sliding scale of gender) starts dressing nicely...maybe they just want to look nice.

Did you ever think of that Witty Feed?!

Maybe they have been down the gym to try and be healthier and are feeling great. Maybe they have an event coming up and bought a new outfit. Maybe they are trying a new style. Maybe they saw something on sale and thought 'what the hell!'. Maybe they are trying to get YOUR attention. (Maybe put the book down, Teen Wolf.)

Maybe you are just a little bit paranoid.

Moving on!



I should point out before any eagle eyed readers comment on it that I haven't got my numbers wrong. This is the second point on the article even if it has #3 written above it.

Lazy journalism indeed.

I can understand why it might be concerning if your partner starts refusing to spend time with your group of friends but there could be lots of reasons for this. Maybe they are trying to be respectful of your time with your friends so you don't feel like they are constantly attached to your hip. Maybe they see it as the perfect time to spend time with their group of friends too. Maybe they were very friendly at the start of your relationship but as it has progressed they have realised that they don't have a great deal in common with your friends.

Maybe one or more of your friends hasn't been very welcoming and now your partner feels a bit awkward. Or maybe one of your friends has been a little too welcoming and that's equally as awkward for your partner so they have chosen to remove themselves from the situation to save any further embarrassment.

There could be lots of reasons and it doesn't mean that your partner is trying to get in with any new friends - maybe they relish a bit of alone time!




Yeah, the numbers, I know.

I can understand that this is not a great indication of an epic love story in the making - if your partner does not get on with your family then that is Not A Good Sign.

But what if your Mother is overbearing and overly critical of your partner? What if your Father makes weird, sexist jokes that make your partner feel uncomfortable? What if your Brother just grunts at your partner when they walk in the house? What if your partner is allergic to the 13 cats your family insist on adopting?

There are lots of reasons for avoiding family members but to jump straight to the conclusion that your partner is cheating on you is such a stretch they might as well call you Mr Armstrong.

90s throwback FTW

Talking of lazy journalism...I'm going to skip some of these because a) I'm getting bored of talking about all the problems in this article and b) the really, really awful ones are further down the list.



Maybe you are just a bit needy, Teen Wolf. Did that ever cross your mind?



Eurgh.

So many things wrong with this particular example.

Because obviously if your partner has anything else to do other than go to work or tend to your every whim and in equal measures needy and paranoid ego, then they are definitely cheating on you.

/sarcasm. Just to be clear.



...in direct contrast to the above point, your movements and other engagements should be None Of Their Business.

Obviously.

Because your behaviour is above reproach and well of course you have other things on your schedule besides work and returning home immediately.

I think I'm going to have a brain aneurysm by the end of this Blog Post.







I cannot stress enough how much the above actions are Not The Done Thing especially in an Adult Relationship.

Just...just no.

If you feel the need to do any of these things with your partner just call it quits because a) you clearly don't trust them at all so what do you really have?, b) they deserve better than being under your constant surveillance and c) doing any and/or all of the above is creepy as all hell.

Maybe this should be a guide on how to get a restraining order rather than finding out about a cheating lover.




Finally! Some actual sound advi- hang on...(ignoring 'talk to her on the face' for a minute)

"make her answer straightforwardly and honestly by forcing it on her."

forcing it on her

forcing it on her

...

The last piece of advice from the article is that if you can't work things out that you should "leave her without giving it a second thought".

Or maybe she will leave you (now suddenly pregnant) Teen Wolf since you have been rifling through her bags, looking at her phone, following her around and demanding all of her attention 24/7 (apart from when she is at work though, obvs, you're not a mental case).

What you just described there isn't a cheating lover - that's a manipulative and abusive relationship.

Any of these ringing any bells, Teen Wolf?!

The thing that really got me about this article was the automatic assumption that your partner is Up To No Good. There is never a secondary explanation, there is never anyone else in the wrong, it is always your partner and you should be automatically suspicious of everything they do.

If your partner is buying new clothes, not coming straight home from work every day or if they don't seem to get on with your mates, they are not necessarily cheating.

Sure, if all of the above is occurring then maybe your relationship is fading out but it does NOT mean that there is a new mambo partner is the picture.

So, just calm down Witty Feed.




Or maybe she spotted you reading this Witty Feed article and realised that the strange man following her to her pilates class in the overcoat and hat was her despicable boyfriend and she's sick of it.

Maybe you are just a bit of a dick, Teen Wolf.

&&Fin.

Words Are Memes That Can Be Pronounced

That Time We Talked About The Latest Online Plague Trend

What The Buzz: #DontBeLike

First things first, I have to say thank you to all you lovely readers - we reached 2,500 views this week! Thank you, thank you to everyone who has read The Blog and hopefully cracked a smile at the various antics detailed within.

You all rock.

And this week we will be looking at the stick figures that took over Facey B.

'Be Like Bill'

...Or else.

This is Bill.

(Oh, God, now I'm doing it too.)

This is the meme that appeared and then spread like wildfire through facebook and twitter.  Whilst the meme was initially fairly harmless, it soon became a subject of ridicule (as every fad does eventually...does anyone remember how stupid the ice bucket challenge was?! Or makeup-less selfies? Yep...saving the planet there guys.  Good work.)

This meme did not stay popular for long. 

Err...that escalated really quickly.

This was a perfect example of how quickly a really simple idea can spread when embraced by enough people. And how, despite becoming a subject for mockery just as quickly, it was still EVERYWHERE.

How many of these memes have you seen in the past week? pic.twitter.com/IGTXIPsQR1

— What's Trending (@WhatsTrending) January 24, 2016

#prettymuch #stickfigureoverkill #belike #dontbelike pic.twitter.com/Bt2k9CPcEW

— catalina shoate (@shoatezoo) January 25, 2016

According to several credible news sites, the idea behind Be Like Bill was to call out annoying social media habits.

...yeah.

The irony is actually tangible.

Be Like Bill actually started in late 2015 but it has recently become a viral hit following the creation of several meme generators that allow people to put their own names/scenarios in the frame.  And of course generated the anti-Bill meme; Don't Be Like Bill. 

This will, undoubtedly, go the way of other social media fads but, for the meantime, the Interwebz has something new to hate/ridicule and that should satiate her for now.

I had to have a go myself (obviously) and the first few were so random that I realised people must be spending a significant amount of time re-generating their personal memes until they got one that was #relatable or at least somewhat appropriate.

If you want to have a go yourself the link is here.

And I totally won't judge you.

...until you post it on facebook.  And then you should really worry when I get around to doing my next friendship cull.

&&Fin.

If You're Going To Do Something Tonight That You'll Be Sorry For Tomorrow Morning, Sleep Late.

That Time We Discussed Corporate Responsibility (not as dull as it sounds. Maybe.)

A story that grabbed my attention this week: GourmetMurderKitchen.

This story involves Gourmet Burger Kitchen (affectionately shortened to GBK) and their latest advertising campaign and the subsequent backlash they faced.  Words aren't really going to do this justice so I'll post some examples:

I know what you are thinking, dear readers.

'Oh dear' indeed.

You will imagine the outrage, the uproar, and general middle-class fist shaking anger these adverts produced. (Which is totally justified, actually). People can take offence at pretty much anything on the Interwebz and I am normally the first one to offer a cup of tea, a pat on the knee and a reassuring 'now, now, calm down, dear, it's not as bad as all that'.

Except that, this time, it pretty much is as bad as all that. 

Possibly the worst Ad campaign of 2016 and we’re only in January. https://t.co/QNGqJyG7tl

— Jonathan Richard (@JonRichard) January 18, 2016

#gourmetmurderkitchen @gbkburgers Bravo to your marketing dept on an epic fail! Take a defining chapter of our generation and ridicule!! 😕

— Jason Bromley (@Dispeller79) January 17, 2016

I'll always remember the day I boycotted Gourmet Burger Company #gourmetmurderkitchen

— Mrs P (@missy_mcsquishy) January 17, 2016

Then of course come the photoshopped images (they really made this one too easy):

@gbkburgers cheers for making it even easier to ignore your food chain. Really bad advertising.#gourmetmurderkitchen pic.twitter.com/ZX1PwYD7fl

— Luna Unicorn Sminks (@this_sminks) January 18, 2016

Following the new adverts being plastered all over the place, including on the London Underground, people took to social media to rant and rave about the 'disgraceful' ad campaign. Vegans, vegetarians and meat eaters alike appear to have found the campaign in poor taste, not least because it has been revealed in the middle of Veganuary (I had to Google it too, don't worry). 

Really, GBK? Really?!

From a practical viewpoint, this campaign is even more baffling given that GBK caters for vegans and vegetarians so why they are trying to ostracize one sector of their client base I do not know. 

But, as if that wasn't enough to piss off most of the Internet, then came this:

Ah, the insincere corporate apology. The Law of Holes seems apt here. Rule #1: If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging. But, no. GBK really likes that shovel and damn it all to hell if they don't want to make that clear!

Not only do they not appear to understand where the offence could have possibly come from but they get all defensive about actually providing vegetarian options.

....slow clap. 

Do they not realise that providing meat free options is pretty much standard in nearly all restaurants nowadays? What kind of idiot opens a restaurant and doesn't provide anything for the 4 million vegetarians currently in the UK? I mean, even Nandos has vegetarian options and they aren't being dicks about it, are they?

See how I avoided a cheesy pun about 'cocks' there? You. Are. Welcome.

Seriously, GBK, I think you need to sort out your marketing department. 

Speaking of...#TeamSociallyM is totally (probably) up for the challenge.

Then again, this one might have really been the final nail in the coffin for your vegetarian and vegan clients and maybe a few meat eaters too. Still, they say any publicity is good publicity, right?

Yeah, I reckon the Handmade Burger Company probably agrees with that right about now.

&&Fin.

We Hear What We Want To Hear

That Time I Was Dissed By A Pre-Teen

It's that time of year, dear readers.

People wear hideous jumpers 'ironically', Starbucks' red cups litter the ground and the smell of donkey poop is in the air.

It must be Christmas.

I'm onto you, Donkey Face.

Don't be fooled by my flippant comments about Christmas, dear readers; I love it. 

From the music to the food to the drinks to the board games to the smell of cloves in EVERYTHING. 

I seriously love Christmas and can usually be found curled up in a corner making snowflakes or brightly coloured paper chains. 

Given my love of Christmas (and my family) it seemed only fitting that my sister and I join our dear mother at her school's Christmas fete. 

Nothing like this.  In case you were wondering.

Among the home made games stalls, tombola and bric-a-brac stalls there was a glorious tea, bacon sandwich and cake stand. 

It was here that we found refuge from the bitter winds and sat down for a cuppa. 

As my mother works at the school, lots of children would say hello or chat to her and, as a former small human myself, I have a fondness for the cute little snotballs. 

And so it was that I found myself talking to one such small human that we shall call Freddy.  Freddy was a friendly, if slightly shy, boy and so when I engaged him in conversation I was rather proud of myself as it seemed that he had opened up to me.

As the Christmas carols filtered across the playground and the welcoming scent of bacon hung in the cold December air, Freddy and I bonded.  

Until our conversation went as follows:-

Me: So Freddy, how old do you think I am? Because Mrs J is my Mum. 

Freddy: Err..I don't know. ...22?

Me: Well, that's very close Freddy! I'm actually 25 so that was a very good guess indeed. 

Freddy: ....I said 32.

Me: Oh. 

I'll just be over here...tears falling down my 32(!!) year old looking face.

So yeah...turns out I'm not all that fond of snotballs after all. 

Sorry Mum, add another few years onto the waiting list for grandchildren.

&&Fin.

A Thief Passes For A Gentleman When Stealing Has Made Him Rich

Day 2 - That Day I Cried My Eyes Out

Too shocked to type much.

Someone (some thieving, scumbag, waste of society) has stolen Hoj's seat cover.

This is just too depressing.

Excuse me while I eat lots of chocolate, get fat and mourn the loss of my flowery seat cover with my distraught bicycle.

&&Fin.

Cyberspace; A Consensual Hallucination Experienced Daily By Billions

Day 1 - That Time I Decided That A New Year Meant A New Day Count

It is 2011 - a new year and new opportunities are waiting. I went home for Christmas and it was wonderful to be back. It made me realise how much I had missed my friends and family. It also made me realise how much I want a good degree and how I need to seriously get my act together if I am going to deserve one. I'm back in the Netherlands now and, after getting through my 'first day' chores (which included food shopping, showering, tidying my room etc etc), I have managed to study my week 1 War and Peace lecture slides.

This is a good start for me.

I was also struck recently by the realisation that the majority of my generation really don't know how to treat/communicate with other people. I was only home for 10 days and yet this applied to at least 3 separate occasions where I was left quite speechless because of other people's behaviour. And, before I sound like an old woman that is just taking a pop at the youth of today, it's not just people in my age category either. My University has been absolutely terrible in terms of keeping its placement students updated with what is happening at home/about second placements. I also had a telephone interview recently to work with some barristers and, not only did they call me over an hour late, they spoke to me for about 10 minutes and mostly about the fact that the man's parents were stuck in Heathrow.

It wasn't a particularly impressive display of professionalism.

In this day and age, with mobile phones and facebook and instant messages, people seem to have forgotten actual, conversational courtesy. I recognise that I am ranting about our dependence on technology in an online blog but when I was at home I refused to go online for longer than a few minutes to check my personal emails and then I went back to my family.

And, actually? It was rather liberating not checking facebook every few minutes, not trawling through junk mail in my inbox, not making idle small talk with people I haven't physically spoken to in over 3 years.

If I didn't think it would make me a complete social outcast, I would delete my facebook right now and be happy about it.

(This rash decision would later be followed with floods of tears since most of my photos are saved on facebook and not backed up anywhere else. So I'm just as dependent on the internet as the best (worst?) of them. Irony; thy name is facebook.)

&&Fin

For Many, Immaturity Is An Ideal, Not A Defect

Day ?? - That Time I Posted A Bunch Of Random Stuff To Make Up For The Fact That My Life Is So Dull

So I haven't really done much in the last couple of days. I wrote up all my lecture notes but no one wants to hear about that. I have watched nearly the entire first season of Dexter (and also run out of all my food because I haven't been shopping but I'm sure the two are not linked). I had never watched it before, all I knew was the main character was a serial killer pseudo vigilante cop hidden beneath the guise of a forensic expert.

Now, I obviously like the show enough to have watched an entire series, however, I'm not completely in love with it and I wouldn't rave about it to my friends.

For one, Dexter's sister, Debbie, really gets my hackles up. Every episode she appears to be a whiny, oblivious tool. The actress is gorgeous and she does a great job portraying the sister who hates being emotionally distant from her brother but the writers make some of her lines so desperate and clingy. Like everything everybody does is a personal affront to her. No wonder her boss doesn't like her. Also, sometimes I get a really creepy non-sister/brother vibe coming from the two siblings. It's a bit incestuous and makes me feel uncomfortable.

What really makes me feel uncomfortable though is the interaction between Dexter and his long term girlfriend, Rita. She is a victim of domestic violence who suffered at the hands of her alcoholic, drug dependent (soon-to-be) ex-husband. The ex-husband is in jail for some of the series but gets released early which is a whole 'nother shed load of worms, my friend. But the thing that makes me so uncomfortable is when she's trying to become intimate or affectionate with Dexter. Dexter is not interested in the physical of the relationship because if he sleeps with her she will realise that he's 'empty' (this word is thrown around so much in the show I don't even know what it means anymore). But she's starting to get a bit more confidence and so she keepps throwing herself at him only for him to kind of push her away. And it's actually painful to watch. Here's an emotionally damaged woman throwing herself at someone who doesn't want to get physical with her and I just feel like it must make her feel even more insecure. I don't know. It's hard to explain but it is so awful to watch the two of them together. Rita is portrayed so well by the actress and I think that's what makes it so difficult to watch.

Another thing that really bugged me was one of the police men, Doakes, seemed to be in love with another man's wife then she died so now he seems to be chasing after Debbie. I know she's hot, but seriously? You move on that fast? And now he's all jealous about her psycho, prothetic junkie boyfriend.

One thing I do have to praise is the title sequence. My goodness, Digital Kitchen need to do every title sequence ever. The only reason I looked them up was because the opening scenes looked fairly similar to the titles in True Blood and, lo and behold, it's the same company. I think I would recommend the show just for them, honestly.

Despite all that, I still like the show because I like murder mysteries. It still doesn't topple the Mentalist or Sherlock Holmes but yeah, it's watchable.

As long as you don't mind a little fake blood every now and then. (/every other scene)

Now, onto more amusing things. I have a backless dress (yes, yes, it is sex on legs tyvm) so I need a backless bra otherwise the whole effect is ruined. Now, I, in a moment of haste and recklessness, forgot to pack the one I already owned when I moved to the Netherlands. So I had to buy a new one. For some unknown reason underwear and lingerie seems to be very expensive here or perhaps I am not shopping in the right places. Anyway, I found a substitute that would suffice until Mother could post my one to me.

In all fairness I think I bought it just so I could show you the pictures because it really doesn't do anything. At all. But I thought this might be vaguely amusing.

AHAHAA.

&&Fin.

A sarcastic person has a superiority complex that can be cured only by the honesty of humility

Day 12 (? I'm losing count) - That Time I Almost Burst Into Tears In A Club

Saturday 11th September today and, yes, I did have a look on some of the memorial websites for 9/11 to pay my respects. There's nothing funny about that and I know this blog is normally lighthearted but I feel it should be mentioned because to completely ignore it would be a huge insult to a lot of people.

But, I don't want to dwell because this is still meant to be lighthearted/uplifting.

Today I managed to actually do some studying. My first real go at it since about May. It was so bizarre; I had to find my own handwriting again. I've decided to go for straight but loopy so we'll see how that works out. I'll keep you all updated on any changes made since I know this effects your everyday lives in a great way.

It got to late afternoon and my friend and I decided to order a takeaway. We did not realise how insanely difficult this would be.

Firstly, we had failed to get a takeaway the day before because Groningen seems to just switch off at 10 and we were looking for numbers at 10.15. But, today, we couldn't find any menus online with an English translation. Now, I know I've been in the Netherlands for nearly two weeks but that doesn't mean I can speak Dutch and it certainly doesn't mean I can translate a Chinese menu from Dutch to English.

Bah.

We ended up phoning one of the takeaways and just asking what they had down the phone. I don't think the woman on the other end could quite believe it.

Anyway, when it arrived (delivery boy was the sweetest guy ever) we realised that it was massive portions and we'd ordered way too much for two people. But we sat and wolfed it down and it was actually really tasty. It tasty really fresh and had lots of vegetables in it.

Stamp of approval, me thinks.

We were going out that night so after the obligatory episode of The Office, we decided to go and get ready because I needed a shower.

In my corridor there is a shower that is literally less than ten steps from my door and there is one that goes past 15 rooms at the other end of a long corridor. Someone was in the shower in the closest one so I went to the one further away (also it has two showers so you can spend slightly longer in there and not feel guilty). When I had finished my glorious shower I dried myself off. My towel is brand new and I haven't washed it yet so the absorbancy wasn't great but it was okay. Now, normally I walk back to my room (very quickly) wrapped in my towel and dress there but, instead, I discovered (the hard way) that skinny jeans are really not the best type of clothing to try and squeeze back on when you're still damp from the shower and realise that your new, sopping wet towel will not cover your modesty from the communal bathroom to your room.

I also made the executive decision to use the bathroom closest to me from now on to avoid embarrassing mishaps such as running down the hallway barefoot and blushing.

It seems as though a week is not complete here without me revealing myself to my housemates.

Anyway, we got ready to go out and I poured myself into an LBD and went to meet my friend. We got the bus into town (again, another epic fail at the bus station but I won't go into it) and went to our favourite bar Kasteel to have a couple of drinks while we waited for our other friends from Canada to arrive.

I should have realised that the towel incident had been a warning to stay inside.

We ordered our drinks and the bar tender (lovely guy) spilt them all over us. And when I say that I don't mean 'oh no! a little bit of alcohol has got on my hands' I mean 'what the hell?! my shoes are too slippery to keep on my feet and my legs are actually dripping.

Lovely.

He gave us our drinks for free and a free shot though so I couldn't really complain. And he felt so awful about it the poor guy. But then it transpired that there was some weird guy taking pictures of my friend and I (I jokingly said they were probably zooming in on her cleavage but she didn't find it very funny so I promptly shut my mouth after that) so we drank up and left to go to Rumba.

In Rumba it was two cocktails for one so we ended up getting tequila sunrise. I forgot how nice they are. We had a dance (had some requests played) and then decided to move on somewhere else where the music might be a little more dance-y. So off we trotted to &Zo. It got really hot really quickly so we had some shots and then went outside to cool off where, it transpired, that one of the Candian girls was really quite drunk and wanted some food.

We wandered off to our favourite pizza guy and ordered some food which was really, really good. Unfortunately, the Canadian was still feeling very drunk so she decided to go home and her very kind friend decided to take her to make sure she got home safe considering she wasn't walking in a straight line.

I was slightly concerned that they were riding bikes back.

They assured me that they would be fine and, anyway, when in Holland, right?

My friend and I went on to meet some other girls in a club called Kokomo. We had a laugh and a dance and then, it all went pear shaped.

We went up to sit at the bar for a moment because my feet were killing me and it was nearing 3am. Also there was some quite nice eye candy working behind the bar so we ended up people (person) watching for a while. Until my friend had a drink bought for her from a guy at the other end of the bar. She went off to say thanks and I sat there like a gooseberry.

Then, about 5 minutes later, this guy started talking to her but she moved away to the other side of me in order to discourage him.

This did not have the desired effect.

Instead, he leant right over me in order to talk to her. He was in my space so much that I actually had to lean backwards to accomodate him. I thought he might just say one thing to her and then move. No. That was wishful thinking; he actually started a conversation with her.

Supremely irritated I slid from my chair and told my friend that I was going to go home. She came with me because, dude, hoes before bros, aight?

So here's a few lessons that guys need to learn:
1) When you're trying to chat up a girl it's best to not piss off the friend that she's with.
2) When a girl moves away from you that's generally the clue to drop it.
3) Yes, contrary to popular belief, the spare does have feelings.

We ended up going home with my hormones going crazy until we had leftover Chinese food and watched X-Factor auditions. Felt much better at the realisation that if I get fat maybe it will cushion the insult of being considered invisible.

Holland is giving me complexes like it's my birthday.

&&Fin.

The Room of Death

The Room of Death
The first thing I notice at my new job is that no one calls the place where I'll be working 'the archive room', it's not even referenced as 'upstairs'. It is, universally and without exception, 'The 4th Floor'.

I'm taken up in the lift and, almost instantly, I notice that buttons 1,2,3 and 5 are all worn down to the point that it is hard to make out the numbers. But button 4 is clean. It looks almost new, as clear as the day it was first installed. This, for unknown and irrational reasons, freaks me out. The second thing is that, upon arriving on The 4th Floor, it is completely deserted. And looks like it may have been for a good few years.

Already my imagination is throwing up images of murders and accidents at work. I’m trying to remember the episode of the Mentalist that this reminds me of and recall, with startling clarity, the face of the young temp that was killed on an abandoned floor in an old office.

This is not a good start.

Pushing all thoughts of homicide to the back of my mind, my first challenge comes in the form of a door. If this door were a cartoon character it would be the hulk; it’s huge. (And it does look slightly angry with me.) It’s one of the original doors of the building so the wood is about a foot thick and I think it might be sound proof. I actually have to completely throw my weight behind me to pull this door open and, when I can feel that my shoulder hasn’t popped out of the socket, I stare into the dingy corridor beyond. The door is so heavy that it starts closing so, not wishing to repeat the experience of dislocating my shoulder; I scurry through the rapidly closing gap.

I’m greeted by a darkened hallway. I can vaguely make out some shapes of machinery and pipes but the rest is shrouded in shadow. A few steps in and the motion sensors pick up on my movement and the lights flicker on.

I almost wish they’d remained off.

Two of the lights don’t work so I suppose that’s a small blessing. There are spills and leakages and loose hoses, even an abandoned ladder. The floor is sticky and there is nowhere that I can put my feet to avoid the black, crispy residue coating the ground. There are no windows on this floor. At all. I’ve got the feeling that I’m in an oversized coffin.

I carry on down the hallway, taking a sharp turn to the right into a cage like structure before continuing on down the corridor. I’m very aware that each step I take is a step further from people, help, safety.

A nasty little voice whispers in the back of my head that there’s no one around to hear me scream.

I push the thought from my mind and try to focus on something else but there is only the heat. It’s vicious; the kind of heat that’s sweltering and then laughs at you when it can see you sweating. It’s oppressive and stifling and it clogs my airways.

I understand, rather suddenly, that this must be what Hell feels like.

I carry on down the hallway past spills and hoses and rust and I notice that there are open man holes dotted along either side of the hall. They lead further into the darkness and I try not to look directly at any in case I see someone (something?) staring back. There are signs indicating that these are confined work spaces so I assume that’s where the long-forgotten chimney sweeps live.

I suddenly long for my little office back down on the 2nd floor.

As I’m walking, I notice that someone has painted tiny, yellow footprints on the floor. They lead from an open man hole and slowly fade down the corridor. Far from this being a whimsical joke, I begin to panic about what happened to the Smurf-sized Simpson. This is further exasperated when I come across what looks like a tiny shrivelled body. Turns out it’s a pair of discarded surgical gloves. But still, why are there surgical gloves down here? The nasty, little voice starts whispering again.

Finally, ignoring the suggestions of vile villains and creepy chimney sweeps lurking in holes, I reach my destination – the only door on the whole corridor.

It’s a very ordinary, red door. I think that, maybe, this might not be so bad after all. The door is the most modern thing I have seen in the past quarter of an hour. I unlock it and turn on the light.

I realise, instantly, that this isn’t an archive room at all; it’s a burial ground. This is where important files and folders come to die.

They are everywhere. Literally. They line the walls and floor in piles of neat boxes and in mountains of discarded bundles of paper. This isn’t a job for a clerical assistant; it’s a job for the bin men. There are filing cabinets and drawers and lockers and cardboard boxes stuffed full of all sorts of different documents. On my left there are huge books that I can barely lift dating all the way back to 1962. My brain seems to shut down at the very idea of organising this room.

Nevertheless, it’s what they are paying me to do, so organise I shall. Let it never be said that I don’t enjoy a challenge. Especially when it comes to organising files and folders.

**

5 hours later and I’ve had to have several breaks from The Room of Death because the heat makes me dizzy. Despite this, slowly but surely, I can see that I’m making some progress with a ‘keep’ pile and a ‘chuck’ pile. No one has been up on the floor all day and the silence is deafening. Every little noise makes me jump out of my skin and I’m sure my heart has never suffered such an extended cardio workout.

Suddenly, there’s a sound like the trampling of many feet and, instead of cowering behind a filing cabinet like my instincts are demanding, I go to investigate.

With hindsight I realise this may have been a massive error in judgement. Isn’t it always the nosy girl that gets bumped off first?

Poking my head out of the door I don’t see anything to cause alarm but the wave of heat that hits my face takes my breath away. Glancing further down the corridor I can see that, actually, alarm might be the best emotion to employ.

The corridor is flooding with water.

Clearly, the heat has addled my senses because, despite the fact that the water is steaming, I bend down and dip two fingers in.

My burnt fingers and I can now definitely confirm that the corridor is flooding with boiling hot water.

Worry mounts and then transforms into true panic when my brain makes the connection that this water is blocking my only known escape route. This prompts further exploration to find another exit because I refuse to die drowning in 3 inches of hot water. This entails me wandering around more of the deserted 4th Floor and, eventually, finding a way out into the fresh, cold air.

I venture back up to The 4th Floor after a cup of tea to find that most of the water has drained away. Therefore, I reason, this kind of occurrence is fairly regular and routine. Weeks later, I mention it to my supervisor who informs me that, in no uncertain terms, is the corridor meant to flood and I should have reported it.

Perhaps that’s what happened to Smurf-sized Simpson; he drowned?

A short while after this debacle I go up to The 4th Floor first thing in the morning, unlock the door and stop almost instantly upon entering the room.

Something has changed.

Someone has been into the room (which I, apparently, have the only key to) and moved something.

At first I’m concerned that I can tell within seconds of entering the room that something has happened. (Has it really become that much of a second home to me?) But, more than this, I need to know what’s missing. After a few minutes of digging around the mystery is solved.

It’s personnel files.

When I report this to my supervisor he really doesn’t seem too concerned. So I get back to work.

**

It’s a few days later and I’m getting into the swing of things when I pick up a folder that drips. This isn’t overly strange since quite a lot of the paper work on The 4th Floor has been water damaged at some point between now and the 1960s. But I still don’t want to get the water on me so I move to shift the folder onto my hip, the movement of which upends the folder and empties onto the floor what must be nearly 4 pints of something yellow, smelly and what I’m really hoping is just old beer.

Of course, my arms are now coated in this mysterious substance.

Delightful.

**

A few weeks later and I find I’m being moved to a new room. Turns out that there’s an archive room on the first floor that’s more organised but, when I first arrived, the lights weren’t working.

They’re telling me this after I’ve survived The Room of Death for weeks?

Cheers.

Still, I’m thinking this move is good; it means progress. And The 4th Floor is starting to look fairly crowded now after I’ve organised most of the files into boxes. I’m told the new room is somewhat more organised than The 4th Floor and, praise Mary, it’s got air conditioning. I’m not naive though, surely there must be something wrong with this place otherwise someone else would have sorted it out.

However, hope rears its ugly head and, upon first impressions, it doesn’t look too bad. Okay, one of the lights doesn’t work but the boxes are all stacked neatly on shelves and they are all labelled (mostly correctly) and the oldest file is 2004. This, I think, may not be too bad.

3 hours in and my eyes are drawn to a sign on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it before because I’d been so focused on the joy of a semi-organised room. Closer inspection reveals it to be an asbestos notice. Recoiling with horror I notice that these stickers are plastered all over the walls at metre intervals. Taking quick, shallow breaths I now understand that they’ve moved me from one Room of Death only to put me in another.

Room of Death: The Sequel, Part Deux whatever you want to call it.

That’s when my ears suddenly pick up on all these sounds that had previously gone unnoticed. There are bumps and creaks and groans and voices and dripping sounds and general activity from the adjacent corridor. It’s ghostly and unearthly and sets my teeth on edge whenever I hear a particularly loud bang. The knowledge that this room doesn’t lock kicks the nasty, little voice awake and it hisses that anyone could come in whilst I’m away and hide behind the many stacks of boxes.

And then jump out at me for a laugh.

I quickly come to the conclusion that The 4th Floor has nothing on this place and I long for it almost as much as I used to long for my office downstairs.

I suppose it’s true what they say; better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

&&Fin.