Thank You, Busta Groove (An Ode to my Fiat 1.2 Active)

For the first time in around 5 years, I have cleaned my car.  My dad is SO proud of me.

It was a joint effort, and I do have to give credit to my other half who maintained his spray gun calm in the face of “WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! SWITCH TO HOT WAX! HOT WAX!” Not only does it’s bashed body now gleam silver (who knew? For years we presumed it was grey) but Busta’s interior (yes, Busta. Full name Busta Groove) has been vacuumed AND fragranced (WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SWITCH TO SCENT MODE!)

Cleaning out Busta’s insides was gruesome ordeal. A thick slime of goop lined the compartment in the driver’s door, forming a sticky graveyard for 1p coins, hairgrips and polo wrappers. Items removed from the back seat foot wells included, inexplicably, some nappy bags (I don’t have a child) and enough dog hair to mop up an oil slick (I don’t have a dog).

Busta is now in his old age. My dad bought him at a tender 3 years old when I was 17. I’m now 25, and like his owner, he’s aged over the years. He’s got a coat hanger for an ariel (car wash), one working lock (yobs) and, like his owner, is developing a few puckered areas around the arse (lampposts, gateposts, transit vans).

The best thing about cleaning Busta, better than the look of utter surprise on Dad’s face when I came to visit, better than the £2.34 discovered in a teeny compartment by the handbrake that I didn’t know was there, was the stash of CDs unearthed from the glove compartment.

What. A. Find.

A baby blue CD holder with “Abby Ledger – Lomas” marker-penned on the front in scribbly, ‘arty’ 17-year-old-writing. They’re all in there: the milestone albums of my youth, the soundtrack to my early razzing-around-in-a-Punto years… The Ramones, Q’s Rock Classics, Athlete (ATHLETE! Do you remember them?!), The Thrills, The Libertines, Pavement, The Dandy Warhols, The Strokes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Muse… A treasure trove of compilation CDs with witty titles like ‘A Nifty Little Mix’ and ‘Dead Boss Tunes’. CDs of gushing love and woe made by ex-boyfriends.  Or made by me for ex boyfriends. CDs of hopeful flirtation by friends who my 25 year-old-self now realises were trying to tell me something. 

I have been working my way through this blue box of joy on the way to work.

Each CD has transported me back to a different era of ‘teenage me’: Matthew Goodband forced a lump into my throat and stirred on old, familiar hardness in the pit of my stomach as I was transported to being temporarily just 17 again, and full of those bastard hormones. That CD makes me want to drive through a wormhole and reappear as a passenger in my younger self’s car, so that I can give her a hug and tell her the depression and the sadness and the terrible moments of solitude is a phase. And tell her not to drive so fast.

The Libertines, on the other hand, has the windows down and the summer air buffeting around the car. As I glance in the rear view mirror I am sure I catch sight of some purple hair and thick black eyeliner looking back, twinkling a little with dreams and ambition and a hangover.

There are several blank, unnamed albums, and each is a revelation. Most are made by my then best lad mate back in the days when music defined who you were to the rest of your peers: each is painstakingly ordered, proper High Fidelity style, and each still standing the test of time with some proper bangers. I remember the record player he gave me, which required using tweezers on live wires to make it work. It makes me realise a) it’s been too long, and b) he was always cooler than me.

Dead Boss Tunes is full of ‘floor filler’ anthems (Audio Bullies: Shot You Down, remember that stomper?) that take me to a Friday night: trying to drive in heels with a car full of whooping girls, Maccies wrappers flooding the foot wells, rehearsing our dates of birth and squealing at each other’s stories of those first, frenzied forays into having ‘a sex life’.

Music was a discovery then. Listening to it was so powerful; it etched these time-capsule moments into your mind. You unearthed songs and albums and bands and carried them with you wherever you went. I don’t spend hours artfully scribbling on CD cases or tip-exing out mistakes on the paper track listings anymore. I’m a proper grown up now. I carry my music in my iPhone, or in some cloud of files, somewhere, dripping through Spotify into my speakers. I drink black coffee and eat things other than cheese sarnies and Squares for lunch. I pay bills and eat lettuce.

But I still have Busta, and therefore a little bit of my purple-haired, wooden bead-laden self remains. It seems right these are the only CDs I have in my car (other than some strays that make it to the dashboard now and then, which I know belong to my other half, because they’re way too cool to be mine). Poor, filthy Busta has harboured them all this time, waiting for me to give him a little bit of love. And in return, he’s yielded these memories, straight from the glove box.

Obligatory Christmas Blog

You can come out now, Christmas is over.

Well. It’s over there actually, in a little pile of needles on the floor beneath the husk that was our Christmas tree. I’ve been willing it to remove it’s own baubles and drag itself to the tip all day, but sadly it remains steadfast, drooping a little, cowering as it watches the Christmas cards come down.

It’s a funny time of year, Christmas. We spend ages getting agitated about it and then it’s over in the blink of an eye. I feel like Christmas really did come early this year. Even for a telly-bod, the festive features seemed to crank into motion as soon as October was done with. We’d only just finished the leftover pumpkin soup from Hallowe’en when the hideously shmultzy sexist supermarket ads fired up, peppering our TV viewing in an attempt to brainwash us all with cheery yet quite sinister blips of guilt and present-panic-mongering between The Simpsons and Supersize vs. Superskinny.

In what has become standard practice in my older years, my present buying was completed whilst still a bit drunk from the office party the weekend before Christmas. Lookers on will have observed a You’ve Been Framed worthy string of events that included falling over and smashing a present I’d previously spent twenty minutes almost crying over in Debenhams because I COULDN’T DECIDE WHICH MUG TO CHOOSE.

For my sister, this year, I embarked on a particularly special mission (and I mean special in the way that school kids call each other special) to make her a wedding organiser… Because home made presents are the best, aren’t they? No. They aren’t. Two days of cutting and sticking later, I’d produced something a 6-year-old flower girl could have made – not a twenty-something Chief Bridesmaid. You can imagine my dismay when, the day before the great unveiling of the file, she was presented with a slick as feck super shiny mega-professional file of glory – the mythical lovechild that would be spawned if Filofax and Kath Kidstone got it on.

Thank God, then, that Christmas isn’t actually all about presents (although I am extremely chuffed with my new slow cooker thank you thank you thank you Mum). This year was a good year for Crimbo. A vintage Crimbo. There are lots of things I love about Christmas (aside from getting to put your Out of Office on), but the main thing is that it doesn’t change. If you know me, you know I am a creature of habit. I do not like change. I would effing LOVE Groundhog day. So I was pleased this year to see that, once again, the only thing that’s changed about a Ledger – Lomas Crimbletide is that I don’t force Dad to leave carrots out anymore (even when I knew Daddy C wasn’t fo’ real) and we get up slightly later.

I could write a list and check it off (twice, haha!) of predicted festive activities, and that’s what I love. Mum will make excuses about the roasties not being crispy (despite them being so crispy they would make Jamie Oliver storm off in a big blubbery huff), the Christmas tree will have the decorations we’ve put on it since old enough to fight over who puts the star on top, and my brothers and sister will still routinely administer ‘electric shocks’ whilst addressing me by any name that isn’t Abby (Toad, Giggle, Grub Chub or Ablet). There will be a family get together that has in recent years developed a tradition of a family quiz (yep, we do that). The house will smell like pine trees. We will all try to get a good picture of the Christmas pud on fire (none will achieve this).

Now that I’m back in Chorlton, following a KILLER New Year that deserves a separate blog, I sort of miss Christmas. I miss my friends and our annual Christmas Eve dinner (this year at a Chinese, traditional). I miss the mass exodus to the pub I’ve drank at since I was far to young to be drinking there. Seeing old friends (avoiding old exes). I miss having an excuse to drink around the clock and have a conveyer belt-like diet of treats make their way relentlessly to my face.

I do believe, believe it or not, I am growing up. I have my own home now, and a sprouting family consisting of my fella and his collection of little Lego people. I will soon have my own roast potatoes to fret about.  So now that I am elderly and wise, I have decided I don’t need Christmas. Or rather, I don’t need Christmas to do all these things. Why do we wait for one pinnacle moment in the year to see our loved ones and eat a pile of food? Why under the pressure of plinky plonky superstore Christmas music? We should make Christmas a regular event. Monthly. Weekly. Daily? I feel a New Year’s Resolution coming on.

On Jury Service. Kind of.

A rather open ended and non-conclusional pondering on my recent Jury Service experience

I am a woman of the electronic era. I live by emails, texts, and tweets. I bank online, decline paper statements and opt-out of any direct mail marketing waffle. By some crafty skill on my part, all of my utilities bills are addressed to my boyfriend; and the only other mail that comes through our door is addressed to Lucy (who used to live here, and apparently was an avid fan of Boden catalogue clothing).

Imagine my horror, then, when I returned from work one September day to a very official, very scary looking brown envelope from HM Revenue & Customs. The crinkly plastic window clearly showed my name. It was (for once) even spelt correctly. This was no sales bumf.

The letter inside was from the courts inviting me to Jury Service. I use the term ‘inviting’ loosely. An ‘invitation’ is something you get from a friend or an elderly relative whose 80^th party you’ll spend a Sunday thinking up excuses to get out of. ‘Invitations’ are for weddings and kids birthday parties. ‘Invitations’ don’t carry a £1000 fine for lack of RSVP within 10 days.

I stared at it with a mixture of horror and excitement, and the next day I carried it with me to work, snuggled in my diary like some sort of antithesis to Willy Wonkers’ lucky golden ticket. I secretly hoped for work to provide a reason why I couldn’t do the 10-day minimum service. They provided no such escape. I filled out the form, much to many of my friends’ envy, and slid it in the post. Somewhere in the distance I swear a crack of thunder rolled ominously.

The service wasn’t due to begin for another month, during which time I slid between excitement and sheer dread. Part of me was thrilled to see a real life Maxine Peak stride around the courtroom re-enacting a juicy episode of Silk. The other part of me shuddered at the thought of being subjected to a CSI-esque storyline.

The truth was nowhere near either super slick production. I arrived on the first day of jury service to an 80’s What to Expect on Jury Service video with a Casio Keyboard soundtrack that I think was meant to be reassuring, and a long wait playing Scrabble with Friends on my iPhone. Everyone told me this would be the case. I settled in to what I thought would be days of waiting to be called, snacking on luke warm cafeteria food and tea in paper cups.

On the second day I was called to my first trial. As soon as the jury was sworn in it became clear what the nature of the trial was, and it wasn’t one that’s often covered in teatime dramas. To anyone who asked all I could say was that it was exactly the kind of case I’d feared. Whilst the trial was underway, when talking about it was all I wanted to do, I couldn’t. It burned inside me day and night. My jaw ached every morning from grinding my teeth, and I was plagued with nightmares.  At lunch we the jury would sit down to the canteen’s beige offering of food and talk about everything that wasn’t the case. Thin smiles and long, drawn out silences punctuated meaningless conversations about last night’s TV and today’s weather. We all looked tired. We all stared off into space over overpriced coffees during court breaks. On the last, most harrowing day, after facing the defendant and watching him crumble under our verdict, we hugged each other despite being strangers who would never see each other again.

Our jury found the defendant guilty on all of the counts against him (and there were many). To name someone as guilty, to say it out loud in court, is to look at another human being in the eye and say "I have judged your behaviour. I believe that what you have done is wrong. I do not believe you." It is truly the most nerve wracking feeling I have ever felt, because in that moment, at that time, you are changing the path of someone's life forever. You are changing their families lives. In my case, some of those lives would be ruined, some would be made worth living again. Today I called the court to find out the sentence that had been passed based on that verdict. We’d spent 8 hours deliberating in a tiny room that was locked from the outside, discussing, debating, sometimes crying, and sometimes laughing. I felt compelled to know how many years that decision-making was worth. I hung up the phone with a peculiar feeling of sorrow and justification. I have no regret in my verdict, but carrying part of the responsibility for imposing 15 years of prison time is a heavy load. 

It’s been more than a month since the actual Jury Service took place. I can look back on it now with a sense of detachment that increases each day. Sitting on a Jury is a hyper-real experience. Faced with such awful reality, it’s hard to see the people in the dock before you as anything other than actors. You recognise the lawyer speak from TV, you stand before a judge and make the same pledges of honesty and fairness that you hear in Hollywood movies. There are moments when the scene fractures, and you remember where you are. The tears in the dock are real, the glass box holds a real criminal, and the people in the public gallery are sisters, mothers, aunties and uncles.

It was an experience. I’m not quite sure I know what sort of experience yet. It revealed truths about my moral positioning that I hadn’t ever been forced to confront before. It uncovered a veneer and revealed a brutal reality I’ve only ever winced at in newspapers. In made me answer questions I didn’t know I had the answer to. It deeply upset me. It still upsets me.

But with that there was a sense of civil duty. I was part of a system that I am certain, in my case, rightly held those who’d committed unspeakable crimes to account and vindicated those who’d been wronged. I saw first hand how the legal system worked, and I met people from polar walks of life who served as a cog in that system. Everyone on that jury had an opinion, and I heard all of them. As strangers we agreed, disagreed, argued and comforted each other. I saw how differently people process, reason and deal with information. I saw how different people were to me, and also how much we all have in common with each other, for better or for worse. 

Say Hello to Pan Am

I’m in love with BBC’s Pan Am.

Is the acting? Not really… Although I was pleased to see that Neighbour’s best actress and Australia’s finest export Margot Robbie (what a name!), otherwise known as Donna, has made it into the blue blazers. Yes, I’m also in love with Neighbours, but that’s different blog all together.

Is it the script? Possibly… Some of the characters reach the hallowed third dimension, but for the most part they’re left wooden and stiff, awkwardly stuck in 2D.

It’s the clothes.

Now, I’m not really one for drooling over designers or rushing out to buy non-prescription Rayban specs because all the kids in Hackney are wearing them… And  if you’ve seen my wardrobe, you’ll know that a good 80% of it is what I affectionately call “Primarni”. Most of my shoes have holes in their soles, and my newest pair of heels are from (am I going to do this?) Peacocks (yes, I’ve gone there). I can’t afford a haircut at the moment, so my fringe looks more Shetland pony than Kate Moss, and my glasses (though Channel) have been across the American continent without a glasses case, and sit slightly skewed and scratched on my face.

 

I do however love and adore the clothes on Pan Am. I’d probably not eat for a few weeks if it meant I could have the dress Christina Ricci sashayed down the street in during Episode 3, Ich Bin Eine Berliner (right).

Just look at those infamous Pan Am uniforms. 80’s power suits have nothing on these. These blazers were cutting it across the concourse before Joan Collins had even heard of shoulder pads and Dynasty was just a twinkle in someone's eye. My god. It’s no wonder the original BBC trail showed the girls kicking it in kitten heels to a cover of Beyonce’s Independent Women.  And look at that tailoring – perfect to suggest a busty set of power boobs beneath, tucked away in triangular power bras. Nipped in waists are perfectly highlighted by the dainty white gloves that hover just above the hips as they elegantly carry the classic Pan Am luggage bag, leaving Paris Hilton’s ridiculous Louis Vuitton bag posturing trashier than ever in comparison. The pencil skirts give the impression of demure, covering the knees innocently enough, but the sexiness still shimmys away elsewhere in the close tailoring. There’s no hiding a nice bum and a set of rocket thighs. You need to have curves to rock these bad boys… there will be no lift-off for size zeros.

What I like about the wardrobe of Pan Am, is that it’s oozing femininity without feeling the need to crack the whoppers out in a low cut mesh top and leather hot pants (I’m talking to YOU, female pop stars gyrating away on Saturday’s T4). The ladies aren’t trying to squish their calves into skinny jeans or hide the inevitable muffin top that spills over the top (I speak from personal experience). They’re wearing clothes that flatter the female figure, leaving a bit of imagination there as to what lies beneath, instead leaving nothing to the imagination in a pair of ripple hugging leggings.

They’re wearing skirts and dresses, things that have been made safe in the knowledge that yes, as much as we try to hide them, we do actually have hips. And that also, yes, we do have breasts, and they’re lovely, but it is possible to show them off without semi-transparent material. It’s all about the ratio. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Not everything. Not “I need no imagination to know what you look like naked” (that’s YOU, Rihanna).

Yes, you could say that the characters having to endure weigh-ins and wear girdles is just as sexist and objectifying, but that rather spoils the fun of it all. They look like real women, and they dress like real women, so it can’t be all that bad. It’s all just a bit of fun. Isn’t it? As one review puts it:

“Pan Am takes a more forgiving look at the Sixties. Even the blatant sexism is viewed more with affection than regret.”

Right. So my argument is a little flawed in that the sexism is actually quite bad. Also that review was written by the Daily Mail, a paper that doesn’t have the right to validate anything, ever. Does this make me a sexist? Am I advocating uncomfortable underwear and figure watching in order to look good? Oh dear.

So there it is. My first ever blog about fashion (sort of). And probably my last. I’ve got it out of my system. I saw clothes, got all girly about them, engaged in a bit of mild sexism and I’ve shared it with the group. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to put on my George at Asda tracksuit and forget it ever happened.

Theatre Maker's Lunch

Hopefully I'll have some nice wee vox pops to stick in here at a later date. I did wander around with a dorky set of headphones on and a little microphone to record them (YES, okay, fine, I will admit I DID pretend to be Britney with it). I just need to learn some magical jiggery pokery to upload them first. 

Theatre Maker’s Lunch

Cornerhouse (The Annex)

Saturday 12 November, 12:30

I have to admit it: I’m a little bit nervous about the idea of a “Theatre Maker’s Lunch”. The last time I had any contact with the acting world, I was 15, and surrounded by fellow drama students pretending to grow from an acorn into a tree. My attempt was more sapling than majestic oak. Unless it’s Karaoke in the early hours of the morning, it’s unlikely you’ll ever see me in the spotlight.

It is then with a degree of nervousness that I tiptoe into the Cornerhouse’s Annex room for a session of networking “aimed at supporting emerging artists to make their own theatre or performance.” I had imagined a room of extravagant thespians making exuberant conversation, finishing each sentence with a flourish of over-the-top gesture. What I find is something entirely different.

There are no cries of “daaahrling” as I shuffle into the bright, airy room. No flinging around of limbs or showy, O-T-T story telling. There’s not a beret in sight. A few participants are dotted around, casually making conversation and nibbling on the rather yummy fennel seed biscuits provided by Cornerhouse. Clusters of artists gather to discuss their projects, offering advice and guidance to each other before the session has even started.

The seating is laid out in a large circle, and for a minute I begin to panic. There’s nowhere to hide. What if they ask me to introduce myself to the group through the medium of dance? I frantically try to recall the opening routine of Wigfield’s Saturday Night, the only dance routine I know, cursing my mother for not forcing me into ballet classes when I was younger.

Thankfully, we’re just asked to say a quick hello, along with a few standard ice breaking questions - one being to provide a piece of performative work that we wish we’d been a part of. This varies from Beyonce’s Glastonbury Performance to Avant-Garde films like Rabbit’s Moon; one performer cites The Royal Family, and another chooses Samuel Beckett’s Fragments. It’s a mixed bag, which is no surprise: as we go around the circle, it becomes clear that this is an extremely diverse network of individuals. There are dancers, actors, costume designers, scriptwriters, producers and musicians… And they’re from a variety of backgrounds and at different stages of their career: from drama graduates to directors of theatre companies.

So what’s brought them together?

According to Lowri Evans, leader of today’s session, they’re here to help each other out, supporting each other’s work “from the spark of an idea into fruition”. It’s about using the collective knowledge of the group to get projects off the ground, relying on the individual talents that are present in the community to kick start a great idea, instead of waiting for the powers that be to give it the go ahead.

It’s obvious that there’s a need for this sort of support. The workshop is fun and light-hearted, but there’s also a slight air of desperation from some of the more “green” members of the group, who are struggling with the lack of support they’ve been faced with: the pressures of “coming out of uni, when everything was handed to you on a plate, to nothing”, as one member puts it. This isn’t just about being creative. It’s about making a living.

Thankfully, the theatre industry isn’t as down and out as some may have it. There are small, innovative theatre companies that are making it, and their tales of success fill the room with an almost audible sigh of relief.

First to take centre stage is the wonderful Eggs Collective (represented today by Roxanne Moores and Lydia Hirst), who seem to have finally grabbed hold of success by (in their own words): “saying yes to everything”. This hard working all female company makes no illusions to the rest of the group: to make it big, you need to earn your stripes. “Everything we’ve done has been a learning curve,” they tell us. They run us through the history of the collective, their highlight being access to a considerable amount of Arts Council England funding, a point that turns the room momentarily green with envy and sets pencils scribbling furiously into notebooks as they share their ACE bid writing experience.

The issue of funding is ‘the big one’, and the question on everyone’s lips is how to get it. Our second speaker, Susie Wren of Happy Storm Theatre CIC sheds a little more light on the issue: “the first one [funding bid] is a minefield,” she warns. She provides an extensive timeline of her funding application, as well as detailed budget breakdowns and thoughtful advice on how to market your project, which provokes yet more scribbling from the group. Apparently, any inside knowledge on ACE bids is gold dust, so the level of detail each company goes into when sharing their secrets of success surprises me: there’s no cautious card holding here. If there’s advice that’ll help someone on their way, they’ll share it.

There’s a surprising lack of competition amongst the practioners. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, with limited funding and dwindling investment in the arts. I didn’t expect today’s speakers to be so willing to give potential competitors a leg up. I sit back during the feedback session and examine the group to find that every one of them is attentively listening to a young girl’s project idea. She finishes with the question “what’s next?” Immediately someone speaks up with an idea she should investigate, and the group becomes alive with suggestions. Heads nod and pens click into action as everyone frantically jots down the names of contacts and networks that can help them on their way. One member speaks up who’s never worked in theatre before: an English graduate looking to move into the industry. The group actively leans forward, eager to reach out to him with support. It’s like an AA meeting. My name’s Edward, and I’m thinking about directing a play. Even I pitch in with advice, I can’t help it.

Before long the session comes to an end, leaving 10 minutes or so scheduled in for networking. I grab a few vox pops (and some more biscuits) and chat to attendees. From speaking with them, it looks like today’s shiniest nuggets of wisdom have concerned the practicalities of making theatre production profitable: how to get paid for doing what you love. There’s a mixture of excitement from those who’ve been shown there’s a way to achieve this; and intrepidation from those starting out at the foot of what looks to be a very steep climb. Everyone agrees that meeting other practioners today has provided some motivation to give it a go.

As I step out from the Cornerhouse into the biting November wind, I feel a little warm inside. It’s nice to see people being nice: supporting each other, creating opportunities where there would otherwise be a brick wall. It’s what makes the art industry special, and it’s a good feeling to be part of it. There’s a spring in my step that’s bordering on improvised dance, and I almost break into spontaneous song; but then remember I’m not in a room of theatre practioners anymore. I’m in public, and the man next to me is looking a little afraid.

Little Rays of Sunshine

You know what they say: “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” I’d rather make a lemon drizzle cake with mine, but ho hum.

It’s been a tough year. Tough in the middle class woe is me sort of way, not like famine or disease or anything. Not really tough…  more sort of chewy; hard to swallow. A bit gristly.

It’s been a hard one in the same way it’s been a hard one for everyone my age (oh yes, this is where this blog is going, I’m jumping in on the stampede of other bloggers who are also going there). We all knew it would be hard anyway. We’re twenty-somethings, after all. We’re supposed to be confused and anxious about the future and horribly skint. I’ve been informed that I should keep expecting it to be quite awful for a good many years yet. But on top of that; on top of being in our twenties, we’ve also been squished into the bottom of a rather large crash. We’d barely began to ponder on what we might actually want to do with our lives; stepping tentatively onto our “career paths”, only to turn around and see a huge double decker credit crunch bus hurtling in our direction. Too late. Crash bang wallop. Should’ve checked both ways.

There have been some spectacular ups. But there’s also been some sub-zero lows. What I’m planning on doing now is finding the middle ground. I’m going for bronze. It’s still good, it’s still a medal, but it’s not the best. No more great expectations.

I think it’s a pretty good theory. Whoever said aim for the stars is responsible for a whole world of disappointment. Your head would explode before you even reached the clouds.

I’ve already started applying it to every day life. Expect the worse, and everything else is a bonus. This morning, for example, when I received ANOTHER rejection letter, I just shrugged. This time last week, I’d have been a little shadowy ball of despair. But this week, I was prepared.

You can try this at home. When opening curtains, for example, picture howling wind and rain. It can’t get any worse (and this IS Manchester, so it’s probably quite an accurate guess). Turn those irritating pizza flyers into a ray of sunshine. When you hear the letterbox flip open, think “heating bill” or “nail bomb”. It can only get better. Imagine the milk’s gone off in the fridge and be pleasantly surprised to find it fresh.

In the work place, why not brace yourself every day for the word “redundancies”. Open every email expecting a period of notice. Those people at the water cooler? They probably are talking about you. Plan for this. Feel the elation when you’re invited for after work drinks.

In this way, every day has its little happy moments. I had one just now when the phone rang and it was just my mum, not the fire service informing me my apartment had burnt down. You have to be thankful for the little things.

Making Your Mind Up

I can't really make up my mind.

The question was only “mash or chips”, and yet, here I am, in a cold sweat over which potato product best accompanies chicken and tarragon pie.

It's obviously the mash.

I realise this after I say “chips”. Thankfully, the waitress is in a good mood, and informs the kitchen of the rightful accompaniment. Close call.

The trouble is, I'm not really very good at making decisions. Unless they're rash ones, and even then, they're usually followed by a minimum of 2 days feeling anxious and guilty (this is usually following a large splurge of money).

I can't seem to pin it down. Literally. The answer eludes me every time. The words “yes” and “no” swash around before my eyes, fluttering to the ground like leaves; evading my grasp with an effortless sweep along on the breeze.

I think it should be recognised an an illness. The inability to make decisions. People like me should get indecision allowance. Extra time on deciding momentous things like side orders or which seat is best aligned with the cinema screen. And we should be allowed to recall decisions without rolling of eyes.

People like me take 10 months of “should I, shouldn't I” to quit a job. And I'll need around that time to work out what to do next. It's a game of eternal swings and roundabouts:

[Internal Monologue]

Right. I'm going to do this. I'm really going to do it. I'm going to do this creative writing workshop thing. Look – here's some genuine interest from a massive UK charity. And look! See this lovely woman? She wants you to work with her on this. Look, see? Look there, in your diary. You've got two workshops booked in already. Do you see? Are you registering this?

No. I don't see. Because whilst I'm pencilling in these amazing opportunities, these once-in-a-lifetime, now-is-your-chance-to-make-it moments, I'm secretly thinking: “I'm not sure about this”. I'm thinking: “Is this a good idea? It's not very stable. I'm not sure I'm really that good at it. Is this really what I wanted to do? What about being a journalist? I did want to be vet once, and I do get on well with dogs... And there was that masters course...”

This, readers, is the scary, uncharted sea of my inner mind. It's a Bermuda Triangle of answers. They pop into my head, and then they're lost inexplicably to the depths of my turbulent little brain.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who can't make her mind up. And I'm not the only one who fits snugly into the twenty-something bracket. And I'm not the only one who's a girl. Thank god for that.

Someone's only gone and written a book about it: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Undecided-Endless-Perfect-Career-Life-Thats/dp/1580053416. I think this is going to be one of those rash decisions. Surely, I need to own this book. Just look at the tag line: “How to Ditch the Perfect Quest for Perfect and Find the Career and Life that's Perfect for You”. It's in my shopping basket. I'll probably buy it. And then cancel the order.

What is it about modern life that's got me having minor breakdowns whenever I need to make a choice? Colour Fade or Moisture Boost? ARGH MY GOD! Which shampoo? WHICH ONE?!

Is it to do with fear of change? Quite possibly. I did cry when my mum got rid of her perm. And when they sold the car: “You didn't let me say goodbyyeeee!” I sobbed, woefully staring out at the yellow part of the grass where our Renault used to be. That could be it. Quitting a job is a pretty big lifestyle change.

Is it lack of knowledge? It's highly likely. For a person like myself who has trouble reading a 24 hour clock, knowing the difference between “Sole Trader” and “Limited Company” has almost had me running for the nearest recruitment agent faster than you can say “tax returns”. As a young person wanting to start up a community arts program, there's pretty much no guidance in terms of “okay, here's what to do next.”

Is it money? It makes the world go round, after all, and it certainly gets my head spinning on it's axis. Heart or head? Freelance or full time? The answer will most likely be the one that pays the rent.

But what about the smaller, totally pointless, inconsequential decisions? The ones that have me paralysed at the kitchen table staring at two invitations saying “but if I do this... I can't do this... and then I wont see so and so... but then I've not seen XYZ for ages...” until my other half kindly shakes me out of it by making the decision for me. And even then, I usually do the opposite to what he suggests. And then spend a day worrying I've done the wrong things.

I think, perhaps, I'm being a bit melodramatic. (Me?! Never!)

I am complaining, after all, about having too much choice. About not getting what I'm given, and having the freedom to choose.

Starting from today, I shall become queen of the decisions. I shall be Mrs. Logical. Ms. Informed. Mistress of decisiveness.

Starting with Lunch. Well. I'll need to work my way up to the big ones.