On shared living

I asked Jeff, one of the lovely people at my aforementioned favourite coffee place, what I should write about in this blog post. He gave me a couple of suggestions – one of which I may just hang on to for future times of need – but the first thing to come to his mind was “nightmare flatmates”. Now, before I offend anyone, I should quickly point out that I’m very lucky – I live with a couple of wonderful women, Natalie Squared, with whom I share a harmonious existence in our little corner of London.

In fact, ever since I moved back to London after university, I’ve been pretty fortunate with the people I’ve lived with. They’ve always been friends: they’ve either started off as such and continued on apace…or they’ve started off as relative strangers, and ended up being close friends. So far, so boring, I hear you cry – at least as far as “nightmare flatmates” are concerned. However, you can always rely on university to provide you with…interesting…flatmate scenarios, and my experience there was no different.

I am convinced that the flatmates I ended up with in my first year of university were sort of my own fault. I like to think I’m normally pretty resistant to the “only child” stereotype – I don’t think many people would accuse me of being spoilt or selfish. However, when it came time to move away from the homestead at the tender age of 18, I panicked a little bit. Unlike most of my friends who were staying in London or heading further south, I was packing my bags and travelling to the far flung north – York, to be precise.

This sudden alone-ness compounded my nervousness about the impending change. I grabbed at any chance of home comforts that I could find, and in the case of York…that meant opting for housing that included an en-suite bathroom. (“Aaah,” I hear you say, “there’s the only child in her – has to have her own bathroom, does she?”) In retrospect, this was a mistake. Whilst I did essentially have an “en-suite”, it took the form of a pod rather than a bathroom – one where you could sit on the toilet, wash your feet in the shower and your face in the sink at the same time. This was hardly luxury.

It also meant that my halls were full of the kind of people who weren’t so up for throwing themselves into socialising and communal living. We shared a kitchen, sure…but I’m convinced that something comes from sharing a bathroom that you don’t get when you can all sequester away in your rooms with your en-suite pods.

Here, then, is a quick headcount of the more “colourful” of my flatmates from first year: one Latvian computer science student who we didn’t see after the first term because he got addicted to World of Warcraft and wouldn’t leave his room; one karate-obsessed guy who allegedly had a teenage fiancée waiting for him in Egypt; one small-minded social work student who told me she thought being gay was “deviant”; and one very dedicated member of the CU who plastered our kitchen walls with posters that read “Why help a starving child in Africa? Because God wills it”. Aaah, lovely.

Though there were some more normal folks on my floor as well, I think it’s fair to say none of us really formed the kind of communal bond that I saw in other groups of flatmates in my college. And it’s a shame, because as a slightly scared, slightly shy girl from London on her own up north, I would’ve relished the ready-made social circle to fall into.

I can’t think of another time in life where you are so readily thrust into living with a group of people you don’t know, and quite possibly have nothing in common with. I lived happily enough with my parents as I grew up, and I have managed to live happily with housemates as a young professional in London – somehow choosing genuine, friendly people who have made my life better and not worse.

But perhaps this isn’t a good thing. Living with “nightmare flatmates” gives you a lot of skills that you’ll draw on in later life. If I hadn’t had to deal with small-minded social worker girl, I wouldn’t have learnt to be patient with people who had grown up in less liberal families than mine. If I hadn’t lived next door to karate-mad engaged guy, I wouldn’t have learnt various techniques for politely telling a noisy neighbour to lessen the number of midnight thuds and thumps (karate practice, I was assured).

So although I am probably luckier than most in the relatively low number of “nightmare flatmate” incidents I’ve had to suffer through, I hope those less fortunate will at least consider this – you’ve probably taken away many valuable life skills from having to deal with that particular nightmare. And, sod it – at least it’s given you a good story or two to tell, eh?

On Hanson

Don't worry, this post isn't really about Hanson. Well...it kind of is, but then it also isn't. Hanson just happen to be a prime example of something I want to talk about a little bit.

For anyone not in the know – and if you’re one of my nearest and dearest, how could you possibly not be in the know – Hanson are a group of three mid-Western brothers turned musicians, made most famous in the nineties by their annoyingly catchy (and nonsensical) hit “Mmmbop”. As a child of the nineties, I was a big fan back in their heyday – but I’m actually a far bigger fan now (yes, they’re still going strong). AND I AM PROUD.

You’re probably sighing right now. Shaking your head. I can practically feel it coming across the internet at me. And that – THAT – is exactly what I want to talk about. Because at some point over the last few years, I can’t remember when exactly…I decided to stop caring about the fact that most people thought it was a bit pathetic for a woman in her mid-to-late twenties to like a band made famous for a song containing the infamous lyric “In an mmmbop they’re not there / Until you lose your hair / Oh, but you don’t care”.

Yes, they’re a bit cheesy. Yes, they’re fairly ridiculous, and have about a million children between them now. But you know what? None of that matters. Ultimately, I’ve decided that all that really matters is that Hanson – cheesy, nostalgic, slightly cringe-worthy Hanson – make me happy. I can sing along loudly and with great abandon to their music, and it perks me up without fail. (Unless it’s an Isaac song, but let’s not talk about that).

I think we waste too much time worrying about what other people will judge us for. Sure, on more important life decisions, it’s wise to listen to the counsel of friends and family. They know you well, so may be able to shed new light on a situation that – without the benefit of being on the outside, looking in – you wouldn’t have spotted yourself. However, even in those situations I think it’s important to listen to those words of advice and then make the final call yourself. Consider the opinions of others, but rely first and foremost on your own gut and your own moral compass to guide you.

Because the reality is – what’s right for someone else isn’t necessarily right for you. We all have different tastes, different opinions, different priorities. And if someone is going to hold you accountable to their own set of standards without considering that you are not in fact them – well what kind of ridiculous behaviour is that, really? I know it sounds a little grandiose to apply this argument to something as small as people making fun of a cheesy 90s band that I listen to…but as I said, they’re just a smaller example of a wider point. The point that we need to stop caring about what people think about us when it’s based on something as superficial as taste in music, the way we dress, or the kind of films we watch. These things are a part of you – sure – but they are the part that you should embrace and enjoy, not worry about whether or not they’re “saying something” about the kind of person you are.

If everyone I met thought I was an awful person, I’d care – of course I would. But if a couple of people want to judge me based on the music I listen to, I think that’s a poorer reflection on them than it is on me. That’s all. 

On my favourite coffee place

I'd like to take a break in our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a love letter to my favourite coffee shop. Wait wait WAIT don't go - I promise it's not as weird as it sounds!

Here's the thing. I have lived in my flat for the past two years now, and am blessed (/cursed, if you're reviewing my bank balance) with extremely close proximity to aaaaaaall the nice food and drink places I can handle: they're literally just downstairs. In amongst all of those glorious establishments lives one of my favourite places - my coffee shop of choice.

I actually didn't pay a huge amount of attention to it in the first year or so that I lived here. I went in a few times, but didn't take in my surroundings much, and mostly just focused on the caffeine and cake that I was shoving in my face. However, over the past few months - and I can't really explain why - I started making a point of getting to know the people there. I paused for a chat that didn't just consist of "please", "thank you" and "have a nice day". I introduced myself, learnt to put names to faces, and generally tried to ingratiate myself a bit - and not just with the aim of getting free coffee. Now, they're a well-established part of my day. In fact, I'm drafting this from within their very walls.

Here's what I like about the place: the people. Sure, the coffee is fricking incredible, and jolts me out of my sleepy daze in the morning enough to propel me through at least 20 minutes' worth of my walk to work (that's saying something at 8am). They also do a mean ham & cheese croissant, which will probably send me to an early grave what with the quantity that I consume each week, but at least I'll go smiling. But - and this is a big but (stop giggling) - it is the fact that the people are all so flipping lovely that keeps me coming back every morning.

I am truly an advocate of being a regular, and having a roster of trusted, welcoming places that are habitual and homely. I have my comic shop (which is also full of excellent people), and now I have my coffee place. And it's not the shop or the products that draw me in, it's the connection you form with the people you see every day. 

Luckily for me, the folks downstairs are friendly, charming, and - on occasion - even a little bit nerdy, which suits me to a tee. Being able to start my day with a grin and a chat - recent random topics have included: inner gremlins; pig racing; the word for a big birdcage like the one in Aladdin (“menagerie” is apparently what he was searching for…not “boulangerie”); the joy that can come only from a trip to Lakeland plastics; and a truly excellent (and lethal) sounding recipe for punch - makes my day infinitely better. It's been particularly helpful when I've woken up in the doldrums, ready to trudge my way through the day in a depressed fashion. They give me a lift, and not just because they’re supplying me with A-grade caffeine.

So all I can say is this: thanks guys, you’re pretty stellar people. I hope you don’t get sick of me any time soon, because – like a persistent hangover the day after a friend’s wedding – I’m going to be hard to shake.

On reminders

“Everything reminds me of you.”

When a big part of your life has revolved around the same person for – well, for what feels like as long as you can remember, really – being without them isn’t just hard for all the obvious reasons. It’s also bafflingly difficult because you have to re-educate yourself on how to get through everything in your life without constantly associating it with that person.

Everything reminds you of me, hmm? Well snap, buddy.

Even the most innocuous of things can transport you to a familiar and painful place. Innocently uttered phrases…particular film references…smells…songs…of course you'll associate everything with them when they were that important to you. And every time something twigs a memory, it becomes a conscious effort to turn your brain away from the first association – the unhelpful association. Because every time that happens, it’s like a little gremlin prodding at the ache in your chest. “Haha, thought you were OK, did you? Well let’s see how you feel about THIS then!”

…fucking gremlins.

Your brain and your memory become your worst enemies, constantly veering their ugly heads to remind you that you should be feeling terrible. Which I suppose is ironic, as they’ll end up being your friends in the long run – when you can remember things fondly, and sensibly reflect on the past without it being like a kick in the proverbial balls.

The process of getting through this seems to be a two-parter: first, learning to replace the gut reaction, the immediate association, with something else. With someone else. Or nothing at all, I suppose – but essentially anything but that person and that connection that you once had. Second, for the things that you just can’t avoid associating with that person (for instance, there’s still a particular aftershave that instantly transports me back to my first serious relationship – Proust would be proud), you have to learn to entertain that association in a way that doesn’t hurt. Notice it (because you can’t not), and then move on.

I am reassured by the certainty that this process will become easier, and in the future I will be able to go about life unhindered by reminders – or let them come, and smile fondly before getting on with my day. It may suck at the moment (believe me: it truly, truly does), but logic and reason tell me that it won’t be that way forever. Soon enough, I will be a functioning person again. I will not feel sad when someone mentions things that we spoke about, or places that we went to, or jokes that we shared.

For now though, I can but replay the words that were sent my way: everything reminds me of you, too.

On editing

This is a confession: I’ve got you all fooled. Not for the first time, a friend recently commented that something I’d written was very “articulate”. I think I give off the impression – in writing certainly, but also sometimes in conversation – that I am an eloquent and articulate person. Anyone who has known me for any reasonable stretch of time, however, must surely know that this isn’t the case.

In person, the reality is that I will always suffer from “slow reaction time” syndrome. You know that feeling when you’re having a conversation with someone, it gets a bit heated, and you just can’t find the words to properly best the other person – even though you know you could? And then, long after the fact - when you’re at work, or having dinner, or doing something completely mundane - the perfect comeback occurs to you? Words that would properly encapsulate the witty, intelligent person that you are? Yes – that. I suffer from that.

As a result, I am anything but articulate in person. I stumble over words, I phrase things the wrong way and get myself into hot water when I don’t mean to…I’m a little bit of a mess, verbally. So why have I managed to convince various people I know otherwise? The answer is quite simple, really: I edit.

There’s a reason I love to write as much as I do – a reason why a lot of my meaningful conversations are carried out over email, text or WhatsApp. It’s because it’s so much easier to edit there. I can take my time to write things out, review them, change my mind and rephrase until I’m comfortable that I have clearly and effectively expressed what I want to say. It’s normal to draft and redraft emails, I think. Perhaps less so with instant messages…but hey. Abnormality suits me.

I can sometimes get away with this in person as well as in writing. Sounds strange? Wait a second, hear me out. If I’ve ever struck you as being particularly good at communicating my thoughts or emotions in person – probably during a “big conversation” – it’s because I’ve edited and rehearsed the hell out of that conversation in my head. This happens with friends on occasion, but is far more frequent when it comes to relationships. I’m not saying I’m not emotionally intelligent – I think I probably am – but being able to succinctly and clearly translate my feelings into words isn’t something that comes quickly (or even that naturally) to me.

Look in the notes app on my phone, and you will find numerous one liners, paragraphs and diatribes that I have jotted down whilst rehearsing conversations in my head. I’ll go back to these time and again, tweaking them here and there until I’m really happy with them. This process cements them so thoroughly in my head that I have them ready to draw on in the heat of the moment. And whilst the conversation will never be exactly as I’ve rehearsed it (as I haven’t written lines for the other person), it helps me to feel more in control of the situation, and more comfortable that I’m not saying completely the wrong thing.

So there you have it. If I’ve ever convinced you that I’ve got it all together – that I’m calm and articulate and can think quickly on my feet – maybe take some comfort from the fact that it couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m just an obsessive compulsive editor, who probably thinks too much.

On coping mechanisms

An upfront apology: what follows is a bit of a meandering mess. But it's the weekend, and I don't quite have the patience to self-edit today.

People are ridiculously complicated creatures. Try to untangle what makes us tick, and you could drive yourself crazy. And never are we more complicated, or more messy, than when we are trying to process something - when all sorts of unexpected or unusual emotions move in and squat in our subconscious, making us behave like strangers.

For example, when we lose someone (and, full disclosure, I have recently had to part company with someone I loved very much), our brains do very odd things to help us process what has happened. With the benefit of reflection or hindsight, I find those reactions - often erratic and irrational - utterly fascinating. They seem to be different from person to person, and follow no logical pattern that I can fathom.

Some people shut down completely, withdrawing into themselves and taking the burden of their grief onto their shoulders alone. Others lash out, interpreting sadness as anger - perhaps finding that emotion easier to express. Still more will put on a brave face, and throw themselves into distraction to push the feelings down and ignore them. I imagine a lot of people would pick d) all of the above.

Because feelings of loss, in whatever form it comes and they come, are big and scary and overwhelming, we all understandably develop coping mechanisms to get through. And I am left wondering what an individual's coping mechanisms say about that person.

In the past week, I have: sought comfort from close friends and people who love me; distracted myself with trips to the theatre, a country fair, and my favourite coffee shop; thrown myself into work as much as possible; written and discarded several overly personal blog posts before sitting down to write this one; and, today (because it felt necessary), consumed almost an entire tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream before crawling inside my duvet cover with my laptop and listening to Amy Winehouse songs. That I have crammed all of that into less than a week is unusual behaviour for me, to say the least.

I guess my brain can't quite understand what I've done to it, and seems to be directing me to try anything I can think of to return it to normal. I genuinely have no idea whether my coping mechanisms are any stranger than anyone else's. It does, however, strike me that this messiness is the perfect evidence for the human condition. And by that, I mean the thing that sits somewhere above biology and how we're physically put together to make us all unique - all a bit crazy - and all a sodding mess.

As an atheist who doesn't really buy into an afterlife or a spirit, as such, I can't unscramble in my head what I think this human condition is - how it happens, and why we're all so different. But although it makes us complicated, and difficult, and perplexing...I also think it makes us kind of wonderful. Thank God we're more than just our biology, even if it does make me question my sanity when I'm hiding in a duvet-sheet-nest and experiencing one hell of a sugar crash.

On building walls

It is a very human thing, I think, to build walls. And it is a very difficult thing to acknowledge that we are building them, and make a decision to bring them down.

For many years now, I have walled up my creativity. It sounds odd, I know - but nevertheless I have come to realise that it's the truth. It's why I stopped writing this bloody thing. It's why my laptop is full of beginnings, middles, and ends of stories - but nothing complete, nothing whole. It's why I've picked up and put down art and illustration throughout my life, never quite making a go of it.

Why have I done this? It seems counter-intuitive to deny myself something that does, on balance, make me happy. Something that I think - with enough practice and flexing of the right muscles - I could be good at. It's not like I don't have ideas, either. I am positively brimming with ideas. Seriously, you should see how many beginnings of blog posts I have on here as drafts. How many notebooks filled with doodles, and sketches, and first steps that were never followed by a second. But here's the thing: it's far easier to create a barricade around that part of myself (with excuses like "I don't have time", or "I feel too drained after work", or "I don't have the willpower to keep up with it") than it would be to try, and to fail. God forbid I throw myself into something and not have it work out.

It sounds so self-defeating when I put it into words that I get angry at myself.

I suspect we're all guilty of this in one way or another. Other people build walls to save face, or to seem stronger, or to keep messy emotions inside. I've always been better at letting emotions roam free, but I can understand the impulse. Whether it's because you think people won't understand the more complicated parts of you, or that they'll think you're a bit crazy, or think less of you for showing "weakness"...I understand that fear.

It's hard, I think, to recognise that you are your own worst enemy. That the barrier you're fighting against in order to get where you want to be - to be happy - is a barrier of your own creation. And it would be too simplistic to say that recognising that fact is the answer. That tearing the walls down will bring you happiness, or even that you'll feel strong enough to tear them down in the first place. But it does feel like a first step (for me, at least). It feels like this might be the stick I need to whip myself into shape with. To not be self-defeating. To pour myself into things, even when it would be easier - less messy - to just sit down and watch Netflix instead.

I am making this promise to myself, and I am doing it out loud so that I can't put my head in the sand and pretend that I haven't: I am going to try. If I try and I fail, then so be it. I think I'll be less sad about that than I would about letting that wall get the better of me.