Life as a Proper Adult: One Year In

August 12, 2015August 12, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult adult

On Tuesday (11th August) I celebrated something very special. Not a birthday or a religious festival, a new pet or a new choice of cereal (although I have started eating Sainsburys own brand Wheetabix instead of their cheap Basics brand, that was a big day). I didn’t even celebrate National Presidential Joke day, that’s how important the 11th day of the eighth month meant to me.

All hyping aside Tuesday marked a year since I moved to the town of Swindon to start my first post-university job (i.e. the moment I became a ‘proper’ adult). Now when I say adult I don’t mean the moment I came of legal adult age as specified by the British Government (no one believes the tosh that being 18 makes you a grown up, well unless you’re a pub or club owner). No, what I’m talking about is the moment I sat behind a proper desk, handling proper suppliers and paid, to much weeping, proper taxes. It was the moment I was dragged kicking and screaming out of my cushy student bubble and into the real world people live in.

The transition into the real world was by no means an easy one. When I found out that I’d got a job in the Heritage sector I was sky high. I was literally dancing on the kitchen tiles for days. I became a groupie of the organisation I was working for, I stalked the living daylights out of their webpages to get a solid idea of what they did, where they did it and why they were doing it. If they had offered me a free tacky t-shirt I probably would have worn it every day.

The search for rental properties was the first adult challenge I experienced. Looking back, it was actually more of a mess than the perfectly structured, rose-tinted, plan I was convincing myself it was and if I wasn’t so hyped up about my job I may have struggled with it more than I did. As someone who has never lived or rented in Swindon I was faced with an uphill struggle from day one. Single bed, decent, apartments were a nightmare to find, especially within a walking distance of my office. Those I did find either vanished before I had chance to view them or were blocked from viewing by agents who didn’t feel comfortable showing them to a young, single, female. Reassuring stuff. Luckily the day before mumma Bennett and I were due to travel to Swindon for rentals I found a website called Spare Room. A bit of searching and a few calls later I had three places lined up. Housing dilemma solved? You’d think that…

The day mumma Bennett I travelled to Swindon just had to be the hottest day of the year in Swindon. It also just happened to be the day Google maps decided to throw a tantrum and not work ~~and the day all the First Great Western trains were delayed~~. Sorry, correction, train wise it was a normal day. The first property was located at the top of the steepest hill in the world, we had no idea where we were in Swindon and the pair of us were very much close to passing out. “Go ahead, go ahead!” cried mum, “I’m not going anywhere without you!” I yelled back while gasping for air. It had the makings of an emotional scene for a land-based Titanic film (you know where I am James, just think about it). We then had to go all the way back down that hill and cross the train tracks (getting lost again) to view a house in Bridgemead. At this point we were way behind schedule. This would be property I’d end up choosing, however at the time it was rush rush to get out and onto the next place. Only a couple of streets away yet we still ended up at the wrong end of a very long street. By lunchtime we’d seen only three houses but were sweaty, physically exhausted and mentally shattered. When mum pulled out Kirsty Allsop’s property rating method in Costa I came very close to banging my head against the table. That was the point I realised that being an adult wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and it was at that moment I learnt my first life lesson as an adult:

In urban areas they have these mysterious things called taxis. Use them.

Rental property sorted, I moved into my new house on the 10th August. I met one of my housemates, mermaid Becki, for the first time which was actually a scarier experience than anticipated. Not because Becki isn’t a lovely person (she is/was), it was the pressure to get on with this random stranger. In my student days I was renting with friends, people my own age who I already knew. Chatting to Becki I was actually relived that she was a normal, nice human being, even though she knew nothing about me and was 30 years old compared to my baby-faced 21 years. Second lesson learnt:

Living in a houseshare with random people doesn’t mean no one is friendly and social.

…And third life lesson:

Mermaids are actually pretty cool in real life.

Started my new job the next day. As with any new environment I was an absolute bag of nerves, I was introduced to what felt like a million new people in the space of five minutes and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. How do I work this? What am I meant to be typing? Can I go home for the evening now? I really had not a clue what was going on. I found myself asking what felt like endless questions to team members and feeling like I was getting no where. For the first couple of weeks I walked out of the office feeling stressed, tired and guilty for slowing everyone up with their work. When I was studying at university I was fiercely independent with my work, I knew when and where my lectures were, how to use the online resources and where to find books linked to my course. Simply put I knew what I was doing. In my new job I was entirely dependant on the help of strangers. Independence to dependence, I felt like I was going backwards. After the first few weeks I started to pick things up at a quicker pace, I could remember names and faces, and I started to relax more knowing that the people around me did care about me and wanted to help. After a three month review with my line manager I reflected on my progression and with it a fourth lesson:

Everyone is the office newbie at some stage.

With the house and work side cracked, I still felt the personal side very lacking. Work, watch tv, eat, sleep, repeat, that was how my life operated. As crazy as my lifestyle got was watching Dave instead of ITVBe. When I started developing favourite Real Housewives (Teresa from New Jersey is a cow, and Phaedra from Atlanta is as sassy as – not that I watched much of it…), that was the point I had to do something. I started walking around the local area with the aid of a Swindon A-Z purchased on the advice of papa Bennett. While I started off wandering around the local paths and parks I almost always ended up in a housing estate a bit confused as to how I got there. While I enjoy getting lost in certain environments, wandering around housing estates at dusk with only an A-Z is hardly a joyful experience. Lesson obtained:

When they don’t understand the context of the situation, local residents really don’t like it when you stare at road signs and their houses before saying ‘ah hah!’ and wandering off in the opposite direction.

Following my feeble attempts to spend my evenings doing something I thought I’d try a different approach, I decided to get involved with Swindon’s clubs and societies. Now, for your own sanity I’m not going to go into much information right now about this aspect of my life in Swindon. I’ll talk about this later. What I did learn from the whole experience is a valuable lesson *spoilers!*:

You make your own happiness

And so one year later here I am, still sat here, in Swindon, in my houseshare, typing a new blog post. My deep rooted modesty makes me want to say not a lot has changed, but actually a lot has. It has been a roller coaster of emotions, it really has. From the highs of getting my job to hitting the low point of loneliness and dependency in a strange concrete town. Those who have a basic understanding of British towns and cities may argue I should have known what I was getting myself into when I decided to move to a town whose name derives from ‘pig market on a hill’. At first, yes, I did pin my uneasiness on the fact that I was living in Swindon and not the buzzing city of Southampton where I had spent my student days. However, as I started to integrate myself in to the proper adult pace of life and work I realised that it wasn’t me struggling with Swindon, all along it had been me struggling with the acquired taste of adult life. I was sat in my room with a cup of tea when this revelation hit me and I didn’t move until a sip of cold tea shocked me into spilling half the cup over me (some things I’ll never grow out of).

Tuesday marked a milestone in my young adult life. As I served up celebratory butterfly cakes to my colleagues on my proper adult birthday several asked “what’s the occasion?” I told them it was my one year job anniversary. “Wow! Where has the time gone?” They responded with amazement. To many of them it also felt like only yesterday since I’d started working with them. While we all sat eating my cakes and talking about children, weddings and everything in between I glanced out of the window to see the sun shining down outside. From this I can now add my most recent (and waffley) lesson to the list. Something I wish I could have told myself many months ago:

Life after university is like the British weather. There will be rain, you will feel feel rubbish and at times it may feel like you’re the only one in the world going through it. However the sun will come out. It may take weeks or maybe even months, but it will come and trust me when it does arrive the glorious sun will be worth the wait.
Less waffley version – life will get better so man up and get on with it.

(You can throw up now).

Don’t mention the Euro! (Kos, Greece, July 2015)

July 30, 2015August 11, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Greece Greece

“For God’s sake, what is your father doing? We have a plane to catch and no idea how bad traffic will be!”

“I think he’s offering Albert the Tuna sandwiches India got from Hidcote…”

“No, he ate those. Maybe it’s the pies?”

“Oh for crying out loud! That’s it, I’m getting out of the car. Ben! Ben! Stop offering Albert pork pies and get in the car!”

Here we go again…

Bennett summer holiday 2k15 (that’s what the cool people say, right? 2k15?) And this one was to the lovely sunny island of Kos. Before we’d even reached July mumma B had panicked about several things. She firstly worried that we were all going to fry to death in the Grecian sun (England/North France has been the choice of the Cotswold Bennett clan for many years). Then, once she’d simmered down about that, guess what? Reports start flooding in that Kos is being flooded with migrants. This one took a bit more to reassure mum’s nerves ‘mum, the migrants are coming into the south of the island. We’re going to be in the north. I could be wrong here, but I highly doubt the Grecian government are going to go “hey you! Unemployed random migrant! We know you’ve had a tough time in Syria so you know what, we’re gonna let you have free reign across the island. Here’s a car, you should go up to the tourist hotspot, we’ll even throw in a free meal!”‘ Mum got the idea. It wouldn’t be the last time she freaked out, but at least for now she was settled.

Airport stuff went smoothly, having a lunchtime flight did mean we were more alive this time around. The fun really started though when we got on the plane. Once we’d taken off and I felt I could relax (hate take offs). I grabbed the in flight magazine and happened to land on this page:

Gee, thanks Thomas Cook for making me feel fat before I’ve even left British airspace.

The events that unfolded in the following 20 minutes can only be put down to a lack of Oxygen. Photos like this started occurring A LOT

(And these are the good ones)

Then the (in)famous Thomas Cook song came on so we started to do some awkward dancing, the only kind you can do while strapped into a tiny space:

And then India discovered this picture of the prophet Gary Barlow which was a complete game changer:

Dear readers (esp. those in London), while you were carrying about your day to day lives at around 2pm on Thursday 8th July, about a mile above you this was was happening:

Yep, bet you’re pretty dam jealous you weren’t there, right?

Ok, so skip ahead a few hours and we arrive at Kos. Due to Kos’ stringent immigration checks at least half the plane skipped passport control by going through a door located just behind the booths. Dad had a slight oh-err moment when he went to get another man’s luggage off the carousel (made more awkward by the fact we spent the following week in the same hotel), but otherwise all good.

Hotel of choice: Ramira Beach.

Great hotel, all inclusive (of course) and we actually discovered on the last day it was 5 star (“how did they get that rating when they don’t serve hummus?!” said a very middle class, Marie Antoinette, blogger.)

The Snow White themed alcoholic cocktails were a point of family confusion, especially when the child friendly mocktails had adult names and remained picture-less on the menu.

The waiting staff has these names so engrained into them, that to request a pina colada to some staff was met with blank looks until you changed your request to ‘a Snow White’

Views were to die for. With the sea views from our room, you could very easily see Turkey from where we were. Mum worried briefly that we might be the front line for a Turkish/migrant take-over, but five minutes taking in the view and sun stopped that.

Meanwhile, in Alice and India’s room, India did a lot of this:

“India, I want to sit on something that isn’t your face”

We also took to raiding the free drinks in our fridge which were topped up almost too frequently.

“Do you want a drink bub?

“Sure, what have we got?”

“Well we’ve got Ban, wine and Ban. Ban, Ban and coke. Ban, beer and Ban. Ban, Ban and Ban. Ban, Ban and soda Ban…”

Remind you of anything?

Kos Town

Moving on, Kos town itself was actually very nice during the day…

On one of the first days we made the horrific choice to walk there AND back, not realising how long a walk it was and how hot the midday heat could be. A couple of choice shots from the walk though was the Kos’ attempt at heath and safety:

“India, stand next to these”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, urm because it’s art”

But, more interestingly, there was this cow who shall forever remain nameless.

A cow named Cow. she barely moved a jot in the time we walked past her on the way in and then on the way back. On way in I jumped when I somehow turned around and was face to face with this animal but a few hours later she’d turned her back on the road. As such I created a back story for cow:

Cow: A Short Biography

Cow was in fact born in Turkey to a Ms Cowley. Her mother was Turkish but her father was part of a Grecian travelling heard (you know, the ones who go from town to town to show city kids where milk comes from). Cow’s dad was the star attraction of the show, because he had the best moo in the whole Mediterranean. His name was Alejandro and, just like Lady Gaga, Ms Cowley fell for his bad bull charm. However many months a cow is pregnant for later, Cow was born.

When she had grown up into adulthood, Cow’s mother told her about her father. Spurred on by the thought of meeting her papa, she become determined to go to Kos in the hope of finding him. One night she sneaked out of the field and hopped on a passenger ferry to Kos under the disguise of an old lady. Although she was full of optimism initially, as the days, weeks and months wore on Cow struggled to find any trace of her long lost father or his family in the local press and Grecian archives (made worse by the fact most archives do not permit bovines to access their records).

With barely any money and food left, Cow became desperate. One day she was walking along a road when she saw a farmer passing by. “Please sir, can you help me find my father?” Cow asked. “Why certainly my dear, I know exactly where he is” the farmer responded. However little did Cow know that it was a trap, and before she knew it the farmer had her tied up to a tree.

Cow was trapped and unable to escape the clutches of her captor. Even if she did break free, Cow had no food or money and she knew the farmer would find her (running and athletics were never her strongest pursuits). To this day all she can do is look back at Turkey and think about the life she lost and the mother she never said goodbye to.

Fin.

Some say I have an over active imagination…

Meanwhile, back in Kos town, there were some random objects. Some of them not suitable for anyone, regardless of age, to look at (taking taste and tat to whole new levels). Here are just a couple of more audience friendly tat:

Queasy looking frog hats!

Also, have you ever wanted a lower leg/foot cast but didn’t want the hassle of actually having to break your leg? Look no further, Kos has something to solve your problem!

In terms of architecture/heritage, Kos town really gave me an eye opener in how they preserve heritage vs. Britain. This archelogical site was, on the surface, very charming in its own way.

But then you realise it’s actually not wild and overgrown because it looks nice, it’s because local government have abandoned it.

It was clearly something that had been well maintained and looked after back in the 70’s. But then while we ambled around for free, there were signs of what once was a paid entry attraction.

The state of the place didn’t go unnoticed by the family either. “Look Alice, there’s even an abandoned ice cream hut there! You should go inside and play shops!”

Don’t get me wrong, we enjoyed looking at the ruins and learning about what was once the centre of the island’s early civilisation, it’s just seeing these things reminded me of how lucky we are that our heritage is preserved, even if it does mean having to sometimes pay to view it.

The Greek Economy

On the subject of money, I cannot write a blog post on Greece in summer 2015 without even touching on the Grecian economy. The whole bail out deal was a big thing before we flew out, and it felt like an even bigger deal while we were out there. We took plenty of cash and all clued ourselves up on how to spot ‘shady figures’ and avoid pick pocketers just in case. While we were out there though we definitely felt a slight unease, especially among staff. In her room mum was pacing up and down while the only English channels, Sky and BBC news, kept reporting of riots in Athens and predicting public sector strikes “if they go on strike on the day we leave we’ll be in serious trouble, it’ll be like the ash cloud all over again. We’ll be stuck here and what’s worse, this time around there’s no travel insurance to cover us.” The main concern here being we got a nice extra all inclusive week in Crete that time around, but this time it would be an airport floor. Every now and then she’d turn to the TV in hope the government had agreed to the reforms, when they were still arguing she’d sigh and walk out onto the balcony to distract herself.

If mum was panicking internally, dad’s method of handling the tense situation was ten times worse. Before we left he had told us all “now, we must be very careful not to mention the economy while we’re there, especially with locals. It’s a very touchy subject at the moment. Don’t mention the Euro!”

I couldn’t contain myself at this “Hah! You’re one to talk, you started asking a Southern Cypriot about his views on the Turkish occupation of the north! If anyone makes a social faux pas, it’ll be you!”

I was proved right time and time again. We knew what we were in for when mum paid up 22€ for a safe on the first day.

“22€ for a safe!” Dad exclaimed rather loudly “Well at least I’m helping to bail out the country.”

Red alert raised, we quickly walked him out of reception.

“You can’t say that Dad!”

“Why? If they’re going to charge me that for a metal box, I should say how I feel.”

This was a common theme throughout the holiday. Frequently trying to engage us in deep debate about the Grecian economy while the bartenders served us drinks. And it wasn’t just sensitive political issues that were up for debate, no, he even dipped in to his bank of stereotypes. Large German party behind us, he says:

“Well it’s all very random, like Nazis vs Aliens.”

(Through gritted teeth) “Dad!”

“What, there were Nazis there, against the aliens. The film with the James Bond guy in it.”

“You’re talking about Cowboys Vs Aliens. Conversation changer, isn’t the view lovely!”

All I would say in Dad’s defence is that, at times, it felt like Kos were flashing neon signs at us to want to comment openly about their dangerously weak financial status. Case in point, bike rentals.

Bike rental shops were everywhere, and I mean everywhere. They out numbered car rentals by an extraordinary level, a level that in all my years (22, in case you’re asking) I had never seen before. Bike rental shops all with an alarming about of un-hired bikes sat on the tarmac.

It’s not like no one was cycling, heck Kos town has bike lanes a plenty. Borris would have loved it! (For us mere pedestrians it created another flow of traffic and therefore chaos).

(As you can see above, even with the bike lanes cyclists still chose to cycle wherever they pleased. Nightmare!)

As we walked past bike rental after bike rental with flashy new bikes piled high on the forecourt and staff sat looking bored, all we could do was keep saying “what bank would approve a loan for another bike shop in Kos?”

We were starting to see why perhaps Greece was in a spot of bother. Combined with the strings of failed restaurants located outside our all inclusive hotel, it started to paint a picture of the Greece you don’t see on English TV. A weak infrastructure that had been allowed to worsen unchecked for many years. This was not the image of rebellious pensioners in Athens storming the banks that I was used to seeing on TV.

I think the mood needs lightening now, this is a bit down beat. Ok, so…

Entertainment

This side of the hotel I’ll admit was poor. But at the “Lord of the Dance Show” I discovered what Zorro was doing with himself nowadays:

Irish dance. Who’d have thought it.

Part of the ~~God awful~~ daily entertainment included a 3pm random dance I soon dubbed ‘the Zumba’ dance, because everything about it, the song, the dance moves, the energy, it all reminded me of Zumba. Here’s a clip of them doing it, I’ll let you make you own mind up:

Maybe if it was February and I wanted to burn off the Christmas weight I’d join them, but I was lying on a sun-bed trying to not think about the calories I put on when I ate this monstrosity the night before:

I can’t even explain what is going on on that plate, let alone defend it.

Hotel Staff

One evening we were introduced to our Animation team, the people behind the Zumba dance. All very straightforward stuff until you heard where they were from. Two were from South Africa, another Hawaii, one Bulgaria, three from Romania. Crucially, not of them was Greek. Soon it became very apparent that in a Greek hotel on a Grecian island virtually all the staff were migrants, working for the summer season to send money home. As a family we formed a connection with one of the drinks waitresses, a young lady called Lia. Her accent was clearly not Greek and we were curious to know how she got here. A few days in, we asked her about her background. She told us she was Albanian, but had spent 12 years living in Cyrpus moving around. Her father had owned a small business which had failed forcing him and his wife to travel overseas for work. In England they had worked for a short time “in a place called Bir-me-ham” but they now were living “in Bor-ney-mout” (Bournemouth). Her sister was a trained hairdresser struggling to find work and the aim of her job was to save up to support her family and go to England when the season was over.

“Do they not keep anyone on over the winter?”

“No, it all close down in October. I may apply to work here for the next season, but if job comes up in England then I stay.”

She was full of questions herself, asking us about where we lived in relation to Bournemouth. When we told her it was some distance, about two hours, she went “it is no distance, very close compared to other places!” I do feel a tinge of guilt though for telling her about our weather.

“England, I am told it is a little cooler than Kos.”

There we were, sat in light dresses, T-shirts and shorts at 10pm and she thinks England is a little cooler?!

“It’s a lot more cooler than Kos! Always raining!”

We all took one look at her shocked face which was quickly turning into disappointment at this revelation and quickly added, “of course, you’ll be on the south coast, it’s better there.” Luckily this cheered her up and she carried on. For someone who can barely go one day without texting my family who are an hour away, the thought of being separated from my family, working in a foreign country to support my relatives, well I cannot describe how that one thought made me feel.

Pick up the energy Alice, come on!

Oh, there were a few cleaning ladies walking around who were dressed like French maids. It’s the world’s most unpractical uniform during the day and I didn’t feel at ease when I saw them tottering about with feather dusters at 11:30pm.

(I even struggled to photo them.)

Also, here’s a calendar you could buy in the hotel which emotionally divides you because you know cats are cute but these cats are freaky as:

They know what you did last Summer

India, Dad and I tried Banana boating and had a spin on a ringo

A brilliant experience, but the latter was terrifying to say the least #ScreamFest #DeafDad

Middle Aged Man snap!

And if all else fails just think, you’re not Cow.

She’s still sat there.

Right, that’s enough to perk everyone up.

Zumba, bikes and cows aside, I had a fabulous time in Kos. I even wore a dressing gown and slippers with a glass of wine what like them posh people do:

Great time in a hot sunny country. A needed break from the unpredictable British climate spending time with this piece of sunshine:

And the actual sunshine:

“

“What a lovely view…oh for Christ’s sake India, get off the bed!!”

“You know, when I was younger I thought I’d be a lot cooler by now” Miss Alice E. Bennett

June 26, 2015June 28, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) family author, Family

“I’ve got this Lynx for women shower gel, but I don’t like it. It makes me smell like a teenage boy on heat.”

“Why don’t you bin it then?”

“Yeah, but I got it as a Christmas present, so it’s free and all…”

Welcome to my world. A world where the golden rule is to always save money by any means possible. You are reading the words of a girl who never ate fancy during her uni days, instead always had a stash of £1.99 McDonalds vouchers to hand, a bottle of 19p water from Savers in her bag and a impressive knowledge of the shops which gave out free food (praise the Lord for the Hotel Chocolat samples!) A person who still cuts cost corners where possible, and if it’s free is all over it. For example, some of you may/may not be familiar with the Galaxy men and women, attractive people hired to give out free bars of chocolate to promote the brand…

(I couldn’t find any pictures of the men but trust me, in their Galaxy suits they were looking sweet as chocolate – yes, pun intended)

Right here is a girl that constantly walked past the beautiful men not because they were beautiful men, but because they were giving away free chocolate and vouchers. It was a good Christmas that year, I had enough chocolate to see me though to Easter and enough free vouchers to palm off to my friends in far flung locations in place of actual gifts. One card even went missing en route to my friend studying in Japan. To this day I firmly believe the Japanese stole the voucher inside.

Fads

Like every human being, I’ve had my fair share of fashion fads in my life so far. There was the waist belt phase, where I wore wide waist belts with everything, even though looking back a lot of the time they really didn’t suit me. There were the teen years where I genuinely convinced myself I was incapable of smiling and/or looking good in photos so I just looked forever grumpy:

Of course there were the selfie photos, back in the day where a ‘selfie’ was a photo taken with this newfangled ball thing called a webcam:

(I thought I was so cool when I took that one)

(no make up selfie, accompanied by: By the rules of social media (which you must never break, like the laws of jinx or tag) here is my no make up selfie. I’ve had no make up on all day, but I’ve taken it now fresh out of the shower to show I genuinely have nada on. If you like this you may be interested in checking out many of my other profile pictures or me most days of the week. People should love you, not your face paint. A belief I’ve stuck by for 20 years, and still do.) – sickening, eh? After a few gentle nudges I did actually donate money to charity.

And then there was the ‘rebellious’ year at university when I grew a side fringe.

That was a very questionable style choice. Never again will I take the advice from someone who says after a drink “you know, you’d look really good with a side fringe”. Never. Again.

Thankfully I had my fringe reinstated April 2013 and it made me so much happier…

As mumma Bennett is forever reminding me, “when we drove away from Southampton that Easter after you’d had it done, I remember telling your father how much better you looked. I mean it looked ok on occasion, but most of the time that side fringe really didn’t suit you at all.” Thanks mum.

Of course uni also brought the dressing up fad as standard:

(An alien, before you ask)

(Above I’m representing the Italian Mafia for Eurovision. Back then it was fancy dress, nowadays it’s called office wear)

(For this one I was so chuffed I fitted into an age 12 gothic bride dress I literally refused to take it off all night. It freaked the hell out of my housemates, who thought Miss Havishman was patrolling the hallways when they saw my darkened figure at 1am)

Oh wait, that was a couple of months ago…

Anyway, you get the picture.

Hats, hats and more hats!

A fad I’m currently riding now is hats (although I hope I never look back on these with regret). I mean hats go with everything!

Days out

With snow

At winter birthdays…

…Or in summer selfies

In the Disney store with friends

Or with fancy dress

Every so often there’s a mask…

…Or we get the lines really blurred with a full on mask

But then we return to the safety of hats

Team hat selfie!

Even though I was in the Parisian sewers I was still happy. You know why? Probably because I was wearing a hat.

In short, hats are cool. End of.

The photos you really want to see – lets bring out the baby pics

Ok, lets get a couple of these out:

Yep, I used to be blonde

Keenly eyed readers will notice I match the curtains almost perfectly

When you don’t have curtains to hand there are always bin bags (in fairness, I used to love dressing up as a witch. My parents should have seen the warning signs then)

Bonus points if you can guess which one is me. Think you’ve spotted me? Here’s a close up:

I was quite literally shaking with excitement at having my photo taken. According to my family I still shake to this day when I’m excited or uber smug.

So…

I think that’s enough about me for now. Enough to give an insight into the warped life and mind of Miss Alice E. Bennett, a taster if you will. If you really want to get to know me you only need only give five minutes of your undivided attention. Within seven I’ll be telling you why Tom Hanks’ character in The Polar Express doesn’t make me comfortable…

“Look, all I’m saying is that when I was watching The Polar Express the only things I kept thinking were a) where is this guy’s CRB check certificate? And b) where are all the other kids on the train?”

“Of course Alice enjoys pottery, it’s making mud pies but socially acceptable” India, lil-bub, Bennett

June 16, 2015June 16, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) family Family, Sister

Hang on a mo, is that gas I can smell? No?….Ok the smell has passed now, I think it might have been someone stoking up the BBQ on this lovely Summer’s evening. Now that has passed I can begin on this.

India Bennett, my little sister three years my junior, is, well, she’s urm, well let’s stick at her being my little sister. Like all siblings it is a near impossible task to define her or our relationship in a few words. Take the the featured image of this blog post…

…This picture was taken in Suffolk when India decided to put Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ on for no reason. I was incredibly hyper (I was dancing with salad servers) and India had had a sip of wine. We were crazy! This photo sums up the next three and a half minutes very well, just pure dementedness.

Welcome to my relationship with India. A world where these photos are a frequent occurrence:

A relationship where photo in-jokes are frequent, but rarely understood by the outside world:

(The above, shot in the New Forest, being one of the very few people get)

And where mum has to accept that for every 10 normal photos we demand one light-hearted one.

A pub called Beerwolf! Did I also tell you it sells Books? We had to have a photo with it. (Bennett sister’s top place to visit in Falmouth).

Can you role your eyes? Good, then you can define our relationship. Mumma B does it all the time so it must be a good, endearing, way to sum us up.

Nicknames

Over the years I’ve assigned many nicknames to my beloved little sister. These include (deep breath):

Lil bub

Bub

Bubbakins

Sister of the Sea

My little crustation

Squidly

Lobster (used when quoting Friends)

(Can you see some patterns emerging here?)

India

Ind

Innnndddddiiiiiaaaaaa

Indiana Jones

Sis

Chick

Chick-a-dee

Smelly

Turnip (in the context of ‘oh you little turnip’)

Turd/poop (as the above, but in stronger circumstances)

Mum and dad bonus names: Pumpkin, pickle pants

Basically any noun or random noise I assign her. There are interchangeable, e.g.:

‘Sister of the Sea, dinner is ready!’

5 minutes later… ‘can you pass me the salt bubbakins?’

‘Please stop calling me bubbakins, you’re making me feel like a little fat kid’

‘What was that lil bub? I was too busy eating my fruits de la mer’

‘It’s fish and chips’

‘Fruits de la mer!’

In short, whether she likes them or not, India has many ‘Alice-given’ nicknames.

Miss Congeniality

As well as goodness knows how many in-jokes and giggling fits we have over nothing at all (“Barry! There’s a frog in the shower!” – guarantee she’ll be laughing now), we both have a special place in our hearts for the Sandra Bullock classic that is Miss Congeniality. Why I hear you ask? Well as well as it being a classic chick flick, we particularly admire the legend that is Michael Caine. The amazing actor that has performed in some amazing films over the years found himself in 2001 playing a pageant coach. Surprisingly the Oscar nominations didn’t pour in.

From the film we took two life lessons: 1) Our favourite date is April 25th (because it’s not too hot or too cold) and 2) we are the crown:

At one point in the film Bullock realises (spoilers) that the pageant crown is a bomb. She tries to tell Caine this while being pushed on stage. Misinterpreting her warning as her showing determination to win, Caine says “that’s right, you wear the crown, be the crown, you are the crown.”

Ever since India and myself have used this as our inspirational quote. If ever in doubt, or you need perking up, just utter the above quote and you’re bound to find the strength to continue. At the very least you can think to yourself “if Michael Caine can bring himself to say that on film then I can do anything”.

If you want to be accepted by the pair of us you need to watch this film and appreciate the pure 00’s cheesiness of it (without wine).

India’s Spot

In an uncanny resemblance to Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, India will seek out a spot she can call home and set up base there. This tends to be in a corner behind a sofa, where she can sneak in and out of a room without anyone noticing. The frustration really ensues when you’re trying to have a conversation with her, and you’re found trying to work out if she’s there, not listening/aware of the conversation or actually left the room ages ago.

It’s time to play the Bennett family fun game of:

Is India actually in the room?

Question 1: Which of the below is India least likely to engage in or with no matter if she’s in the room or not?

a) Cats

b) Clothing she’s put in the charity bag that actually belongs to someone else

c) Anything related to herself (education, what she’s up to, her friends etc)

Answer: C (“why do you keep talking about me?” “actually, we thought if we talked about you for long enough and you’d get the hint. That was 15 minutes ago.”

Question 2: How do you know India is definitely in the room?

a) She’ll be laughing like a drain at a youtube video on her phone, while you’re watching a serious documentary on TV

b) She’ll be hitting the keyboard so hard playing Skyrim the noise will drive you insane

c) Silly question, she’ll be sat on the sofa chatting to you!

Answer: A (“India! Seriously! Someone is dying here!” “What? What? Sorry…….hehehehehe” “INDIA!”)

Question 3: In a dining room setting, how will India get away from conversation?

a) she’ll stand up and walk out

b) she’ll pull out her phone and plug her headphones in, to try and convince us she’s listening

c) she’ll make two trips to the dishwasher and never return

Answer: C (“I don’t see why some people should do more trips with dirty plates than others. If everyone made two trips to the dishwasher then we’d all have the same amount of work to do and everything would get done quicker. I did my trips, so I went to my room.” First we had Karl Marx, now we have India Bennett. Prepare yourselves for the revolution).

Finally, Question 4: How many times do you say ‘India’ before assuming she’s not in the room?

a) one

b) two

c) three or more until someone checks behind the sofa or she responds

d) She’s never in the room

e) Throw a random comment that would make any normal person react (e.g. “India smells” or “I’m sure India would love to help clear the garage out”)

(Some of India’s photography, an evolving fish escaping the bathroom. Deep.)

Answer: C (it’s as close as you’ll get to having something in writing should you later require proof she had no opinion on a matter.

So…

Like all of my family, it is very difficult to sum up my sister in one blog post. To sum up my crazy and messed up relationship with her is impossible. That’s something for the Psychologists of the future to discuss over many heated debates and research journals. No, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to decipher why India says and does the things she says and does, but I love her thisssssssss much and I would never replace her. And if anyone says or does anything to upset her, well, may I refer you again to our favourite guilty pleasure:

She’s a nutcase, but she’s my nutcase

“Alice is going out for a meal tonight” “Neil? Who’s Neil?” “No, a meal!” “Yes, who is Neil?!” Father Bennett

May 28, 2015June 18, 2017 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) family Dad

So here we are, another Thursday evening. The sun is out, an assortment of children are playing outside, and there’s a ice cream van playing a God-awful, screeching tune every five minutes. Oh wait, it’s starting again (I DON’T WANT YOUR ICE CREAM! If I did, what are you going to do, scale three floors to get to my bedroom window? Work on that and your ice cream tune and we can talk).

So here I am, in a post traumatic state after viewing Season 5, episode 6 of Game of Thrones, where Ramsay Bolton has just married Stansa Stark. What better time than to start writing a blog post on my father!

Father (‘pappa’) Bennett

My dad is a clockmaker by trade, he owns a clock shop in a small Warwickshire town where he buys, repairs and/or sells clocks. He’s a popular guy in the area, he does the clocks for a variety of towns and local celebrities (“tell me, what’s John Nettles REALLY like?”). It’s also an off year when he doesn’t feature at least once in the regional newspaper and/or TV news under the headline “it’s not a wind up! Spare a thought for the man tasked with putting all the clocks forward/back an hour!” (or words to that effect). Heck, even when Shipston flooded people wanted to go to his shop:

(ok, maybe that’s a slight an overstatement…)

Dad’s Fads

Dad is a respected figure in the local community, however less can be said for his standing in the family household. Mr. Bennett in every sense of the word, he often retreats in his study (aka the Play/Games room) to ‘noodle’ about online. No one really knows what he noodles about on, until he comes out with information on a recent fad he’s into. We’ve had rotisseries, pigs, peacocks, chickens, flagpoles, wood stores, hot tubs, B&Bs, diet fads (anti dairy, anti sugar, anti-fat, porridge, muesli), the lot. His recent one which is still lingering is the unicycle phase. He had been wanting to try it for a while, but mum point blank refused to get him a one wheeled bike of death. Then one day, like something from a 90s sitcom, he came in with a unicycle that he’d found in a charity shop. I waited for the canned laugher and a comic jingle to play, but then I realised this was real life and all my 90s games show jingles were saved on my laptop in Southampton.

“Why would someone give such a thing away?”

“Oh, I can think of a few reasons” was the joyous reaction of mumma Bennett. “You’re going to hurt myself, break all your bones and then I’ll have to care for you while you moan.”

“But this is what I want to do, I’ve been watching videos. I just need a couple of ladders…”

“Ladders?!”

“Or two willing volunteers, whichever is easiest”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Why? I’ve always wanted t do this! I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to do it!”

“(inaudible grumbles)”

*Awkward Silence*

“India! Play Barney, for God sake get Barney on now!”

(Barney is my fail safe for reliving tension, you try and stay mad at someone when this gets played randomly. Very difficult!)

Middle Aged Man

How to explain this. So, back in 2012 as a family we were in Suffolk when India and I looked up from the bottom of a castle to see dad standing on a mound, deep in thought. For some unknown reason we couldn’t stop laughing. We went to take a photo but he saw/heard us and struck this pose:

Afterwards we made it our mission to subtly take photos of dad when he was in his own world. We simply called it “Middle Aged Man…” The rest is Bennett History. Cue art gallery photo reel!

For this next bit, please play the song below to help set the backdrop and tone:

Middle Aged Man having coffee at St Ives Art Gallery

Middle Aged Man reads an interpretation board at Totnes Castle

Middle Aged Man watches people go about their day

Middle Aged Man takes in a Devonshire view

Middle Aged Man takes in the same view but from a different angle

Middle Aged Man on the beach

Middle Aged Man takes time out to eat a croissant and read the Telegraph supplements

Middle Aged Man goes boat watching

Middle Aged Man with wife on an Autumn day

Middle Aged Man on a boat

Middle Aged Man takes time out to train India up on the art of aimlessly staring over a cruise ship

(Middle Aged Man having less success in Falmouth with his other daughter, who can’t quite master the basics)

Middle Aged Man in a Yurt

Middle Aged Man: If a man sits in the New Forest and no one is around, does he exist?

Middle Aged Man deep in thought

And finally:

Middle Aged Man views classic art

(Our thanks to mumma Bennett for catching this moment in Paris on film and lending it to the Middle Aged Man Collection)

I’m certain more will follow, this collection has only been in existence for a couple of years and there’s still many more family outings/holidays ahead. (Donations to keep this piece of Bennett and British Heritage alive are most welcome).

So..

That’s my dad in a nutshell. I could write loads more here, like how he is forever mishearing things (see title for an example), or how he has a nerf gun hidden in a top drawer ready to unleash whenever next door’s chickens come onto our lawn. However the night is still young, and I’ve got an episode of Game of Thrones to watch before I’m up to speed with this season. Finally I will be able to engage in office discussions without yelling ‘don’t tell me anything!!’.

Until the next time.

“You’ve started a blog. That’s nice, but can you actually earn any money from it?” Mother Bennett

May 12, 2015May 13, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) family Family, Mum

My family are the centre of my world. They have been there through thick and thin, from my first swimming lessons to my move to Swindon. There was the time I baked a fruit loaf (“Alice that’s a brick”), the time I went through my side-fringe phase (“we were so relived when you got rid of that, it never suited you”) and this one time when I was six:

“Mum, India and I were playing builders and plumbers…” (side note, ‘builders and plumbers’? One for the feminists right there) “…and my arm really hurts”

“I’m sure it’s nothing dear, just a sprain.”

[Weeks later]

“Ow! Ow! Mum my arm still really hurts!”

“Fine! we’ll go to a doctor about it.”

[Days later]

“Your daughter has broken her arm.”

“Oh.”

That aside they have supported me more than any daughter could expect. When my secondary school told me I wasn’t ‘academically able’ to even aspire to a Russell group University my family stuck by me and helped me turn statistical predictions of CCC into real grades of AAB. Tears, exhaustion and, finally, joy. Getting into Southampton changed my life and I have my family to thank for it.

Ok, so have you got the point about how key my family is to me? Good, I can stop centring this text now.

So, in homage to them, I will be writing a post on each of my close family. Given their importance to me I guess I should have done these posts sooner, but then explaining my housemates kinda took over in importance due to the blog title. I mean, “My Mother Is a Retired Part Time Teacher” didn’t really spring to mind during the 30 seconds it took to decide on a blog title.

Any who, here goes. Where better to start than with my dear mother, alias Lynn, alias Mumma, Bennett…

(Mumma Bennett and a Greek waiter. If she’d not been constricted by British values she’d have probably hit him for embarrassing her in the restaurant.)

The best way to sum up my mum is to picture Mrs Bennet. No, not my actual mum, but Mrs Bennet from the higher popular (God knows why) novel, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Mrs Bennet by name and nature, mum love to fret over things, especially her two daughters. She dispares that the pair of us will never find boyfriends or, long term, suitable middle-class husbands. Every weekend is spent with her asking me if there is anyone on the scene, and every weekend she’ll let out a little sigh when I say no. I’ll come back from a social evening out and the next day I’ll be asked “were there any nice guys there?” “Mum!!” “What?! I’m just asking!” She may not be as bad as Miranda’s mum from the BBC sitcom who tries any and every attempt to pair off her daughter, but give it a year and I’m sure we’ll be there.

Actually, take that back, having watched that clip I’ve decided she is Miranda’s Mum.

My mum is the head of the household. Dad may like to think that he rules the roost, but if it wasn’t for mum dad would be ruling more of a pig sty than a roost. A pessimist by nature, she is the force that keeps Mr Bennett from undergoing some of his wacky ideas, and believes that if a panoramic view is really worth seeing you won’t have to climb up narrow steps because it’ll be on an interpretation board at ground level. Winding Asian con-callers up is another one of her many skills:

“What can you see on your online banking screen madam?”

“I can see a frog”

“What sorry? A fr-og?”

“Yes, and it’s dancing. A dancing frog!”

“I’m sorry madam, I don’t understand. Can you go back a screen?”

“There’s now a rabbit on the screen. It’s smiling at me.”

“Please click refresh madam.”

“Oops now the screen is black. Oh well, this was fun, bye!”

When she’s not winding me or half of Asia up with her comments she’s running around fretting over something or someone. In Summer 2011 it was four months of “oh I hope you get into Southampton, don’t you?” “Yes mum, this time and the time you mentioned it this morning, half and hour ago and the 500 times before that.”

Spring 2014: “I hope you get this job with English Heritage, don’t you?” “Yes mum, although it’s been over a week now and I’ve still heard nothing.” “Yes, but I still hope you get it. Check you emails again!”

Summer 2014: “I hope India gets into Cardiff, don’t you?” “The weather is lovely today, don’t you think?”

We’re currently in a lull because India and I are happy and stable where we are, which bizarrely frustrates her because there’s nothing to worry about. This is probably why the boyfriend topic is making a come-back. Poor guy, if and when I do find someone she’s going to stalk them to oblivion “Show me a picture. What does he do? What did he study and where?” She does this with my current friends and I doubt she’ll ease off for any partner of mine or India’s.

Photo wise there’s always very few of her. Like me, she believes the camera is her mortal enemy and therefore prefers to act as photographer rather than model. That said, none of the Bennett clan are about to be Britain’s next top model and when forced into it she can put up with the odd photo:

For all her fretting and pesamism though, mum is one of the key rocks that keep our family strong. If you can tolerate Deal or No Deal and have a special place in your heart for Kirsty Allsop and Phil Spencer (Phil on his own is ok. but anything where Kirsty is on her own is the work of the Devil) then odds are you’ll get on. Do you like tea? If you didn’t before you met mumma Bennett you certainly will after a day with her.

So that’s mum. More on my other family members to follow.

To be continued…

Oh, mum also does this indescribable movement that’s half walk/half run and does it up and down the house. She also randomly jumps up and down in the kitchen from time to time. No one knows when these random actions started or why she does them, but it’s her thing. I wasn’t really sure where I could fit this nugget of information in, but I felt compelled to say it.

Alcohol, Alcohol, Alcohol is Free!

April 23, 2015April 23, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Holiday Cyprus, Family

“Look, Paphos is check in desks 24-26”

“Paphos? Where’s Paphos?”

It was 6am in Birmingham Airport and we were all brain dead, but even by my sister’s standards this was unacceptable. Usually a 4am start marks the beginning of the annual Bennett Easter holiday abroad so we usually take such comments as part of sleep deprivation. However on this occasion there was no way I was letting my younger, Geography student, sister get away with this.

“Paphos is where we’re flying to you muppet.”

“I though we were flying to Cyprus?”

Ok Alice, deep breath.

“Yes, we’re going to Cyprus, but Paphos is the airport we’re flying to. Like you fly to Birmingham, not the UK.”

“Oh, I thought Cyprus was a town/city?”

“Why don’t we just head to check in? I think we all need a coffee.”

And thus, our holiday had begun.

The Bennett Easter holiday has been something we’ve been doing for years, every year since I was four years old in fact (excluding the one year we went to Florida in the summer when I was 11). In the many holidays we’ve taken we seen and done it all. Ridden camels, seen the pyramids months before it all went to pieces, the Colosseum. All the Euro sites.

We’ve also been through the rubbish. I’ve spent two nights sleeping on an airport floor thanks to Hurricane Charlie (followed by a taxi journey all the way from Edinburgh to the Cotswolds), I’ve been stranded abroad for a week thanks to an ash cloud, and I had the horrible experience at 13 where I thought our Nile cruise ship had left me and papa Bennett behind on the shore. Luxor, place where the only language the locals understood was a girl crying her eyes out (and, respect where it’s due, they did all they could to put me at ease and find someone who spoke English to help).

Apart from India wanting to discuss terrorism checks at security (the girl has the gift of timing) and the pair of us answering the “what do you do if security stop you?” question on the wall with the answer “C. Do the hokey cokey!” the airport was fairly uneventful. On the plane this song kept playing constantly, which made India and I debate how many plays it would take to turn you insane.

After two plays the novelty had definitely worn off on me. The cabin crew were hardly making up a new dance routine to the song either.

Four plus hours later we landed in Paphos, Cyrpus. Bags collected we hoped on our bus with a Thomas Cook representative which sparked a new debate, although this one had to be more hushed for the sake of diplomacy.

“India, why are all holiday reps scouse?”

“What?”

“Seriously, every English rep in Europe is unnaturally orange and scouse. Why do they want to be reps and why would you buy fake tan in a sunny country? Do you think there’s a reason?”

“Why haven’t you eaten your meal deal snack yet? You’re just going to save it up and eat it in front of us with that smug look on your face like you always do!”

Conversation dropped.

Most of the holiday was spent like this, random half conversations picked up and dropped. Without context you would be very confused about what was going on. Examples: we sang Bonnie Tyler down the promenade, I got increasingly old lady aggressive towards a man reading out bingo numbers (“why is this guy wearing a shirt too tight for him? Why are there inflatable banana’s behind him? Why is he saying ‘you whoo’ all the time?!!”), and India and I sang this song many times:

(I mean, when you’re on an all inclusive in Greece it has to happen! Staff definitely gave us a knowing smile and look whenever we sang it)

Ok, so let’s get some holiday snaps up… (#HolidaySpam)

There are some genuinely nice pictures of us, but you guys didn’t come here for the “for God’s sake Alice, stop pulling faces!” Mumma Bennett photo reel, you came here for the “India, India, photo this tea stain on my trousers that looks like Cyprus!” mobile phone photos. So here we are:

This cat that who was sleeping in a basket…

We genuinely thought this was one of those awful cat’s in baskets made from hair we do not think about. But no, this was someone’s cat, sleeping in among tourist souvenirs. The shop owners accepted it, so we accepted it.

This Toothless backpack

It’s impossible to describe the gasp of joy India and I let out when we saw this.

This Toothless window hanging…

…which is now hanging up on my bedroom window.

A place we visited called Pissouri

Now, we pronounced it Piz-or-ree, however if you were so inclined you could prounce it differently. Before you ask, it actually smelt of flowers (on account of the blossom).

This sign that was grammatically incorrect on every level in Pissouri

A Choice of 39 DifferenD Crepes, by Andreas ‘The crepe Man”

Now why would you pay the money on two signs without getting someone to check them first? And why offer 39? Why not 35 or 40? Where was Andreas storing all these toppings in that hut?

This sign I want to show all my English-studying friends:

“Littery is Strictly Prohibited”

Thank goodness I didn’t bring my Shakespeare and Chaucer to read on the beach.

This section in a local Pissouri shop that stocked Tesco value food:

As a family we didn’t know what to make of this. Either Tesco are big importers to the area (the British base was only a 15 min drive away) or there’s a serious Tesco value smuggling problem. People were clearly buying these products although why there was a demand for Tesco value jam and coffee was a bit confusing. The Greeks produce these products too! We stared at this section for quite some time. Tesco value tomato soup had never looked so interesting.

“Middle Aged Man”…guards the beach

Sorry dad, but you know every holiday needs a MAM shot.

These biscuits:

“What’s so special amount those?” I hear you cry. Well, just look at what they look like translated into the European alphabet…

Papadopoulos

You try saying that with a straight face and no concept of Greek pronunciation.

This sweet food that looked like something else (not like coconut):

FOOD PUNS!

(Sweet memories from Cyrpus)

And you thought only the Brits worked the commercial pun (http://wp.me/p5kuli-45)

This baby who chills out in a giant sandal

This requirement is a must for me. I will not buy a pair of shoes unless I can go to bed knowing that a baby could chill out in them.

As with any tourist destination there was plenty of tourist tat about, if I stopped and took a photo of everything I wouldn’t be enjoying my holiday to the fullest. This is just a sample.

This tea stain I made on my cut offs that I swear looks like Cyprus

If you look really hard you might be able to see it…

Close enough.

I was so happy at this. A little too happy…

Photobombing the Photobomb

Me discovering that the sun sets in the evening

THE GODS ARE EATING THE SUUUNN!!!

This man who serenaded us all – with mixed reactions

This guy sang at our hotel one night and came round people while they ate. We thought we’d avoid him but as people left and the evening wore on we became sitting ducks to his charms.

India smiled politely

Dad had a good old sing along

I personally would have been up for marrying the guy right then and there

But mum on the other hand…

But then in the end she decided this was the best photo of her from the whole holiday

So really we all won that evening.

India got a new hair style…

…And I got my first ever fish pedicure

I paid a massive eight euros for a foot massage and 10 minutes with the fish. For the first five minutes I was laughing constantly. My feet are the most ticklish part of me and far from nibbling, it felt like tens of tiny fish sucking at every part of my feet. It was an experience to say the least. Would I do it again for the soft feet? No. Would I do it again with friends? For eight euros, yeah, I probably would.

All joking aside…

…It was a great holiday. We’d been to Cyprus before, but it was on this holiday that the four of us went to the North of the island for the first time. It was the first time we had really experienced the awkward underlying tension between the Turkish Muslims and the Greek Orthodox Christians. No one says anything, but you sense it. From the stubborn border control (India and I unexpectedly became cigarette mules for one man who bought four packs instead of the two per person limit the Turks impose), to the massive North Cyprus flag painted on the mountain side to overlook the Greek half of Nicosia:

Since the fall of the Berlin wall, Nicosia is now the last divided capital in Europe. Check points everywhere and it just feels weird. I suppose this is what many people felt in Berlin a generation ago. At least now people can cross over the boarder (with a passport). Until 2003 even that wasn’t possible. But there’s no escaping the elephant in the room, although the Greeks don’t hide away from it. This cafe positioned on a check-point border I thought summed up the situation well.

(Berlin No. 2)

Anger mixed with grumbling acceptance. As generations have grown up with the dividing line it has become harder to explain to younger generations what life was like before 1974 and as time goes on it seems more and more likely a peaceful solution will never come about. People were forced of their homes and live from both sides of the border, foreigners have bought and sold land, built houses etc. As our tour guide said, ‘it’s like a divorce, if you do something quickly about it you may be able to come to a resolution. However if you keep leaving it you’re only going to make things worse.”

Don’t get me wrong, the north of the island was lovely. I genuinely could have sat with a book and a coffee and chilled out at Bellapais village/abbey all day.

(I can’t really think of anything like it in England, other than the love child of Hailes Abbey, Gloucestershire, and Kenilworth Castle, Warwickshire)

Kyrenia also had a very pretty harbour and various doors (too many photos were taken of doors this holiday to include them all in this post but this will do):

And then there was the odd road trip where we were reminded that Cyprus has a lot of history to offer:

This was part of a big area of temples for worshipping various Greek Gods, converted over the years to dormitories, baths, houses etc. It’s existence today has certainly been aided by Cyprus not having the shortage of land for development which exists in this country.

However it did mean there was the odd spooky development that had been abandoned to let time and nature do with it as it wished.

That said, as a holiday overall it was brilliant. Just what we all needed. Fun, laughter, cocktails and all the humus and Cypriot (not Turkish) delight a girl could ask for. And as I stood on a bridge over the pool one evening, two cocktails in hand I felt as ease. While mum, dad and India argued over the camera flash I thought, ‘this was as good as family holidays get’.

“See! No flash!”

“Give me the camera. You’re pressing the wrong button. Press that one! No, the other one! The one with the lightning bolt”

“India I’m pressing that one! Oh, now I’ve set the timer on!”

“Still not coming out right. Your father and his silly ideas for taking a decent photo at night.”

“It was just a suggestion…”

“Mum, just give me the camera already!”

Yep, life certainly does not get any better than this.

A Lesson in Modern Culture? High Street Fashion (Spring 2015)

March 25, 2015March 25, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) fashion, shopping fashion, high street, shopping

With an upcoming holiday to Cyprus on the horizon, a compulsory holiday clothes shop was in order.

As a woman you would think this would be a straight forward enough task. My usual shopping pattern is enter shop, walk around, exit shop, walk to a shop at the far end of town, walk back to the other end of town, walk past Costa half a dozen times before deciding it’s quiet enough to go in, have coffee and read a my book for about an hour. (Intellectual box is ticked, however sophisticated attractive man coming up to me and saying “Hey there, reading Handmaid’s Tale I see. I personally preferred Atwood’s earlier dystopian work, but it’s better than 1984” box will remain unticked). After this I’ll then exit the coffee shop and then my retail habits begin all over again.

Even I don’t understand my walking pattern. Before Christmas I went to Bath and it got to the stage I was holding casual conversation with the big issue guy every time I walked past him in my wolf hat (which was about six times). I was his ‘wolfie’ and he was my ‘big issue man’.

Anyway, I was going clothes shopping which would normally be simple enough, however this Spring the shops seemed flooded with a lot of WTF (what the fudge) clothing. It’s like the High Street has become the embodiment of the human version of the super-hipster. While some things do look kinda cool if you’re into that thing (or ‘rocking that look’ as the hip kids say), other things are just all types of no.

At this stage I’m going to stop typing so much and post a selection of photos from the wonderfully awful camera on my Nokia Lumia 635 from recent shopping trips…

This long sleeved top in H&M:

…Because daddy/childhood issues is sooo in this season.

This bikini top in New Look that features an insect ladder at the back:

…

It’s either to ensure insects can climb to safety should they get stuck in the pool, or so they can slide down you as part of their insect pool parties. It’s a two in one.

This sheep skin, long sleeve outfit, perfect for pagan ceremonies:

You’ll by the hippiest hipster in this outfit. Darn you New Look for beating my organisation into stocking this! For an added hippy look, add flowers in your hair and skip down the main High Street. You’ll soon be pulling in the instagram followers and trending across Wiltshire.

Clothing that features puns:

Ok, I’ll admit this is a good pun or something I’d buy just to get this reaction from friends initially:

There were a few of these around town. This one was borderline:

Clearly all the good puns were taken though when H&M designed their Spring 2015 clothes range. They’re currently stocking this…

Little Mer-Kitty? What on Earthhh? On the upside it’s a conversation starter. (“Hey, where did you get that top and where is the nearest petrol canister and matches?”)

Clothing which features food:

For goodness sake High Street, I thought I’d covered this in my recent blog post from when I was in Cardiff (http://wp.me/p5kuli-2I). Having food on your clothing is just weird and it encourages either obesity or cannibalism!

Who decided that this year would be the year of the junk? (The type of food on the clothing is also unhealthy). Surely this clothing breaks EU regulations on food offering? I mean where is the salad skirt or the veggie vest?

This rebellious jewellery range:

The photo speaks for itself.

This cool cat:

Oh sorry, this photo shouldn’t be here. I forgot this post was about awful fashion choices…

This outfit that was designed for management:

You’ll never need a name tag again! Your team will entirely respect your decision and reasons for buying this outfit.

Finally, this long sleeved crop top that is still trying to ‘find itself’:

I mean is it a crop top or is it a long sleeved top? Is it French or is it English? It is probably best not to ask, the person who chooses to wear this top is probably just as confused.

The only products I did have time for were at Paperchase:

It’s tough cookies! Because they’re cookie cutters with tattoos that traditionally tough people had. Hah!

So…

These photos came from a selection of outfits from a selection of shops. There were plenty more varying degrees of what I’d consider to be crimes against fashion, however shop assistants don’t tend to take too kindly to people who just photo products and don’t try anything on.

Overall, I have wasted a good deal of time recently gaping at hideous clothes when I should be buying my fifth dress that I really don’t need. I mean who is designed and signed these outfits off? Who is buying these clothes? Most importantly though, WHO SAT THERE AND TOLD THE HIGH STREET STORES THAT THIS IS FASHIONABLE??!!

I want to start a petition, tell the world to boycott some of these products, but then I really, really, hope that the world has an ounce of common sense to avoid awful fashion when they see it. I’m certain I’ll do another similar post to this again in the future. A mouse can’t halt a bull and I can’t halt the wrath of the fashion industry. Has anyone ever dared to tell the fashion world that perhaps they might occasionally get it wrong? Just because the emperor says something looks amazing it shouldn’t follow we accept it at face value. That said, since typing this I would love to see photos of super skinny models wearing clothing with cake designs. Two polar opposites, just like a sad clown. Now there’s something I’d like to see. Do that fashion industry and then we can talk.

Right, on the subject of fashion and being cool I’m off to eat dinner in a pair of jogging bottoms, an oversized university hoodie with my hair scrapped back into a pony tail. It doesn’t matter how fabulous I look this evening because I’ve got a box of chocolate fingers and a night in with this man…

Aka Poldark, aka Aiden Turner, aka the only person I’d ever wear a mer-kitty top for.

Yum.

Educating Alice (#EducatingAlice)

March 11, 2015March 11, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Swindon Education, Swindon

The day after my last blog post I walked into the office to get the standard review/critique from my number one fan, Steve (aka my boss). ‘It was good, but again Swindon is not mentioned. You haven’t mentioned all the good things that are here!’ ‘So, overall, B+ for effort?’ ‘Oh I wouldn’t go that far.’

So, here I am, writing ten things positive about Swindon. Because who doesn’t like pigs on hills?

1) There are nice coffee places

The team’s desire for me to write something positive about Swindon actually goes back weeks. Backtrack to the day after my post on when I visited my sister in Cardiff (http://wp.me/p5kuli-2I) and there was uproar among staff (well between Steve and homeware buyer Lucia which is as close to an uproar as we ever get). The pair of them, unknown to me, had been furiously texting the day before over the comment I made that Swindon doesn’t do nice coffee. A couple of hours into the working day and a calendar invite springs up in my inbox titled “#EducatingAlice” (yes, this is such a big deal a hashtag was created for it #SoCool #YouKnowYouveMadeItWhen).

Scroll forward a week and a chunk of the team took me out to coffee at Swindon’s Darkroom Espresso…

(Left to right: Steve, Lucia, Sarah, yours truly, Lorna, Catherine)

(On a side note, Steve pointed out that this was a very good photo of him and mumma Bennett commented that Lucia, Sarah, Lorna and Catherine looked really pretty/lovely. “Have you missed someone mum?” “Oh yes, Steve looks like a nice guy too.”)

Following this outing I now have to admit that Swindon does have at least one nice coffee shop within walking distance from home/work.

2) Swindon has the cheapest petrol in England

Headline says it all really. This information comes courtesy of Steve/the internet.

3) The name ‘Swindon’ is believed to derive from the Pig (swine) market that happened on the hill (don)

The tops of hills = wonderful views (= awesome) and pigs = bacon or babe (both of which are awesome).

4) Wagamamas is a five minute walk away

I do have a tendency to take things for granted. The super snazzy shopping outlet is one example of this. Today, a group of us went to Wagamamas for lunch as part of ‘Educating Alice’ which enabled me to experience the restaurant for the first time (although based on this it was really ‘Educating Alice, Lorna and Barbara’). Photo time…

(Left to right: Barbara, Lorna, Catherine, Helen, yours truly. All of us are in universal agreement that we’ve all looked better.)

Nice dining, and I got a pile of food left over for my dinner this evening (a combo of my, and Lorna’s, leftovers. You can take the girl out of University…).

Following this we trekked some 50 yards to get ice cream from the Thornton’s outlet shop. I have to admit that compared to my normal lunch of cheese sandwiches and a yoghurt (on a crazy day it’s chicken), today trumps them all.

5) My pottery course at the local college

Over the past few weeks I’ve really come to enjoy my Monday evenings thanks to the pottery course I’m enrolled in and, as of last Tuesday, I will be continuing next term also. It’s given me a chance to learn a new skill outside of work. Forget attractive men, I now spend my evenings looking at good-looking pots! (And there is something I never thought I’d say in my life).

I’m about the 8th week in and I’m still learning the ropes with different clay techniques. And while I have several items still in development and one success story (there will definitely be a post dedicated to that one), there have also been a fair share of failures. Week 2 coil pot will always have a piece of my heart. Week 2…

But, post firing (week 3)…

…

Tutor Belinda thought it was probably due to a trapped air bubble in the base which exploded in the kiln. Still, RIP coil pot, you will never be forgotten.

The people on the course are all friendly, and it’s just nice to be able to unwind and not think about anything. Plus there aren’t many places where if something goes wrong you can screw the clay up, throw it on the table and make something beautiful out of the mess.

6) The Magic Roundabout

Love it or loathe it, you have to acknowledge this piece of roundabout engineering:

7) It is easy to get to other places

I won’t dwell on this one as it has been extensively covered in a previous blog post: (http://wp.me/p5kuli-1V) but I have to admit it has been a big plus factor when I’ve wanted to explore places outside of Swindon or get home. There’s also lots of pretty Cotswold towns nearby. As a Cotswold girl myself that’s certainly no negative.

8) Urm, Swindon contains the word ‘win’…?

8.5) Potential team outing to Swindon’s indoor crazy golf course

(TBC, depends when Catherine gets round to planning it. I’m told it’s a must as part of #EducatingAlice. I’ll keep you posted on this one).

9) Thanks to an enthusiastic, active individual, Swindon now has a brilliant social group for young professionals

34 members and growing, with lots of events going on. I hear the person that created it has also sweet talked venues to providing drinks deals and pizza for free. She sounds like the kinda gal I’d like to be friends with. Find out more here:

Swindon 18-30 Professionals

Swindon, GB
34 Young Professionals

Have you just recently graduated and/or moved to the area? If you have, and you are aged 18-30 then come and join us for social activities to meet new people and make friends….

Next Meetup

Cinema (Focus) and Nandos at Regent Circus

Thursday, Mar 12, 2015, 6:00 PM
10 Attending

Check out this Meetup Group →

(Look, if I can’t plug my own social group here where can I? #ShamlessPlug)

10) I live with friendly housemates and work with a crazy but loveable bunch of people who do random things like celebrate my birthday by wearing hats:

And you know what? I wouldn’t change them for any town, anywhere.

Happy Valake Day!

February 21, 2015February 28, 2015 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) love Pancake, Valentines

Ah February – that wonderful time of the year where you either freeze to death in the cold or narrowly avoid death slipping on ice. Yes, February is a wonderful time of the British year. I don’t know what people are saying when they say February the 14th is just an excuse for companies to make money out of us. It’s not like you can only go to restaurants because it’s too cold for a picnic, only want to buy cheesy tat because the thought of buying t-shirts makes you shudder…Oh wait. In my 22 years on this planet I’ve gone through a variety of Valentine’s Days. I’ve had the personal ‘being single sucks’, the fake Valentine’s cards, the snotty friend going through a break up, right through to where I am now, the ‘meh, just another day, ooh look reduced chocolate!’ One common theme runs through every V Day though, I’ve always been single on it. Before anyone sits there thinking ‘oh poor, poor Alice’, don’t, just don’t. On the other hand, if you think for a second that I’m the kinda girl to preach on about companies making money out of us, well you can just keep walking. I genuinely have no strong feelings on the subject or the day itself. I actually think in a modern society filled with faceless social media and online gaming there’s a need to force people to show affection. On a separate but related note, the other day I saw this advert on TV and I made me a very little bit annoyed:

“OH COME ON! REALLY?!” (As if this website needs further drilling into our lives) Another ad campaign which is doing its rounds in the UK is the ‘Love Your Imperfections’ series of adverts by Match.com.

Saying ‘Love Your Imperfections’ is all well and good, but one of my imperfections is spilling coffee and tea over everyone and thing and I’ve yet to find anyone who loves that about me. It’s not even endearing, it’s ‘oh for God’s sake Alice’. Love is definitely too strong a word to describe my imperfections (#BlasphemeYourImperfections). (Sorry, I have to say something now as an FYI for the future. If you run towards me on a first date I WILL run away in fear, if you alter my collar I WILL find it controlling and I swear to goodness if you photo bomb a picture with my friends I will give you two words and push you away. And if that photo was even vaguely decent, run. Run away and never return. I won’t be responsible for my actions if you don’t. (There are many people in Southampton who can testify to all of this). So that’s where my head is at with Valentine’s. Love it, loathe it, or be indifferent to it. Single or taken, you can say whatever you want about the day. This year though was slightly different to normal years in that Shrove Tuesday (aka Pancake Day) was the Tuesday straight after Saturday 14th February. Potted Bible lesson: Shrove Tuesday is the first day before Lent, the period where traditionally you’re meant to forbear ingredients such as eggs, flour and milk for the 40 days before Easter. These ingredients were meant to be thrown out or consumed before Lent, and put together they make great pancakes. Shove Tuesday = Pancake Day (there is some logic behind it). Pancake Day gives people the excuse to binge on this delightful foodstuff and add all manner of toppings to it. Lemon, sugar, chocolate, fruit, the list goes on and on. Someone at work suggested savoury fillings like ham and cheese. She was shut down fairly quickly. If you’re like me, you also get excited when you inadvertently make your pancake look a little like a face: It looks like a face!

It got me thinking, why can’t single people quit their whining and celebrate Pancake Day like a sort of ‘singles day’ (without calling it that.) Think about it, you can go round to a friend’s house and laugh over the whole batter making, flipping, pancake on floor, start again thing and it’s socially acceptable to binge yourself silly. You don’t have to feel guilty eating your weight in sugar and Nutella. You can watch a guilty pleasure film or do anything you want under the tag line ‘I’m giving this up for Lent’. If you don’t fancy staying in there are all manner of ice cream/pancake/waffle parlours across the land that will do the job for you. Let the couples have Valentine’s Day, but let the single’s have a day too. If you’re in a relationship you’re probably feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries or spaghetti, or whatever it is couples eat. Single people are normal humans, we work and have money to spend and, with no one else around, we can be very impressionable. For example, I convinced myself that I would look awesome in animal hats thanks to a hat display in a shop. Oh, I don’t regret it, I do look awesome. Let us singles have a harmless day to binge and have fun and not feel guilty in doing so. Give me the chance devour these over an oversized teddy any day:

Seems like a fair trade.

Valentine’s or Pancake day, or, as I would like to call the whole period, Valake Day. Why make two events exclusive, when they could work together to make everyone happy? Couples, don’t get lovey dovey on Shrove Tuesday. Singles, stop wallowing in self pity and get a pancake down your throat. Do this and who knows, we may get through this depressing month a hell of a lot quicker.

My Housemate's a Mermaid

Fiction, book reviews, observational comedy. Author: Alice E. Bennett (and yes, the mermaid is real)

Author: My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett)