In some cases. In mine? No thanks, I'm fine for fashion.
Don't get my wrong, I love clothes, I really do. They can make you feel happy, sexy, confident, assured, noticed. They can make you look slimmer, taller, more tanned, curvier and bustier. However, I think there is a very big difference between the clothes you love and your style, and fashion.
I'm not deliberately trying to be unique and different (you either are or you aren't, it's not something that can be created) but I will not have shops/magazines/friends/trends dictate to me what I should and shouldn't wear. All of my clothes were bought because I went "Oooh, I like that, it looks pretty ok on me" and they went on my debit card. The majority of them make me feel good, and when you feel good, hot damn looking good will follow. Even if you are wearing a black bin bag, if you are happy with it, it shows!
I am an avid reader of all the high street glossy magazines. I know they're tripe, but I love them! A bit like Home and Away, but I'm ok with it. I love reading the interviews, reading the crude lies so obviously made up about people, even quickly glancing through the beauty and fashion pages. But I do not spend my time pouring over this week's must have dress, this cannot-live-without clutch bag or impossibly expensive but would sell my soul and remortgage my house to get shoes. It's just not me. There are even these pages set up in which readers can ask where a certain celeb managed to get hold of a top, jumper, necklace. But it begs the question, why would you want to dress exactly like everyone else? What has happened to complete individuality? Does everybody want to look the same? I have some clothes that I don't think anyone else has. And if I do see someone else wearing it, I will (and have done) gone to speak to them and laugh about how good a taste we have. If I see something pretty in a magazine, I say wow, that's quite beautiful, but I will not scour the earth for it.
Maybe it's not fashion I have a problem with. Maybe it's being so dedicated to trends and wanting to be seen as cool and having the latest thing that I have a problem with. I like when people are themselves, good, bad, or indifferent. Who says you have to have an iPad to be a great person? Who needs that heart shaped locket that Fearne Cotton was seen sporting two weeks ago to have a fun personality? Do people think that if they buy the latest things to impress others that they will make new friends? It's the adult equivalent to buying sweets in national school to get someone to hang around with you at break times.
Much and all as most of us like to be seen to be on trend and conforming, we must face up to the fact that we are really all different. We are all unique. Dressing like Kate Moss will not make you look like Kate Moss. If I dressed in half the stuff she is so fantastically able to pull off, I would look like I slept rough for a year. That bed head thing she does so well? I look like I need to go have a good wash. The panda eyed eyeliner look? Looks like I haven't cleaned my face since the night before. But I'm ok with it. I have my own style and my own look.
Maybe it's time to really celebrate that fact, buck the trends, do what we can to be true to ourselves. I like being me. So should you.
p.s. £400 for a pair of shoes???? Ha!
Monday, 21 June 2010
Friday, 9 April 2010
What's everyone's beef with pigeons? Seriously?
"Oooh they carry diseases" - Really? Really!? Like what! How many people have been killed by an altercation with a pigeon?? How many people have died from a pigeon bite?? Exactly.
"Oooh they're rats with wings" - Eh...how'd ya reckon that then?
"Oooh they poo everywhere" - So do all birds, its just that pigeons are more open about it. Crows do it, but I suppose people don't like them either. But hey, pretty little Robin Red Breast over there smirking in the corner does it too, its just that they're little things and you can't notice really when little things do littler things. Babies do it all the time!! But do you hear me complaining? (not yet, that will be another post :-) )
What is a pigeon but a dove in a fancy jacket? A dove from the wrong side of the tracks? The birds I bet doves wish they couold be? You know, they go out at night, rough up people at bus stops, get in your way and give you aggro by flying in your face when you cross them, hang around dustbins. Whereas your average dove, in my opinion would love nothing better than to break free from the restraints of being the snow white, cleaner than clean bird of peace. I bet they see pigeons scowling around up to no good, and wish they could cut loose just for one night and live a little.
I like pigeons. I think they have a place in the world that is rightfully theirs. And yes, they may carry some form of disease or whatever, but given the chance, I would rather be locked in a room with a wee pigeon than a dirty rat any day of the week.
"Oooh they carry diseases" - Really? Really!? Like what! How many people have been killed by an altercation with a pigeon?? How many people have died from a pigeon bite?? Exactly.
"Oooh they're rats with wings" - Eh...how'd ya reckon that then?
"Oooh they poo everywhere" - So do all birds, its just that pigeons are more open about it. Crows do it, but I suppose people don't like them either. But hey, pretty little Robin Red Breast over there smirking in the corner does it too, its just that they're little things and you can't notice really when little things do littler things. Babies do it all the time!! But do you hear me complaining? (not yet, that will be another post :-) )
What is a pigeon but a dove in a fancy jacket? A dove from the wrong side of the tracks? The birds I bet doves wish they couold be? You know, they go out at night, rough up people at bus stops, get in your way and give you aggro by flying in your face when you cross them, hang around dustbins. Whereas your average dove, in my opinion would love nothing better than to break free from the restraints of being the snow white, cleaner than clean bird of peace. I bet they see pigeons scowling around up to no good, and wish they could cut loose just for one night and live a little.
I like pigeons. I think they have a place in the world that is rightfully theirs. And yes, they may carry some form of disease or whatever, but given the chance, I would rather be locked in a room with a wee pigeon than a dirty rat any day of the week.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Parents eh?
What is it about parents that the older we get, the more they drive us mental?? Speak to anyone you know about being at home with parents and family, and generally 90% of your peers will agree that Family Time, can be Stress Time.
Most people I know find the whole going home to Ma and Pa thing, a pain, costly, tiring and draining. For some lucky few, its always a great visit when you see them, no arguments, no stress and generally a hassle free time. But for us not so lucky few, it can cause a stress like no other.
I have been living away from home since the uber-mature age of 18, living by my own rules, in my own houses and doing my own thing. And you know that once you make the leap of faith and fly the coop, everything changes. You being at your family home can never be the same as it was growing up. The dynamics of it all are completley different. Its oddly enough, no longer really your home. Its the house that you go to every so often, but you can't exactly go home for the weekend and lounge in front of the telly demanding cups of tea. Or hibernating in your bedroom for whole Saturdays, demanding cups of tea. Oh no, now you have to actually engage your parents in conversation more taxing than "No, I don't want carrots". Now you have to tell them whats happening in your life. Almost treat them like your peers, or people you live with in your flat share. They're real people now, not just Mam and Dad.
I have a penchant for opening the fridge when I am bored. Perhaps on the off chance that something exciting might have been secretly put in there when I wasn't looking and I can now eat it or look at it. I root around in cupboards for no reason, just to happen upon something of interest. I do this in my own house, just for the craic. However, if I eye up the fridge on one of my excursions to the kitchen, before my brain even sends the message to my hand that I want to open the fridge door, I am greeted with the suspicious question of "What are you looking for in there". Its almost like one of those horror/thriller moments from films. You quietly stalk your way down the darkened hall way in the middle of the night. You are creeping around, no lights on but the flashes of lightning from the thunder storm outside guide your way. The audience can see the shadow of a figure in the kitchen, staring at you, but you haven't noticed it yet. Your just about the reach the gleaming white handle of the fridge, you take one last look over your shoulder to make sure you haven't been followed, and when you turn around, the flashes light up the face of your Mum standing in front of the fridge asking "What are you looking for in there", Freddie Kruger hat and stripey jumper optional.
They ask you what your doing all the time, even though you are doing what you would normally do in your own house, just....ya know, stuff! I like to potter about. Its my thing. My National Sport if you will. We all have one, and my area of expertise is Pottering. And I do that a lot in my own house. I think of things, and mooch around and in and out of doors and rooms and just generally being seen around the house. But its something that I get in trouble for at home. I'm always questioned on what I'm doing. Always. And its something as hassle free and unsuspicious as pottering, but its viewed with some kind of witchcraftery wariness by my parents. Ha, yeah, as if she can be doing something as innocent and walking around for no reason. To quote the Tom Waits weird-fest song "Whats she building in there....." is what creeps into their heads.
If I so much as stand up from the table in the kitchen, I am asked to stick on the kettle and make tea. Even when I am leaving the room, "Just stick on the kettle there".
But the worst thing of all about going home is something that a good friend pointed out to me a while ago. As soon as you step foot inside the front door of your home house, you instantly regress back to your place in the family. My sister is the oldest: strong willed, was made do things I was never asked to do, would look after us if Mum had to do things, be the second in command. My bro is the classic middle child (I hope you don't mind me saying) slightly detached from the rest of us, does his own thing, and likes attention. I'm the youngest, the baby bear. I'm crafty, have learned from older siblings mistakes, some might say a wee bit spoiled, but I say I just get what I want with minimum fuss, a bit of a charmer by times. And as soon as we go home, that's who we become. We slip straight into our roles with minimum fuss, that its like we were never away. Mum and Dad become parents again, and have to de-fuse our petty sister-brother-sister arguments (you know the ones) and sometimes become quite strict.
But you know, despite all the stress of travelling all the way home, being given out to for slight things (leaving a glass of water in the sitting room at night, big no no apparently!) going back in time to being 8, to have to eat whats on your dinner plate, to have to keep your room tidy, and have to ask Mum for a tenner because you spent all yours on booze the night before, you secretly love being at home and looked after.
And they like the chance to be needed again.
Most people I know find the whole going home to Ma and Pa thing, a pain, costly, tiring and draining. For some lucky few, its always a great visit when you see them, no arguments, no stress and generally a hassle free time. But for us not so lucky few, it can cause a stress like no other.
I have been living away from home since the uber-mature age of 18, living by my own rules, in my own houses and doing my own thing. And you know that once you make the leap of faith and fly the coop, everything changes. You being at your family home can never be the same as it was growing up. The dynamics of it all are completley different. Its oddly enough, no longer really your home. Its the house that you go to every so often, but you can't exactly go home for the weekend and lounge in front of the telly demanding cups of tea. Or hibernating in your bedroom for whole Saturdays, demanding cups of tea. Oh no, now you have to actually engage your parents in conversation more taxing than "No, I don't want carrots". Now you have to tell them whats happening in your life. Almost treat them like your peers, or people you live with in your flat share. They're real people now, not just Mam and Dad.
I have a penchant for opening the fridge when I am bored. Perhaps on the off chance that something exciting might have been secretly put in there when I wasn't looking and I can now eat it or look at it. I root around in cupboards for no reason, just to happen upon something of interest. I do this in my own house, just for the craic. However, if I eye up the fridge on one of my excursions to the kitchen, before my brain even sends the message to my hand that I want to open the fridge door, I am greeted with the suspicious question of "What are you looking for in there". Its almost like one of those horror/thriller moments from films. You quietly stalk your way down the darkened hall way in the middle of the night. You are creeping around, no lights on but the flashes of lightning from the thunder storm outside guide your way. The audience can see the shadow of a figure in the kitchen, staring at you, but you haven't noticed it yet. Your just about the reach the gleaming white handle of the fridge, you take one last look over your shoulder to make sure you haven't been followed, and when you turn around, the flashes light up the face of your Mum standing in front of the fridge asking "What are you looking for in there", Freddie Kruger hat and stripey jumper optional.
They ask you what your doing all the time, even though you are doing what you would normally do in your own house, just....ya know, stuff! I like to potter about. Its my thing. My National Sport if you will. We all have one, and my area of expertise is Pottering. And I do that a lot in my own house. I think of things, and mooch around and in and out of doors and rooms and just generally being seen around the house. But its something that I get in trouble for at home. I'm always questioned on what I'm doing. Always. And its something as hassle free and unsuspicious as pottering, but its viewed with some kind of witchcraftery wariness by my parents. Ha, yeah, as if she can be doing something as innocent and walking around for no reason. To quote the Tom Waits weird-fest song "Whats she building in there....." is what creeps into their heads.
If I so much as stand up from the table in the kitchen, I am asked to stick on the kettle and make tea. Even when I am leaving the room, "Just stick on the kettle there".
But the worst thing of all about going home is something that a good friend pointed out to me a while ago. As soon as you step foot inside the front door of your home house, you instantly regress back to your place in the family. My sister is the oldest: strong willed, was made do things I was never asked to do, would look after us if Mum had to do things, be the second in command. My bro is the classic middle child (I hope you don't mind me saying) slightly detached from the rest of us, does his own thing, and likes attention. I'm the youngest, the baby bear. I'm crafty, have learned from older siblings mistakes, some might say a wee bit spoiled, but I say I just get what I want with minimum fuss, a bit of a charmer by times. And as soon as we go home, that's who we become. We slip straight into our roles with minimum fuss, that its like we were never away. Mum and Dad become parents again, and have to de-fuse our petty sister-brother-sister arguments (you know the ones) and sometimes become quite strict.
But you know, despite all the stress of travelling all the way home, being given out to for slight things (leaving a glass of water in the sitting room at night, big no no apparently!) going back in time to being 8, to have to eat whats on your dinner plate, to have to keep your room tidy, and have to ask Mum for a tenner because you spent all yours on booze the night before, you secretly love being at home and looked after.
And they like the chance to be needed again.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
The day the music died
It was a Sunday afternoon in the spring of 2010. Me and iPod had had a brief but life changing relationship in the few weeks that we had been together. We met just the day before Christmas, she was polished and well dressed in a sleek black case. Stunning was the word I would use to describe her. Instantly I was hooked.
I didn't do much work the day I met her. I was too busy gliding my hands over her silky body that seemed to understand and every touch I gave her was a command to do something. For those first few glorious weeks, we were inseparable. She came with me to work, was glued to my side doing housework, walks to the shop hand in hand, and when it came time to get some beauty sleep, there she was, recharging her batteries beside me as I recharged mine. It was true love. I brought her home at Christmas to meet the family. Of course she charmed them all, what with her touch screen capabilities and instantaneous music powers, she had us all charmed and under her spell in no time. The whole plane journey home we reminisced about our holiday, the ups and the downs of the festive period. I was proud to have her on my arm, with the stolen glances she got from passers by. She was mine! I had even been given the wonderful present of a docking station for her, which took pride of place in my room. Instead of her being wedged into my back pocket while I pottered around the room, she was there on display for all to see and hear.
But then, on the night of 21st February 2010, disaster struck. What had started with a mild splutter of a few of my precious tracks missing from my music collection, quickly developed into an almost coma state, of one album remaining. She was slipping away from me before my very eyes, and I was powerless to do anything. Nothing worked. I charged her constantly, spoke loving words to her. Went through the five stages of grief even.
Denial: that some things were missing, and that by the end of the day, most of my music was gone. It wasn't happening. Not to me. Not to us.
Anger: At the fact that it was happening, how could she do this to me? We were so happy!! Why did it have to happen now!
Bargaining: That I would happily take her to the shop, get her fixed and vowed to get a sleek pleather case with a clear screen so I could still touch her. I would eat my veggies, go to mass, pray, be nicer...
Depression: I fell deeper into a cycle of depression that all hope was lost, that I was never going to meet something like her again, that nothing could compare to the way I had been feeling. That life would never be the same.
Acceptance: That these things happen. That people had told me it had happened to them and that they were eventually OK, that things got better.
I was at my wits end. Was hoping for one more day with her, just one more chance to retrieve the data I had lost. It was a long shot, but in a burst of inspiration, I had an idea. My light bulb lit up. I had, somewhere, my music collection burned onto Cd's to enjoy, so I had to find them, borrow a laptop, connect it all up, and hope for the best. The equivalent of iPod life-support.
And then it happened....she began to Sync up. My music, my data, my life with iPod flashed before my eyes on the screen in front of me. She was coming back to life. She was going to be OK. Whoops and hollers and tears of joy and high-fives of even greater joy were shared in place of the commiserations of my sister.
We were going to be OK...
I didn't do much work the day I met her. I was too busy gliding my hands over her silky body that seemed to understand and every touch I gave her was a command to do something. For those first few glorious weeks, we were inseparable. She came with me to work, was glued to my side doing housework, walks to the shop hand in hand, and when it came time to get some beauty sleep, there she was, recharging her batteries beside me as I recharged mine. It was true love. I brought her home at Christmas to meet the family. Of course she charmed them all, what with her touch screen capabilities and instantaneous music powers, she had us all charmed and under her spell in no time. The whole plane journey home we reminisced about our holiday, the ups and the downs of the festive period. I was proud to have her on my arm, with the stolen glances she got from passers by. She was mine! I had even been given the wonderful present of a docking station for her, which took pride of place in my room. Instead of her being wedged into my back pocket while I pottered around the room, she was there on display for all to see and hear.
But then, on the night of 21st February 2010, disaster struck. What had started with a mild splutter of a few of my precious tracks missing from my music collection, quickly developed into an almost coma state, of one album remaining. She was slipping away from me before my very eyes, and I was powerless to do anything. Nothing worked. I charged her constantly, spoke loving words to her. Went through the five stages of grief even.
Denial: that some things were missing, and that by the end of the day, most of my music was gone. It wasn't happening. Not to me. Not to us.
Anger: At the fact that it was happening, how could she do this to me? We were so happy!! Why did it have to happen now!
Bargaining: That I would happily take her to the shop, get her fixed and vowed to get a sleek pleather case with a clear screen so I could still touch her. I would eat my veggies, go to mass, pray, be nicer...
Depression: I fell deeper into a cycle of depression that all hope was lost, that I was never going to meet something like her again, that nothing could compare to the way I had been feeling. That life would never be the same.
Acceptance: That these things happen. That people had told me it had happened to them and that they were eventually OK, that things got better.
I was at my wits end. Was hoping for one more day with her, just one more chance to retrieve the data I had lost. It was a long shot, but in a burst of inspiration, I had an idea. My light bulb lit up. I had, somewhere, my music collection burned onto Cd's to enjoy, so I had to find them, borrow a laptop, connect it all up, and hope for the best. The equivalent of iPod life-support.
And then it happened....she began to Sync up. My music, my data, my life with iPod flashed before my eyes on the screen in front of me. She was coming back to life. She was going to be OK. Whoops and hollers and tears of joy and high-fives of even greater joy were shared in place of the commiserations of my sister.
We were going to be OK...
10 Steps to Looking busy at work, when you're secretly doing nothing
Here are some hints and tips I have picked up along the way, tactics used by both myself and other tricks of the trade gathered from observing former work colleagues.
Step 1: Stare intensely at the computer screen with pedantic and serious look on your face. Put some energy into it, people will back off when they see the look of sheer concentration. Pen chewing optional.
Step 2: Keep your desk littered with random pieces of paper for you to shuffle around at regular intervals. Paper shuffling gives the impression of important work to do. If you have mastered the concentrated intense look from Step 1, please add to the mix for added effect.
Step 3: Walk around the office looking like you are on a mission. Holding a pen/piece of paper/documents which will show you colleagues that you are a person of merit in the office and have important work to do.
Step 3: Offer to make tea for your work mates. This will make your team mates think that you are a really good guy whilst giving you the time to arse about eating biscuits and reading the paper.
Step 4: Stare off into the distance every so often, as if you are collecting your thoughts or thinking about the mountain of work you have to do, and how best of prioritise it.
Step 5: Repeat Step 3.
Step 6: Sigh, huff and puff audibly as if you are stressed out with the workload you have.
Step 7: Have Skysports.com/Heatworld.com/Solitaire open on your desktop, along with several work related emails, to enable you to flick back and over between when you hear the footsteps of your boss in the hall.
Step 8: Randomly bash the keys on your keyboard to give the impression that you are typing.
Step 9: Come in at Stupid O'Clock so that your boss thinks you are really hard working and dedicated to your job. He doesn't have to know that you are only in to use the free internet.
Step 10: Take up smoking/invent a bladder problem etc No one questions it.
Step 1: Stare intensely at the computer screen with pedantic and serious look on your face. Put some energy into it, people will back off when they see the look of sheer concentration. Pen chewing optional.
Step 2: Keep your desk littered with random pieces of paper for you to shuffle around at regular intervals. Paper shuffling gives the impression of important work to do. If you have mastered the concentrated intense look from Step 1, please add to the mix for added effect.
Step 3: Walk around the office looking like you are on a mission. Holding a pen/piece of paper/documents which will show you colleagues that you are a person of merit in the office and have important work to do.
Step 3: Offer to make tea for your work mates. This will make your team mates think that you are a really good guy whilst giving you the time to arse about eating biscuits and reading the paper.
Step 4: Stare off into the distance every so often, as if you are collecting your thoughts or thinking about the mountain of work you have to do, and how best of prioritise it.
Step 5: Repeat Step 3.
Step 6: Sigh, huff and puff audibly as if you are stressed out with the workload you have.
Step 7: Have Skysports.com/Heatworld.com/Solitaire open on your desktop, along with several work related emails, to enable you to flick back and over between when you hear the footsteps of your boss in the hall.
Step 8: Randomly bash the keys on your keyboard to give the impression that you are typing.
Step 9: Come in at Stupid O'Clock so that your boss thinks you are really hard working and dedicated to your job. He doesn't have to know that you are only in to use the free internet.
Step 10: Take up smoking/invent a bladder problem etc No one questions it.
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