The perils of a glossy box

First of all, a warning to those of you easily terrified by use of the V word (you wusses!), there’s a lot of it here, and if you don’t want to hear about them, look away now. Your delicate disposition may not be able to handle it, so go get a cuppa tea, do some gardening or entertain yourself with thoughts of anything non nether region, because you have been warned. And now, on with the show…!

*****

So. Vaginas. Who’d have em? Well, I would mine and frankly, what a way to start my latest blog. But something of the lady garden has enraged me and I can’t help but write about it.

The product in question

Let me take you back to my recent birthday. Some very dear friends cheered that woeful day with the kind gift of a subscription to the beauty website GlossyBox. A website which promises to send a monthly selection of 5 ‘surprise’ beauty products tailored specifically to you, as determined by an online beauty survey. So far, so good. I do love a good survey…. So I filled out said questionnaire, responding to queries on my skin & hair types and regimes. Lo & behold 5 days later my box arrived, containing my said surprises, namely: an eyelash primer, a lip crayon, a cleanser, toner and brunzer. It was a fabulous gift, if one can put to one side (and I do) the fact I knew nothing of the very existence of two of these products. After all, who knew eyelashes needed priming? Apparently they are now now the ocular equivalent of a wardrobe in need of upcycling. As for brunzer? Get outta town! But I digress…. The products were nice, and posed a new shakeup to my beauty regime, meaning I was much pleased with said gifting… or so I thought until I inspected the items more closely. Such examination revealed that while the toner tones the face, and the crayon paints the lip, it turns the cleanser is intended to cleanse & ‘purify’ (their words, not mine) THE VAGINA! And not any ole vagina, MY vagina! Oooh I got mad, real mad, and not to say more than a little confused, after all I’m pretty sure not one of the questions posed in the ‘beauty regime survey’ pertained to the freshness of my foof. But mad? Why so?

*mutters angrily to self*
Remember the historical
context

Well first of all, there is the rage inducing fact that this product was sent to me under the banner of ‘beauty products’. BEAUTY I asked myself, how is this beauty? A spurious assertion I raged! It could at best be described as hygiene, but even that is a pretty dubious, as experts the world over (or should that be under?) seem to agree that our VJJs do quite well without the need for such chemically products, thank you very much. The ingredients often upset PH balances, and frankly I can think of nothing more distressing than an upset vagina. A 2013 study even revealed that upsetting such balances with the use of ‘intimate cleansers’ (as they describe them) runs the risk of an increased susceptibility to sexually transmitted diseases! All this in a quest for a ‘pure’ pussy! If you’re looking for that love, get yourself to a nunnery I say, don’t come at me with your deodorisers, cleansers and purifiers, all marching under the banner of 'beauty'.

It must be said not all cosmetic companies are the same. I very much admire certain players in the beauty & cosmetic industry, namely those that are supporting ethical campaigns, fighting animal testing, veering away from rainforest reducing palm oil, and supporting ethical sourcing. And that’s to say nothing of the fact that beauty products can often empower women, giving them a well needed boost of confidence with a sexy scent or made up face. After all, there’s nothing better to use when facing a bad day, than a coating of confidence boosting war paint), however there are some companies whose marketing tactics & reflected attitudes towards their consumers are far more disreputable, and whose claims I fear are more dubious. A fear which backed up by a 2015 study which found that just 14% of claims made in 289 cosmetic adverts in the previous year, could actually be described as ‘acceptable’. Not even true, just ‘acceptable’! So those companies of fanny fresheners & confidence denters, don’t go peddling your intimate wash to me, saying it’s ‘gynaecologically approved’ and 'dermatologically tested’ like it should be an integral part of every woman’s daily routine, I’m quite happy with some mild soap and water thanks (as recommended by the experts).

Yep! Men are 100% odour free
*nods head wisely*

And that takes me onto the sexism. OH THE SEXISM! Gargh! Women's self-esteem is under attack enough as it is with the from companies using photoshopped unreals gazing out from every advert, Instagram page and beauty mag, alleging that our pores are too large, our hips too wide, our skin too greasy, our hair greying (I could go on, but I won’t… mostly cos I’ll run out of space!). And now our lady gardens are under attack too! It’s infuriating! And a realm only preserved from us here women, after all when was the last time you saw a ‘scrotum sanitiser’ for sale? Or a ‘penis purifier’? Or even a ‘bollock brightener’? NEVER! THAT’S WHEN! Only ever to the ladies is such twaddle (or in this case twattle) peddled… and has been for quite some time according to some of the advertising I’ve stumbled across. And at a time where young women are growing up with unprecedented levels of plummeting self esteem, rocketing self harm and increasing mental health suffering, the cosmetics’ industry manufactured worry of issue of having a mildly musty muff is one concern they do not need piled atop! This stuff should be outlawed! Or at least banished to the back of the bathroom cabinet, to stay there forever, gathering the kind of dusty disuse that the product vows to do away with.

I think a 'cool wind' down 
there is an entirely 
different problem...

So now my ranting is complete, what have I done about it? Well natch, I grumped online to GlossyBox, after all a modern day gripe is nothing if not manifested online. The response was long coming, informing me that beauty (there it is again) can be found from tip to toe, signing off with a suggestion I should have a ‘fannytastic day’ (PAH!), and so I took my revenge out in the way best I deemed appropriate… I used said product. Not in the location advised by the manufacturers, but in a fit of bathroom based pique, it was slathered everywhere but there just to prove a point. My box is quite glossy enough as it is thank you very much, you can keep your intimate cleansings to yourself you quite literal douchebags.

There's only one dodgy twat in this marriage...

Bad case of the birthday blues

Ahh, the 12^th August, it’s that time of year again, namely my birthday, known to some as the Glorious 12^th. Alas not known thus for being my birthday (contrary to my childhood assumptions) but instead for the opening of the grouse shooting season. Though to be fair, I have my doubts… I mean, it’s not that glorious for the poor grouse as they get shot out of the sky, undergrowth, or wherever it is the wee sods try to hide every year as summer rolls round & the toffs get out their shotguns. But hey ho, I’ve digressed already and it’s only the first paragraph.

Happy birthday me

So yes, the 12^th, and this year in all of its ingloriousness I was definitely with the grouse. I’m pleased to say that despite an absence of Scottish landowners chasing me round my house with some of the finest firearms in the glens, this birthday was distinctly sucky. Now, I’m not by nature that much of a maudlin person, I’m usually quite chipper on the whole, so I don’t want you to read this as a self-pitying blog heralding a headlong slide into depression as my body and mind decline immeasurably on their annual depreciation of value. But it must be said, this year was not a good one. There’s been a lot of change in my life over the last 18 months, primarily work wise as I switch to a new career and all of that which comes with it (primarily a lack of cash), so when my birthday came around, having got back on my feet and rolled with all the punches of recent times, I was ready to celebrate. However, like most Big Occasions, it was overhyped (or at least minorly hyped, gotta keep these things in some kind of perspective), and I was let down worse than worse than a 10 year old girl at an episode of Jim’ll Fix It.

I mean it wasn’t all bad, but certainly several factors combined to provide a meteor storm of ‘waaahs’ from Sophington Towers, namely:

1.       A  unfortunate  & unexpected series of no shows at my birthday drinks, & me sat with just 1 mate for 2 hours, at a pub table reserved for 15 until my trusty comrades in booze turned up – not so much billy no mates as billy one mate for a while (& to my mates that made it, especially the one that stuck by throughout, I am ETERNALLY grateful)

2.       A row with my dad following a long standing family difficulty

3.       My new colleagues at work only remembering my birthday at about 2pm (in their defence I am relatively new, and rather were very few of us in the office, thus heaping unfair pressure on 1 or 2 people to remember)

     And I think this one is the most crucial to the ‘waah’ inducing

4.  My one PMT day of the month which made me blub like a baby at all of the above. Lets be honest, it was mostly this really.

Not sure which one is Spanky
& which one is Dickie,
but not sure it makes a difference 

Now, after doing a quick google, it turns out that this previously unknown (to me) ‘condition’ is pretty common. It’s the birthday blues, and if you won’t blow me down with a feather, I’ve never had it before. Interesting side note, The Birthday Blues is also a 1932 film featuring 2 characters called Spanky & Dickie, and if that’s not reason to smile, I don’t know what is. But I digress… again. But apparently the birthday blues are a genuine thing, certainly according to a recent scientific study which suggested that men are prone to committing suicide on or around their birthday (certainly statistically more prone than women). And furthermore, birthdays are pretty dangerous as a whole, as out of the study of 2 million people, it emerged that people are 14 per cent more likely to die on their birthday. Woohoo to that, someone get out the candles! The study didn’t mention cause, and whether it’s the stress of organising birthday parties, or the inevitable consumption of a large amount of alcohol at such events that has such an impact, but certainly it appears that the annual birthday rumble makes for pretty dangerous times!

So perhaps I should be grateful, I mean, my mates DID turn up, my Dad and I DID make up (& he was suitably chastised), my colleagues DID realise their error, subsequently loading me up with chocolate, tart and cava in an effort to make good (they succeeded), and my mum and I had a lovely meal where I introduced her to the joys of hibiscus margaritas. So not all was bad. And furthermore, contrary to the above mentioned study I DIDN’T DIE! And surely that’s got to be a good, and dare I say, a pretty glorious thing. So this week I’m chipper. I’m celebrating the fact I’ve turned one year older, and my mortail coil still remains very firmly attached, wherever it might be. Unfortunately, I’m not sure the same can be said for the grouse.

Duck & cover grousey!

Two strikes and I'm not out

Now as we all know, there’s nothing a Londoner likes to do better than grumble. And if there’s one thing they ALWAYS grumble about it’s the transport. Despite having one of the most reliable transport networks in the world, one can always hear a faint ripple of disapproval echo up an tube platform when we find out our next train is going to be A WHOLE MINUTE delayed. What is this? 1986 East Germany?? PAH! And don’t even get me started on the grumbling induced by the discomfort of having ones nose pressed up into a businessman’s sweaty armpit once one eventually crams onto the minutely delayed, crammed train. However in recent weeks there has been a fair bit to grumble about regarding transport, specifically tube strikes.

Now, I’ve grown up in London. Lived here the vast majority of my life in fact, so let it be said I have known many a transport strike. Back in the days as a child, attempting to catch her not so reliable 221 part way to school, (and kids, these were pre-oyster card days, imagine that, we had to pay actual money! IN COINS! You freebie oyster riders don’t know how good you’ve got it), strikes seemed as common as they are now, ie not actually all that common but always generating a huge amount of media coverage, mistrust and the previously mentioned disgruntlement. And while I may have aged, and my hair may have grayed (who am I kidding – may??) one thing that has more radically changed over the years is my slightly more considered thoughts about transport strikes.

Back when I was starting out, nothing enraged me more than a strike. Who did these people think they were? Damn trade unions disrupting all my plans for school/early career/ nights out on the razz*. How dare they? Then my feelings changed… I won’t go into the whys and wherefores of it (is far too dull, trust me), but needless to say I once had need of a trade union rep, and in addition to proving their worth to me they also showed to me their worth to workers as a whole.

Obviously board of catching the bus,
this chap tried another way into the office

Let us look at this strike specifically. Yes, those striking have the city by it’s short and curlies, because they offer a vital service to this great city of ours, but they also have a very valid point to make, all hidden under the rhetoric we see pumped out. Put it like this, if your employer wanted to radically change the terms and conditions of your contract under which you joined the company, without your agreement, wouldn’t you be a little pissed off? Don’t believe those muttering about tube strikers wages and holiday allowances being better than they deserve, what that most often translates as is that tube driver’s holiday and pay isn’t as much as they’d like for themselves and they’re annoyed they have to get up an hour earlier, cramming onto a bus that is more tightly packed than a French veal truck. Because what tube workers are taking action about in this particular strike, is their right to have a life dictated not by their bosses, but by themselves and their own considerations. What’s so wrong with that? Essentially tube workers don’t want to have their jobs radically altered without even a by your leave, let alone a proper consultation, and who can blame them? If your boss demanded that you suddenly work night shifts, weekends, and whatever the heck else they wanted as they are stomping over you and your employment rights in their size nines, wouldn’t you be a little annoyed and want someone to stick up for you? Of course you would!

A penny farthing for your thoughts
on the transport disruption? 

So while the rest of the country looks on, 20% part reveling in our discomfort and 80% in their own smugness for not living in ‘that there Lundun’, remember this, we work to live, we don’t live to work. And if we live by that maxim in our own lives, surely we can’t demand any different from the man or woman who drives our train, offers assistance in the ticket hall or clears up our sick if we’ve had one too many before hitting the Victoria Line on a night out (NB that was definitely not me). The thought may not have given me much comfort on my 3 and a half hour round trip commute to work today, but at least it gave me something else ponder on instead of the aroma emanating from the armpit in front of me, and quite frankly, I consider that a blessing.

* delete as appropriate but most often the latter.

p.s images wholeheartedly appropriated from the Guardian website, apologies: http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/live/2015/aug/06/tube-london-underground-strike-live-updates

Not such a hair-brained idea

You know when you have an upcoming thing that you’ve booked in to do, and then suddenly that thing is all you can see around you? Well that. That’s been going on. I’ve had something buzzing on my mind recently, or perhaps more accurately, on my head. Let me explain…

I’ve been thinking a lot about hair this week. Yes. Hair. That swishy, glossy, flip about seductively (ha! I wish!) accessory, that many women aspire to acquire at least once in her life. But why have I been thinking about this? Well partially by the fact I’ve been to the hairdressers recently, and partly because I’ve somehow stumbled across quite a lot of hairy stories. It’s funny isn’t it? It’s like you see one spider dashing for the safety of under your sofa, then you see spiders everywhere, with their skittery hairy (see, there I go again) legs akimbo, suddenly TAKING OVER YOUR LIFE! Well, this is just like that... with hair. But I digress.

Yep.That's a look!

So yes, my hair, I've had it on my mind becuse there's nothing quite like a good hairdo. It gives you a confidence, and if even only a mild fringe trim, it can transform you. I'll be honest, I may not be the swishiest in town, but I love a good hairdo. Now I must raise a conflict of interests here, I love my hairdresser, which frankly considering some of the butchers I've experienced in the past, is a bleedin miracle. But not my current hairdresser. She’s aces! She brings a smile to my face whenever I see her, probably less so that I bring one to hers when she sees the bedraggled, 'shoulda been to see her 3 months earlier’ mop that is usually adorning my bonce. You see, I’m not a regular visitor, not as much as I should be, and it usually takes a prodding from my mother, and a double check of my bank balance before I am persuaded into that chair. Which is ridiculous, because who doesn’t like the fuss, the pamper, and frankly don’t even get me started on the free wine and massage chair. Ooh, I could be there for HOURS. And, unfortunately for the state of my roots, infrequently I am. I love the hairdressers, I love our conspiratorial type discussions about what I want doing & what’s been going on in our lives, let alone positively adoring that swishy ‘just stepped outta the salon’ boost you get when you leave. And let alone that transformation!

And hair is transformative. Don’t let anyone else tell you any different, a new hairdo has the power to make you feel different, not only about yourself, but also about your life. I mentioned I am seeing hair everywhere and only this week did I hear about the Canadian ‘superhero’ doling out free haircuts on the streets of Toronto. Donning a mask, cape and tight spandex outfit (trust me, it’s a LOOK), Matthew Gesner regularly takes to the streets of Kensington Market, giving out free haircuts to the homeless in order to make a bit of difference in an otherwise pretty crappy life. What an amazing idea! But wait! He’s not alone in this phenomenon, last month the Metro reported the story of Nasir Sobhani, aka The Streets Barber (catch up with his exploits on Instagram), who similarly to his Torontonian comrade in follicles, spends his weekly day off on the streets of Melbourne, haircutting the homeless & making a difference.  Having come from a place of addiction himself, he recognizes in his client that sense of not being able to look at oneself in the mirror, and a new haircut can change all of that, saying “You already have a new-found confidence when you get a haircut, and now imagine what it’s like for someone who’s really been in a bad place in their life.” Well, quite. And what wonderful men these are to be providing transformations to those in life who perhaps feel the need for it most.

Wow,  you only have to see his face to see the transformation
(c) thestreetsbarber

So while my life is not in a really bad place, and while my new do may not be quite on the same level, there is no doubt that now my ends have been trimmed, and my, sadly grey, roots duly covered up (but only 40% grey according to my hairdresser – yay! *sighs*), I am feeling like a new woman. Now to find one me of them massage chairs, with precisely ZERO room for spiders underneath.

Ten years on....

So I may not have written in a while, but as today is one of those days of thought and reflection, it seems as good as day as any to share my thoughts with the world. 

Ten years ago today was like every other day, yet another day on the trusty steed that is the 73 bus, taking my usual humdrum commute to work. There had been talk of a potential terrorist attack on the London transport system in the news in previous months, talk had been going on for years in fact, and especially so since the Madrid bombings of the previous year. But this is London, there is ALWAYS talk of terrorist attacks. There has been ever since I was a kid, IRA bomb scares were the norm rather than the exception, so I was well used to living with threat. Even so, I clearly remember one day in 2004, a Metro newspaper blaring the headline that an attack on the underground was 'expected and imminent’. It was in that moment that I was convinced of the need to move somewhere where I could catch buses on my daily commute instead of tubes, and was I ever grateful because on this day, 10 years ago, that headline was came true.

As we all know, on that momentous day, 4 men set off to put fear in our hearts, while simultaneously ripping the hearts out of the lives of 52 sets of family and friends. And yes, they did scare us, but not forever. We would get back on our tubes again, we would ride our buses back and forth to work, to our friends, to our family, because what they instilled in us was courage, not fear.

These 4 men tried to divide us, setting us against our neighbours, our fellow commuters. But when I walked home that day from central London, walking along with thousands of others, all I saw was unity, not division. The unity of strangers helping strangers navigate their way through crowded streets thronged with office refugees outside of their usual 9-5 existence. The unity of pub landlords and customers, barmen defying stereotypes by handing out free drinks to all and sundry on a scorching summer’s day, the sun all bold and beautiful in the blue sky contradicting the shockingly dark turn of the day. The unity of my friends, coming together unasked for, drifting in their dribs and drabs to our collective home from home, our local pub beer garden. That unity was not what they set out to achieve. 

I think perhaps what those 4 heartless men did not consider is this is London, and no one gets to do that to London. This is the London that has been relentlessly multicultural since way back when, since beyond that year, beyond that decade, heck even beyond the last century and so many before that. This is the London that has fallen prey to terrorists before, but it has never fallen victim, and ten years on, I know this to be true. I knew it to be true as I looked into the faces of my fellow passengers on the way into work this morning, and I’ll know it to be true as I travel into work tomorrow morning, and every morning thereafter. We may be wary but we’re not weary, unnerved perhaps but undeterred, we are not divided nor are we conquered. That's because we are Londoners, made up of people from every corner of the globe and while we remain Londoners, blitz spirit & all, we will not let them win. 

Jeff, Pete and Chelsea too

It’s that time of year again where I tend to feel grossly inadequate. Well, maybe I exaggerate but I’m not far off the mark. You see, not only has spring well and truly sprung, but it’s Chelsea Flower Show time, that bastion of green fingers, RHS membership wielding people in macs knocking back bottles of booze like it’s a PTA fundraising quiz, and well, flowers & gardens… and this is where the inadequacy comes in.

Pete the Palm

I’ve grown up around gardens see, my mum has the greenest of fingers, and the loveliest of gardens. Unfortunately while green fingers may be her anatomical forte her back isn’t. It’s like a barometer of gardening. You don’t need the BBC weather to tell you when it’s sunny outside, just a chat to see if she’s put her back out recently, for sure as eggs is eggs, when the weather is nice mum is outside gardening… and 2 days later laid up in bed with back pain from crouching down to pull out those accursed weeds that inevitably sneak past her Gaealike guard in winter months. And she’s not the only one with the gardening genes, my cousin Maddie also has a keen interest in all things green. Unfortunately, it’s more grey than green at the moment, possibly due to an aesthetic choice, though I hazard it's more likely due to a house by the sea & a stiff salty breeze. Either ways, I’m sure that will be rectified soon, why so? Well mostly cos they’ve all been off to Chelsea with their mates this week and boy am I jealous.

Being like many people my age (& income) living in London, a garden is an aspiration way out of my reach, for now at least. It’s one of those things other people have, you know, the ones with more years, income and children in the grand building society of life. But for now it is  something I can only yearn for, which is a real shame because as we all know, plants are good for you. According to them white coated, green fingered science boffins (science people are ALWAYS boffins), gardening is good for you. It reduces blood pressure while simultaneously increasing brain activity & a general sense of well being (boffins sadly don’t mention mum’s back however). Plants themselves offer numerous benefits, they improve air quality, reduce stress (with the exception of anyone trying to grow pumpkins on their windowsill that is… more on that later), they make people calmer & happier, they pump out oxygen and research states that when used in shopping malls, they can increase shopper stay-time by half an hour. Now my humble abode is no Mall of America, nor do I wish to bribe people into staying longer for dinner simply by the subtleties of my glistening foliage, but apart from that, these all seem like Very Good Things, which is why my lack of gardening skills saddens me so.

The Sophington Towers Hothouse starring 
Jeff stage left, Spike stage right

I’ve tried gardening but more often than not that trying has gone hand in hand with failing… spectacularly. From old shared houses where we tried to grow a green luscious lawn each year without fail (except we did fail… no doubt in part due to the presents left to us by our generous neighbours), to some equally rubbish university experiments with my flatmates to bloom something more ‘home grown’ shall we say. And let us not forget the random trial of potted pumpkins several years ago. Who was I to know that pumpkins needed to trail their vines and weren’t best suited to a windowsill?  I currently have a collection of green growers, including friendship plants, the odd phallically shaped cactuses (cacti?) as well as a very green thing I’ve called Jeff and his mates Pete the Palm & Spike the umm, well unknown spiky plant. So I’m trying, honestly I am. But due to the evidence of many plant deaths in my growing history, my fear is that it is surely only a matter of time before Jeff & co. depart to the great garden in the sky. I worry that the green fingers may be skipping a generation, but I'm resolved. This year it’s going to be different. This year, inspired by my cousin, mum & their chums’ glorious Chelsea pictures on Facebook, I’ve made a new resolution… Try harder, MUCH harder, if only so I can practice for when I’m grown up, with my mum’s green fingered reputation to protect.  Will I succeed? Who knows, I can only hope so for the sake of Jeff, Spike, Pete & their other leafy chums. Come talk to me in a year and we can see the results, in the meantime I’m off to pot up some seedlings and get my watering can out. 

Photosynthesis? No, photosynthesize THAT Jeff.

My windowsill pumpkin. Squash by name, squashed by nature

.