Two Months on the Trainline of Tyranny
When I crashed my car back in early December whilst driving along a country lane I remember quite clearly what went through my head when I stepped out of the only door which still opened to survey the wreckage and wonder at the miracle of German engineering; “Oh God I am going to have to start getting the train again.” Since passing my test on my fourth attempt I have done everything within my power to never have to darken the door of public transport again. Rather than getting on the last bus home or taking the train down to London or up North to Manchester I chose the comfort, safety and reliability of my car every time. Whether I had to put up with roadworks, boy racers who lack the skill to keep up with a lady racer or BMW drivers who insist on riding up your behind no matter what, I always took comfort in the fact that at least I was not having to ride the trains.
There was once a time when I enjoyed boarding the train. It was about eight years ago when midland mainline in their wisdom put on a service which rode its passengers directly from Leicester straight through to Manchester. As I was due to start at the University of Manchester come September I was delighted and even made use of it a few times to check out my new city-to-be. At the time they still offered free cups of tea and coffee and even the odd entertaining magazine all for a fairly reasonable price of £18 so long as you remembered your railcard. Unfortunately the tea and coffee was cut, some wise guy accountant decided this was actually the cause of a 0.001% reduction in profits and knowing that the poor commuters would have little choice other than to pay the price or get up earlier in order to make up a flask of the good stuff they pushed through the skinflint measure knowing they could charge us with little fear of a French style rebellion. Midland Mainline kept the service going until about two months after I began my course when they decided there just wasn’t the demand. It was just enough time for me to get used to the joy of being only two hours from my home town of Market Harborough and for the rest of my time there I was forced to crowd on to the train services to Sheffield like a low breed cattle into carriages so over-packed I came close to fainting for want of air on more than one occasion.
I have been in long distance relationships for most of my adult years and ever since this service came to an end in 2003 I have loathed getting the train. If it wasn’t problems with overcrowding or overcharging there would be an issue with engineering works which were always conducted during the weekend when they would put on buses but never think to lower the fares to compensate those of us crushed into coaches which should have been decommissioned back when the railways were built.
It was because of these horrendous experiences with the rail network that I spent thousands of pounds on driving lessons and tests. As the daughter of a man who owned a car dealership it was a bit of a joke that I reached the age of 24 before I was able to get behind the wheel, but once I was there I never wanted to leave.
When my father told me it would be possibly weeks if not months before I would get my car back or even before he would let me drive it I cried, a lot. In spite of my crocodile tears and diva like protests that trains are more dangerous than cars due to the quantity of drunks and suicide bombers even he would not budge.
He thinks I crashed because I was going too fast and has decided ice was not at issue. Apparently it has something to do with physics and the speed one has to be going at to roll a car three times and spin it, but its all Greek to me and as far as I knew I took the corner at a cruise worthy speed and if it hadn’t been for the frost this article would not be being written. But it is and I am sitting here on a train to Manchester having spent nearly five hundred pounds on train travel in the last two months and seeing as I have had to board nearly every rail service provider in Britain I feel I am well equipped to report on my findings of the state of the rail network as it stands today.
When I started getting the train again I decided I was in a unique position to really take a good look at how rail has changed in the 18 months since I was last a regular weekend commuter. The first journey admittedly was delightful. For the first time in months I had three lovely hours all to myself. I kept coming across magazines and newspapers and for once I was able to read more than just the headlines and the starting paragraph; fine if it’s The Express not fine if it’s The Guardian or The Independent, they usually spend the first paragraph telling you about the atmospheric weather and scenery surrounding stories of supposedly hard news and it is not usually till you reach the fourth paragraph that you find out you are reading about an especially intelligent canine who is the first ever recorded smiling dog. 
I was even able to indulge myself on the Virgin trains in a very small bottle of red wine which was delightful and I got squiffy enough to strike up a conversation with some poor soul from The Times who let slip about a certain head of states lawyer giving him a tinkle to tell him he’d better not publish or damned indeed he would be.
The problem came when I wanted to return home on a Sunday, it was complete and utter pandemonium. Every time I have tried to travel back on a Sunday I have been faced with late trains, cancelled services, crotchety train staff and a constant stream of misinformation. One particularly memorable journey occurred on January 14th. I had an appointment with a consultant in Leicester the next day which I had been waiting for since September so I had no choice but to navigate my way through the tussle of trains and buses to get back in time. I had been avoiding Sunday services because I couldn’t bear to get on the coaches or que outside Piccadilly Station for a place on a bus that may not ever come free. 
As it was I had somehow managed to find a service which would get me home for a fairly reasonable time and after playing a particularly ferocious game of scrabble; where thimbles of Krupnik had rendered the normal rules of play redundant; I set off to the station with my partner to get a train which required as far as we knew no buses.
After waiting at Mauldeth Road to the point where it became clear the train was not coming; not you understand because there was an announcement, but because everyone there concluded that fifteen minutes after it was due to depart there really was little chance it was going to get there in time for us to make our connections; we all ran from the platform in search of a taxi to hot-foot us to Piccadilly. 
Unfortunately the roads were packed and though the people I managed to herd into my taxi made their connection I was left stranded at Piccadilly with no way of getting home. When I got to Manchester station I was all in a flutter and on the verge of tears but hopeful I would find some explanation for my abandonment in the cold. I spoke with the man at the information desk only to be treated like a partially sighted toddler who informed me in the most patronising tone imaginable that there had been signs up in Piccadilly for months about service changes, “but I wasn’t at Piccadilly I was at Mauldeth Road.” I spurted agitatedly. He rolled his eyes and suggested I find another means of transport.
Northern Rail finally found a way for me to get home but it was all very touch and go and was dependent on those at Derby station taking me into their care and paying for a taxi to get me home. They did, but only as far as Leicester station in a taxi with the most racist person I have ever encountered. An Asian girl who had been smoking with her boyfriend at the station who felt the need to lecture me about the dreadful Polish people who are apparently stealing all our jobs. “And where in England were you born?” I politely enquire of her. “China,” she answered; but I live here now, I work for gas company”. 
I turn my head to look out the window and chew my lip to stop myself replying thinking of my car and the joy of driving with only myself for company and whichever DJ I choose to accompany me on the miles.
Other than delays over these two months I have encountered rude staff, cutbacks on the use of debit cards to pay for snacks on Virgin and Midland Mainline and constant overcrowding. If there is ever a rude passenger who is causing discomfort he or she will generally be ignored by the train managers who somehow lack the courage to confront drunken louts and noise polluting pubescent teens. I come across staff at a Midland Mainline buffet car who are happy to tell me that they get paid handsomely helped in part by the cut backs of the free coffee and tea which I once loved so much.
There has to be something done about the state of the rail-network. Until the government intervenes to stop these constant hikes in prices without improvements to delays, overcrowding and general service there is no way anyone would ever choose to board a train when they can drive to the majority of destinations for a third of the price charged by the service providers. It is unclear what we as a collective can do but as individuals the time has come for us to bombard our MP with complaints and whatever you do if you find yourselves left waiting without explanation in the cold or abandoned at the platform when you get to your destination make sure that the first thing you do is ask for a complaints form, fill it in and send it off.
Errors – A Rumour In Africa
Release Date 22/02/2010 (Rock Action Recored)
By Elinor O’Neill
As one listens to A Rumour In Africa, it is not the coming world cup, the political turmoil within, or the vast plains of the African nations which come to mind. What one thinks of is jumping out of an aeroplane in Australia or New Zealand or some other god awful backpacker occupied island.
Not, you understand, because you are jumping from the plane in a bid to escape listening to the mind numbing rift which filters through the track to invade your cranium, creating an irritation akin to a fat child kicking your seat all the way from the UK to the USA.
It does not have a hard enough beat to make it dance worthy, but if your head has been mushed up by mood enhancers from the first three letters of the alphabet, you may enjoy its lyric lacking beat.
It is not nice to have so little nice things to say about a track but when the band describe themselves on their profile page as “Four guys without any spark of talent”, one feels the guilt lift a little.
As the track continues, occasionally daring to bring in some interesting sections, you slowly realise that unfortunately, you are not partaking in a parachute dive or even politely watching a video of a friend doing so. At least if you were there would be a chance to slip out to “use the loo”, or alternatively of dying mid jump so there is a less painful end to Errors musical suicide.
Day 51 – Vintage swing, a sixties shimmy and side effects side-lined at last
Today’s dress is fantastically floral and sixties style short, it was brought by the boy as a valentine’s Day gift, the Marks and Spencer fair trade roses fluttered a few days but are now largely dead and finished. He brought it for me from a really great vintage shop in Manchester’s Northern Quarter along with three other dresses. 
The manager and the staff there are absolute legends and really seem to enjoy being surrounded by the beauty of such wonderful clothes. One wonders around trying not to grab and cuddle up to every item of clothing within. After a not so successful chat with Oxfam’s manager about possible dress donations my attempt to get the manager on board was rather more half hearted but she was an absolute doll, said she’d take a look at the site and as the boy is a bit Brassica at the moment gave us the dresses for £20 rather than the £35. It is a really great shop, Best Vintage for those who are about the area and comes out at the top of the vintage boutiques because they are neither uppity or ripping offity. 
The images today do not really do the dress justice which is completely my fault. My super-star friend, Ms Clayton returned from rehearsals down South in a pink taxi at nine this evening and we all had a lovely night out with some old friends from our gang who had come up from London. 
Myself and the boy are as I mentioned the wrong side of the poverty line at the moment and added to this the frequent phantom pharting of the men at the table beside us we decided to head back to our place rather than bust a move in town. The boy and his house-mates after living together for more than five years are finally splitting up and when the boy myself, the super star Clayton and her boy and band member got home we had a right old giggle at everything and nothing and it did make me a little sad that soon these impromptu back room gatherings will be a thing of the past.
Today I have been all over the place, as the side effects have started to fade from the new invasive mood stabilizers I was in a buzzing mood and at times I felt wonderfully high. Singing, teasing and dancing about I felt better than I had in weeks and when we were out unlike last week I felt connected and present and genuinely had a great time without ever having to force a smile. 
The dress was great fun to wear and though it was naughty short by shimmering up the stairs and ensuring no one was in the vicinity when I was crawling around the floor trying to find the right shoe of any suitable pair I prevented traumatising anyone with an eyeful.
We were out tonight with some of our oldest friends and though me and the boy have talked about the idea of living together I really do miss the days when we got together when we lived with our own fantastic friends who were a constant source of fun. I never felt lonely because in both my house and the boys there was always someone to horse around with. The boy lived with six other guys and we would play cards, pro-evo or just sing into the early hours. Even during the day there was always someone to watch one of my movies for my American film studies module and at my house I would play-fight with the boys and we would tease each other to the point of psychosis. 
One particularly strong memory is when three weeks into our dissertations both the boys ran into my room and declared it was party time, switching my stereo on to the Beach Boys whilst we all surfed on my double bed or the numerous chairs I had around the room ready for Sunday brunch. I don’t miss being a student but I miss student living and I miss my friends all being in the same place, being a grown up sucks.
Day 50 – Urgh Uggs, because enough is enough
Right this is going to annoy a few people, but enough is enough, as many of you may see from the photo on the left the Ugg problem; which is frankly just as important and unpleasant to view as the obesity problem; is being taken to a whole new level of hideousness. Usually I am not a huge fan of those ridiculous lists of what is in and what is not but if they were currently only publishing this on them as the only thing going down to the core of the earth I would change my opinion of them. 
Uggs it seems are encouraging their wearers to find equally unattractive clothing to accompany them. Gone are the cute little legs with thick black tights and a cute skirt, gone even are the front rump phenomena causing leggings, this monstrosity is it seems the only way to accessories something so bloody ugly. I am informed by Heat, that these things are jeggings or loggers but as far as I am concerned they are saggy elephant bottom pants. There has now been two occasions at the train station that have forced me to realise that the Ugg problem is worse than I had thought. The other day I saw a child who had been given Uggs and not even the actual Uggs themselves but fake Uggs. Good lord I thought, the poor tot is having her tootsies corrupted before she even has a chance to beg for heelage. 
The other incident was during the snow season where I kept coming across examples of fully grown women wearing Uggs which were so filthy I was under the impression they had developed foot rot. 
Now before I upset too many people, Uggs are fine for the odd occasion when the weather is fine, but as soon as it rains they are best kept indoors with one’s dressing gown as they are essentially slippers. I only wear a dressing gown out of the house to bring something in from the car, and even then I will wear my Chinese silk dressing gown rather than my fluffy baby blue comfort cloak, equally one must apply this rule to slippers and dare I say it flip-flops.
I have in the past seen some men say they do not mind women in Uggs. They are usually saying this for the same reason a man tells you he loves you after one date, they want to get inside one’s delicates. When a man decides he wants to explore the secret world of a woman and get into the whole transsexual scene the first order he puts in for a size 12 is not a pair of sandy colored Uggs, it is for a beautiful pair of silk stilettos with delicate detailing and fine stitching.
I recently saw a man in Glamour compare Uggs to, coital kryptonite which give the impression of waterlogged ankles.
Regardless of what men say however we have a duty not to upset our fellow citizens by the way we dress. 
I can not bear the site of men walking round in the summer with their bellies out and on display with their hairy fluff fest chests and it is time we acted to stop Uggs filling our beautiful world with similar unsightliness.
Yesterday whilst shopping for vintage bits and bobs with one of my Northern friends who is very stylish and understands the importance of putting ones best foot, face and frock forward we came across in Flannels outlet store in the Northern Quarter in Manchester we came upon some shoes by Gucci, Prada and even Missoni which were reduced by up to 70%. Each one was an individual work of art and as the bouncer like security guard watched me I nearly cried when I slipped my unworthy foot into it asking my friend why it was that people would wear Uggs when there were such beautiful alternatives. 
For those of you who can not part from the comfort of the flat-footed shoe, I do not blame you, I haven’t felt my feet for years so I can happily run, skip, dance and duel in the highest of shoes but I understand that many women and indeed men struggle to master the art of walking in a heel and there is nothing quite as ugly as a woman wearing a shoe she can not walk in. There are alternatives to Uggs, I suggest getting yourself down to Dune or L K Bennett for some exceptionally long-lasting alternatives or even Kurt Geiger which will seriously last you a short lifetime. If you can not part with Uggs, please try not to wear them with something equally as Ugly and never for the sake of the memory of Jackie O and Coco Chanel, never ever wear saggy elephant bottom pants or worse still ever pair them with a beautiful piece of clothing. Dresses wherever possible, particularly lovely little black ones like the above (£3 from another sample sale) should be worn with the best possible accessories, otherwise it’s just cruel, to yourself as well as the innocent dress.
Day 49 – Slinky, sleepy, silky, city
Today’s dress is gorgeous. I am a little biased as it is one of my own but I really am a massive fan, it is another Calvin Klein masterpiece and getting back to the idea of the memory of material wearing this dress reminds me of some really very happy times. It has slouchy pockets in the side which make me feel wonderfully casual whilst the fit prevents me from looking too busty and having a repeat of last night whilst the colour is terrific. I brought it back from the states and it reminds me of walking round New York by myself and with some very good friends taking in the atmosphere of possibility that smoulders from the subways below and the sky-rises above; or maybe that was just the heat and the smog. 
I loved New York, we had been on the rail for so long and had so many mini stops that since Chicago we hadn’t really had a chance to just relax and take in a place. I went travelling with two of my best boyfriends, the boy as I have said is not the jealous type and my boys find me completely asexual. One of my favorite times was when we all took a day away from each other to go explore by ourselves. I am a sucker for nostalgia and theatre and took the opportunity to walk down 14th street as the good Rufus Wainwright himself had once done. 
It was terrific, I put the tune on my iPod soaked it all up and then sat in a park, people watching and drinking cups of coffee and bagels for what felt like an age. I walked around the harbour at the front and looked at the memorial to all the Irish people who came here during the famine after they were abandoned by their brethren in Britain. I felt extremely emotional knowing a lot of my relatives had fled here at the time and was struck by the beauty of the place and how they must have felt arriving off a hideous ship-ride with dreams of a new world which turned out to be very like the old but with a constant stream of positive propoganda telling them to never complain because their dream was only just around the corner.
I also went shopping and this was of course when I came across this petroleum shirt dress and feel head over heels in love. Without the boys to tell me I looked fat in it I was able to buy it with minimal banter and when I wore it on our last night they even told me I looked nice, a compliment indeed.
I have also worn this dress on two other occasions which stand out, to weddings of family and friends. Friends of mine and the boys, Ellen and Matt, got married soon after I returned from the states. It was wonderful to see them get it together and was so brilliant having our gang back together for the first time since University days had ended.
In a marquee at Ellen’s parents home in the New Forest, we stayed in a ridiculously overpriced hotel and spent a fortune on gifts and getting there, but it was all completely worth it, they are lovely people and there was no way we could have missed it, even though I had just blown most of my life savings on a flailing economy. We danced the night away and all felt very wild young and free, albeit somewhat coupled up. Ellen looked totally fabulous and though it rained the day was not at all ruined and in a handmade dress which was more incredible than any I have ever seen before with hair trailing down her back like Rapunzel the two of them got married in a ceremony where The Velveteen Rabbit was read out as a sermon whilst one of our friends played the guitar for music.
The other wedding I went to was in Ireland, and of course, there was rain. Irish weddings are terrific, and they are undoubtedly larger than the average English wedding in attendance seeing as the average Irish person has around 50 first cousins alone. It was the wedding of my oldest cousin, Stephen and his bride Rosin and I believe everyone’s favorite part other than the lovey dovey stuff was when the bride got up on stage to sing along with the groom who plays the drums in their covers band. Irish weddings are also big on dancing, there is no opportunity to sit down for more than one song at any time during the night. If you are a girl, a woman, a man, or basically anyone with the ability to move one limb you will be dragged to the dance floor again and again until you flop to the floor exhausted. It is terrific because the Irish well-known for their generosity do not scrimp on the food so by the time the music starts we usually have one hell of a waistband to burn off.
Today I wore the dress with my mothers beautiful silky red top she had when she was my age. It feels like liquid gold on your skin and as my eczema is playing up today it is a welcome relief to have something not woolen or scratchy against my skin. The boy has to go to practice and so I join a friend from my course, another Northern beauty named Anna from the part-time NCTJ who is a pretty hot writer, to go to a pub quiz. Admittedly I feel rather over dressed so don my wooly homeless look beret and green casual patent Kurt courts. The quiz turns out to be the worst I have ever been to in my life, including the one where my American studies lecturer was there and got to see just how little studying I had ever done during the literature round, in my defence who goes in for a nine am lecture?
To be fair the quiz was held in the Democratic Republic of Chorlton, where they pride themselves on being green and a bit alternative but this is just plain ridiculous. There are pretty much no normal pub rounds, even the picture round involves specific TV shows from 1997 and at one stage we have to draw a shield, write a letter to the lottery winners (mine kicks ass by the by) and come up with an emblem. I love the pub, it is Irish and makes me wish I was with my parents back across the Irish Sea not in rainy Manchester trying to keep warm and sneak away from the worlds worst quiz, but I am with a friend and so it all seems rather funny though I cannot deny I am glad to get back home to the boy for a cuddle and a good gossip. Unfortunately though the side effects are at large again and before I know it is 4am and I am lying awake and alone having missed out on the chitter chatter I love so much wearing a silk nightie not my pretty dress, I bloody hate Quetiapine.
Lawrence Arabia and Beach House Review
Islington Mill, Salford. 11/02/2010
By Elinor O’Neill
There is something wonderfully mysterious about attending a gig at the Islington Mill. Everyone has heard of it before but no one is sure if it still exists or if it does where exactly it is. Every taxi I clamber in to I am faced with a driver who dithers for a few minutes before coming clean that without a postcode he has no idea how to get there. Three taxis and the end of my tether later I am forced to 118 it and armed with the name of the road and with my driver being talked through the directions from base because he trusts not his tom-tom I arrive at the venue with minutes to spare only to find the door is still closed.
It all feels mysteriously cloak and dagger especially as I meet my companion for the evening; who I have only contacted through email in the past; under the light of a lamp post as I search for clues of how to get within and he tries to find a match for his cigarette. We conclude we have both been previously but struggle to remember what it was like as one rarely arrives at Islington Mill in a sensible state and when the bouncers finally open we stalk inside curious about the delights the venue will hide.
Inside the mill it is like a tunnel from a horror movie which one must run endlessly along haunted as much by one’s pursuer as the dreadful lighting. We are in Salford now and I conclude normal regulations do not apply as I spot that the grainy black and white projections of images of photos of bands long broken apart are laid up on the wall with the aid of an ancient machine held above us with little more than parcel string.
The mill is packed out and it is the crowd which I find get me glowing before the warm up act have even begun. There are business executives, lawyers, high street chain employees wearing name badges, members of the gay community, students, kids and gentlemen of all ages; I even see what appear to be tradesmen in high-vis jackets.
Laurence of Arabia the support act come on to a promising start with a voice which is amplified by the gritty bare walls and dusty floors. I want them to call out echo, but instead they announce they have broken a string and in a slap-stick start to the evening, Tom, who we are told is integral to the act disappears off like Rambo to remedy the problem.
The first two songs concern me as I worry that in spite of their friendly demeanour and brilliant vocals the lyrics are lacking a little on The Crew Of The Commodore however their third song, a swift improvisation to save face whilst we wait for Tom is cracking. With the chorus, “You Beautiful Militant” and lines like “Domestics are Breaking out/ Consumer rights are consuming you/ There’s ants in your sugar and ants in your tea they show they are unafraid to break away from clichés in their music and put out a bit of a message in an entertaining way without jarring some really very jolly tunes.
They have been compared in the past to the TV show Flight Of The Concords as they too are from New Zealand and it is a comparison they have not taken too happily too; “That one TV show has ruined our entire country.” Although it is this show which means I no longer consider their country to be an island of Australia, their performance and humour in the face of the many stage snags which include a faulty microphone, a missing guitarist and of course the snapping string mean they are far more suited to comparisons to Beirut and even particularly during their syruppy harmonies, the Beach Boys than the cult TV series.
When the gallant Tom re-enters the set during Apple Pie Bad which has some really heart warming harmonies you get the sense of fun and camaraderie between them as mid-song they let out a collective sigh of relief before taking the song in a different direction. At times I am on the verge of irritation at how many directions their music runs off in during the course of one song but they are enough in command to mesh it skilfully back together making a maple syrup enhanced buttered waffle which is most definitely good.
Before Beach house get started I scan the stage looking for the headline act and spot a man dressed in nautical navy gear and conclude this must be the voice of Beach House, because of this when the lights dim and a slender whippet like beauty with huge endearing eyes takes to the ancient keyboard coated in white fluff at the centre of the stage I am slightly put out. Why is the lead singer lurking at the back, who is this impostor?
As she launches into the first song however my doubts are silenced, coming from this hair cloaked cherub is a voice so powerful it can only be she who is the lead singer in this band. She has such incredible stage presence that the other band members though both brilliant and diverse in their craft fade into the background and by the time Norway starts I feel a pull of euphoria so strong I close my eyes and am overcome with the desire to lie back into the field of poppies which surely surround me. Luckily a teen-bopper spills his disco juice down my cream coat and I remember I am in a derelict mill in Salford.
As I practice self-control I am released from the spell enough to observe my fellow gigians all of whom seem to be equally trapped in the haze of her strong vocals. It really is hard to believe the scope of this girl’s sound and all around me people are closing their eyes and swaying with their partners utterly mesmerised.
Thanks to the venues natural ability to lend an atmosphere of antiquity to every act as my companion said there were times he was convinced he had fallen back in time to a club in 20th century Berlin. The tracks merge together and though I miss the banter we were treated to by Laurence of Arabia it does mean the mood is maintained throughout and during Heart of Chambers I feel a melancholy so strong I wonder whether Magnolia and Vanilla Sky should be remade to incorporate a sound which is far superior in its pull on one’s heart strings than Sigur Ros.
The heat of the place rises as everyone packs in to get closer to the set which is so bare and simple you feel as though you are watching them play from inside a photograph of the dust bowls of America during the depression. The sound is earnest and with little reliance on gadgets, gismos and stunts the performance is stripped to the sound of Beach House which is utterly stunning.
Day 48 – Mysterious strangers in motion calming down the commotion and one hell of a Valentines day gift
Today’s dress was brought for me not by a mysterious stranger but by one of my most generous friends, she is like father christmas but all through the year and is always the first to put her hand in her wallet and the last to complain about parting with cash for the sake of treating friends to a coffee, a bottle of wine, baby clothes or in this case a pretty dress to keep the project alive.
We once had an argument back when I was ten-years-old, I can’t remember exactly what she said, it usually comes to me after a couple of glasses of wine but this being the first day of lent I am stone cold sober and all I remember is that I think she may have insulted my cardigan which was white and knitted and I cried. Anyway back then I was well-known for my mood swings and my darling sisters coined the wonderful and truly inventive song to compliment my sudden sulks which was; “see-saw, mardjeri-door, Ellie’s gone off in a mardi.” Kids can be so cruel.
Anyway thanks to my ability to sulk and us being placed on different buses and in different half of the year at school it wasn’t until upper sixth when we were learning, mainly how to drink, that we crossed paths again. She had a bit of a thing for one of my friends and as she was a lot of fun and her friends clearly lacked the staying power and general hilarity factor of my circle we adopted her and since then she has been one of my best friends and my closest, in proximity (she lives just down the road) and “emotionally”, Harborian friend.
Today has been a bit of an odd one, most of the time I have felt great, really happy and quite positive but I have also been rather frantic at times. 
I am getting a little tired of going up and down the country and am feeling torn between my two homes and missing the security of waking up in the morning and knowing whether I am beside my darling boy or at home in a single bed reaching out for a warm body which isn’t there. 
Also the side effects have started once more due to the increase in medication and it is truly one of the worst so far, nausea. On the train I am constantly holding my stomach trying to settle it and ignore the hot and cold flushes which keep coming over me.
Arriving at the train station all a flutter I find the ticket machine has failed me once again and knowing I can get a ticket on the train with my railcard if this is the case I board without really thinking. It is not until I get to Sheffield that I realise I have not got my railcard or my ticket with me and that my debit card is still up in Manchester. It is rubbish because I start to go red and realise I am going to have to face the full wrath of the train manager. After speaking to my Mum and telling her what is going on she tells me not to worry as the peak district is very pretty so I can take the opportunity to be at one with nature, thankfully I go through a tunnel at this point so am spared any more positive prattle. 
The train manager turns out to be a darling, extremely understanding and issues me with a not paid slip and refuses to take my laptop as a down payment. I have just started to settle down and am in the middle of finishing the final few paragraphs of my carefully constructed feature on the state of the railway network when I am accosted by the mysterious stranger. She asks me whether I know the lady who was sitting next to me in what is it must be said a rather urgent aggressive tone. I tell her I have no idea who the lady is but she persists in questioning me and just when I am about to start crying for fear I have become involved in a low-budget crime movie I remember the lady in question had been speaking to the man opposite us and like a traitor I point at him and cry, “He knows her.” The heat is instantly taken off of me, it turns out she is a ticket dodger and that the mysterious stranger is just trying to protect the kindly train manger who has a good heart.
The mysterious stranger later checks to see if I have survived the difficult ordeal and after I jokingly mention that the two of us should receive citizens award for policing the railway she mutters something about well I was ready to pull it out. Good god I think, I am fraternising with a bloody terrorist. Luckily it turns out she is in-fact a copper not as I had thought just another nosy sod like myself. 
I must admit it really reassured me to know there are people on the trains looking out for us. Though I am pretty sure she was just in transit herself and was not necessarily an undercover transport cop, I was impressed that this lady had gone above and beyond her duty to protect a lovely lady who was being taken advantage of.
The dress I am wearing today is from Next and I must say due to the nausea and the ridiculous cleavage and tummy room it gives one I am not surprised when during the Midlake gig when I have to run to le loo at one point to be sick people are happy to let me back through afterwards assuming I must be as the boy so joyfully puts it, up the duff. Later on the bus home from the gig the nausea comes on once again and in spite of having drunk nothing but delicious Mancunian water I have to sit with my head in my hands with the window open. I am upset because a girl in front of me watches me judgementaly and mutters loudly enough so I can hear to her boyfriend about girls who can’t handle their alcohol. I’m more upset for her than anything as I often find that women who lack confidence in themselves are more likely to turn on other girls and unfortunately I think it hadn’t helped that her boyfriends rattish eyes were drawn to my cleavage. I try not to care and for once I manage to hold my tongue, but I am disappointed in this fellow member of my fair sex and feel sorry for my cleavage which really wasn’t doing any harm to anyone.
Day 48 – The last day before lent
Today has been one of those days where my mood lifts but only for a short period at a time, much like the periods during which I managed to find a live stream of the United match the highs are short lived and unsatisfyingly fuzzy. I blame the dress; although it is gorgeous; a mac design by Topshop which has to be pinned together at the bottom to stop any Cheryl Cole esq front rump, (yes I know she is having a hard time but really why did this mean we had to see so much of her) but even still I am not a fan. It is partly because I feel I look too healthy to be wearing it, the last time I wore it I was decidedly more slender. The other reason is that wearing it reminds me of a bad decision I once made in it when I had too much to drink and trusted someone to look after me who was a friend, but isn’t any longer.
The details are unnecessary but it is foolish decisions like this and my tendency to feel low for days after if I have had too much that has led me to want to give the booze a rest during lent. I am not giving it up as such, I find that as soon as I give something up it is all I can think about so I am going to treat alcohol in much the same way as I did cigarettes. I’m not giving up, I’m just not having it at the moment. This way I don’t put myself under too much pressure and if I fancy a glass of wine one night or am out for a friend’s birthday I wont feel the need to be a total kill-joy. I just feel I need to get back to the point when I have a limit on what I can drink which I know suits me and which I can stick to. . 
The last time I tried to give alcohol up for lent I was in an incredibly intense but simultaneously extremely destructive relationship. I was utterly in love with the guy, not at first but he wore me down and eventually I let myself go to him. 
Unfortunately when I met him I had just recovered from my first episode of depression and having left my first boyfriend I was vulnerable and although the euphoria of falling in love at first kept the lows at bay, once they returned he couldn’t cope especially when I drank to try to get me back to what everyone expected me to be, fun.
To be fair to him he was younger than me by a year and prior to meeting me was widely known as a man who played the field. It was inevitable that something so intense would end in tears, and it did when he got with someone else whilst I was back at home trying to put myself back together. I had sunk too low and he wanted to be with the girl I was when we had first got together, I tried desperately to get her back but with being away from home and a doctor that was keeping an eye on my moods I couldn’t lift myself and so understandably he went elsewhere.
What was so strange is that when I decided to knock the booze on the head for lent he brought me a shot of vodka and placed it in front of me. I don’t know why, perhaps he too hoped the drink would cheer me up and it did if only for a time. After things fell apart, as all destructive relationships do, I was left a sad little soul and it wasn’t until a year later that I really began to recover from our affair. Eventually I got my drinking back under control, I learned what my limits were and avoided drinks that had a tendency to send me tearful and other times just chose not to drink.
The one person who helped me throughout this period was a boy I lived with in my flat in the halls I was President of at the time. He was a muslim who was enjoying his first taste of freedom, loved getting down to R&B as I did and cooked the nicest curry I have ever had in my life. He also shared my insomnia patterns and so we would stay up watching Godfather together and playing silly computer games and pranks. He kept an eye on me and never let me unravel too far and even put up with my pathetic tears. If it wasn’t for him I think I had the potential at the time to fall into full-blown alcoholism simply to escape the hurt and sadness which had as much to do with my mental health at the time as it did with the humiliation of being publicly betrayed.
What my friend taught me which was extremely important at the time was first and foremost to hang on; that I needed to get my confidence back because I was a good person I just couldn’t see it. The other was why it is that we give stuff up during lent and the importance of sharing ones wealth for one’s happiness. During Ramadan I joined with him in his fast, unfortunately I only lasted two days because of my delicate disposition, my low blood pressure and my tendency to faint if I stand for too long. What the experience and my friend taught me is that we give things up to recognise how much we have available to us. although for me it is essentially a religous tradition it is equally a chance for me to reflect and be grateful on all I have.
He also told me about how it is the done thing in the muslim world (and forgive me seriously if I am getting this wrong I am happy to be corrected but this is what I remember) to give 10% of ones earnings to the poor. I always thought it was such a brilliant idea as if we are lucky enough to have money why not share it. Even when I’ve had jobs that paid I’ve always been struck with how much I have compared to how much I need. 
The boy told me I was crazy when I suggested this to him as he pointed out that tax means I don’t need to give it away as someone will do it for me but it is a nice idea and I hope i will one day get paid again so I can carry it through.
For the meanwhile though this will essentially be my last day of chocolate and sweets. Also because I want to make sure I can and because I am concerned about what the latest drugs may be doing to my liver this glass herein pictured will be my last glass of wine for 40 days and 40 nights, I’m gutted it isn’t bordeaux.
Day 46 – Dream a little dream, in time you will find you gain a little Laughter in the Rain
This is an extremely exciting post for me because I have had to hold back until the embargo time was breached. I have only faced an embargo once before during my short time as a writer and this was over the details of the celebration of the Girl Guides in the UK. It was I am sure very exciting for them but for me at the time it was just another press release to get through so I could get on to the juicier crime and scandal. 
Yesterday I let slip a little taster of what was to come, the girl who leant me both dresses over the weekend, the musical theatre superstar that is Anna Clayton is now to star in the musical about Neil Sedaka’s life story which will be showing all over the UK during the next six months and she will be playing the lead female role, well the female who is married to Neil Sedaka so I’m pretty sure this means she has the lead female role but either way it is still a lead role!
Now for those of you like me who are not entirely sure who this Neil Sedaka is before you end up getting as confused as I was last Saturday when I was entrusted with this information, only four hours after she had found out herself, I shall spare you hours of googling and possible misunderstandings about the story being about Bill Kenwright, he is the producer you see. Anyway Neil is apparently a bit of a musical theatre legend who has sung songs, performed all over the world and as well as writing songs for Elvis Presley and working with Elton John he also wrote the track Amarillo which is the best-selling single of the 21st century so far.
Now the reason this is so exciting is because when you come from a friendship group which is mainly made up of people who dream of doing a job that they enjoy, when we find proof that it is indeed possible we tend to get rather over excited. Here in our lovely Ms Clayton is living proof that if you carry on believing dreams really do come true. 
I know that this sounds like typical musical theatre la la land tosh but I genuinely believe that if you have a talent for something, be it football, music, rugby, writing, baking or even teaching, if you work hard, believe in it and just as importantly, if you have people around you who support you and believe in you, you can be whatever you want to be. I do emphasise though that this does not apply to people who lack talent in their dream profession, if your singing is more you tube fodder than X-Factor fabulous best reassess your career options at the old job centre.
Anna has for years been plugging away at the world of musical theatre, she has her own agent (google her) has gone on numerous courses to assist her acting skills and practices regularly. As well as all the work she puts into perfecting her acting and singing she holds down a full-time job so she can pay to attend auditions, go on the courses and just survive on a day-to-day basis. 
One thing the government unfortunately do not recognise is the need for an artist to have time to develop their talent and as a result unless you get a scholarship or come from a privileged background you will have to work twice as hard to climb the greasy ladder of show business.
When I finished university back in 2006 I was convinced I was going to be the next editor of Marie Claire. I had such high hopes and genuinely thought that if only I met the right people and just carried on applying for jobs and sending out positive cover letters with my CV I would be working as a writer in no time. After all I was the president of my halls, I had attained a 2:1 from a fantastic university and I had even set up my own society. It was a knock in the teeth when gradually I came to find out that who one knew has a lot of bearing on where one goes and out of necessity I worked over the next few years in various poorly paid highly stressful positions including events management for a publishing house, media sales, purchase ledger clerk and pr.
It wasn’t until I got made redundant from the pr company, due to a problem with clients paying their bills on time; though I admit it stung when they threw a massive Christmas party complete with transport, booze and ball gowns a month later; that I realised I had to make a decision about whether I was going to continue doing what I could do or whether I was going to do what I wanted. After talking to several friends and a conversation with the legendary leader of News associates in Manchester who gave me a run down on the delights of journalism, I dropped the dream of the magazine and took the dizzy dive into journalism. 
In spite of having to give up all of my savings to so my NCTJ - trainee certificate for journalists, I can honestly say that it is a decision I have never regretted. When there is a job that you want to do no other will ever satisfy you entirely and unless you go for it full throttle and throw all caution to the wind you will get to 40 and as you watch your children head off to follow their dreams you will be bothered by regret that you never did the same.
Ms Anna Clayton is going to be a super-star, if there is ever any dream you want to follow, do it. Nothing’s impossible, and no door stays closed forever.
Day 45 – I skip instead of walking
Four years ago I went on a Valentines date with a boy named Chris, he was sweet, good-looking, tall and had a great body. I had met him just a couple of weeks before when a friend of mine who worked at student direct, Laura Wales had called me up short of someone to take part in the paper’s blind date. At the time I had a little argument with the giant and as a result had been cut off and so the idea of food and more importantly wine was appealing whoever else might be there. 
I remember thinking it might be nice if my date didn’t show up so I could have more food, but he did and we had a good night. My housemates took the mick as less than a month later the pizzeria where we had eaten had burnt down, according to them it was due to our firey passion for one another. As the original date had gone well and as I was under strict instructions from my wiser slightly older housemate to play it cool I found myself on february 14 at a noodle bar with said Chris. It was a nice date and there was even a kiss but no coffee and I remember wondering if there was enough of a spark.
Today I went on a Valentines date with the boy, or Chris. 
He has a great body; he still works out after all these years and being a drummer for Onions means in spite of his sweet tooth he keeps on the trimmer side of cuddly. 
He has the kind of shoulders and arms you want your man to have and is tall enough so I can get away with wearing up to six-inch heels and still have to stand on my tippy-toes to kiss him. He is kind and sweet and this morning, once he stirs he brings me a cup of tea and a dozen red roses.
I have to swallow down my annoyance because I notice they are from Marks and Spencer and I know they cost him far too much. I am annoyed because I would have been happy without roses, happy for us to use the money for a meal or a cinema date but secretly I feel the wonderful smug feeling you only get when a man you love gives you a great big over-the-top gesture that he loves you back. Still sweet after all these years he has also got me a Valentines card with a ticket to see Midlake this Wednesday within. I am surprised even though I knew he was planning to take me to a gig for weeks (his friends have no tact and kept letting slip at which point I had to sing loudly and walk out the room as though nothing had happened) I have managed to convince myself that we were off to see The Wild Beasts, I prefer Midlake. 
Unfortunately although I had planned to treat him to a wet shave and massage at the boy beauty parlour; something he would never book himself but which I know he would love; I finally got round to summoning up the courage to check on my overdraft the other day and the results were not good. In spite of me being unemployed HSBC are charging me an unseemly amount for being overdrawn and unless I get paid work soon I have no way of paying it off; because of this although I get him a card and make him cups of tea I offer to sort through his wardrobe as a gift and iron him ten shirts as a way of showing my love, and though it is not terribly romantic I pair his socks up for him because I know he hates doing it. 
Our good friends are about and the boys join me to watch the football in the afternoon after the boy has had a practice; he needs to tap or the tension builds in his shoulders and he gets crotchety ; one of them is sulking as although I know his girl got him a very nice present for his birthday the day before she has not had time to get him a valentines present. As I have a dozen roses and need none, I call her quietly from the room and give her a rose to give to him. It’s nice to share the love but in the photos the boy takes later on I have to be careful to conceal the missing bloom. Thankfully the dress is remarkably busty and so his eyes are happily distracted. The dress today is on loan from the very lady, the musical theatre legend that is Anna Clayton. I believe it is from Primark and I must admit that I struggle to button myself into it as she has a much slimmer figure than me, one of the benefits of being a dancer.
After we have taken the photos I don my faux fur hat and we head out to Abode, Micheal Cain’s Michelin star dining experience. I have eaten here twice before, once with a friend on my birthday when me and the boy were having troubles and once with the boy for my birthday when we had patched things up. Both times I have loved the place. We always eat in the upstairs area as the downstairs just feels a little too formal and the tables are too big and so I feel we lose a little bit of the intimacy when we struggle to reach each other over the condiments. We are booked in for six and happily they are out of the chicken so instead they have quail, which is delicious. After Marks and Spencer irritated me the other day I rang around trying to find a reasonable deal and happily came upon Abode who had only added £5 to their usual offer of four courses for two people with one bottle of wine. It is usually £25, the same price as the M & S deal but as we didn’t have to wash up or cook it we did not mind the extra charge.
As we sit snuggled up together in the bar area after finishing our meal, sipping the last of the wine, I am so glad I met the boy before falling into something that wasn’t quite it with the Valentine’s day Chris. A week after the Valentine’s date which lacked the sparkle I bumped into The boy, The Chris, and from then on there was only him, my boy, my Chris, my Valentine.
