The Morning I Re-evaluated my Relationships with Men

(This post continues from The Time I Discovered I was a Dominatrix…At Speed Dating)

***

The following morning I received an email from the dating facilitators to announce that the tick system was now open for submitting my yays and nays. My two friends submitted their ticks within half an hour of the email coming through alongside nearly all of the guys. I however felt strangely disengaged with the idea of rushing to make my decision, I already knew what my responses would be.

Other than Mr Dominatrix, the man who thought (and failed) to weird me out, everyone had submitted their responses by 20:00. I was sat cross legged with my laptop resting on my calves, donning my Gap jogging bottoms and a baggy Southampton hoody (the one someone gave me in the back of a disgusting nightclub in my student days, but that’s another story). I set my cup of tea down and opened up the laptop.

My likes and dislikes were completed swiftly and without much thought. No, no, no, no, no… I ticked no to all the eleven men I’d been on speed dates with the night before. Next came the mild curiosity to find out which, if any, of the men had liked me. To find that out all I had to do was hit the big submit button. The system tried to get me to rethink my decision but I overruled it. The men had all been pleasant enough, but Alice just was not interested.

Submit.

I opened up the next screen to see five guys had ticked yes to me. Five guys that would either be gutted or indifferent that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. Three of the five guys had also ticked yes to one of my other friends which led me to believe in the age of quick hit love they’d get over me pretty quickly. My friends and I were all were equally fine with sharing updates and matching,texting and dating overlapping men (or in my case taking my off-casts). The girl chat continued late into the night and I went to bed content that at least my two friends had better luck than me.

I woke up the next morning and underwent the normal routine to get myself in the right mental state for work. I logged onto my work laptop at 7:55 with a strong Americano in hand and pulled myself, sip by sip, into a mental state fit for work.

I made it to mid-morning before I started reflecting on things outside my work. I started thinking about my dating life, about how in Swindon it was non-existent and how in London it was over-existent. How repetitive and tedious the dating apps were, what with all the constant swiping and then, assuming you even got any matches, how tediously dull the small talk was only for people to disappear, blurt out something inappropriate or stand you up on a date. All things I’d experienced far too often in the past year. Most of all how much time I was wasting on something completely unproductive and unfulfilling.

The writing had been on the wall months, if not years. I’d already been banned from apps Tinder and Happn after trying to convince too many men to read my blog (causing me to be wrongly reported as a bot or fake profile). I’d become fatigued with the premise and the creepy men that I actually took the bans as a blessing in disguise.

I’m single but happily so. If I can buy and run a house by myself, go on holiday by myself, have fun with my existing friends then why trawl through the 4am matches in desperation to find someone just to validate I mean something to someone? Some people have insecurities and need to hop from relationship to relationship, and good for them. But for me my independence means so much that the idea of losing that makes me do this inside:

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(Not an attractive look on dates.)

So why on earth am I trying to force myself into a serious relationship? Why am I digging out and enhancing photos to make myself look more appealing? I know I’m awesome so why am I trying to make men see that from just a handful of photos? And the same for men – who gave me the right to judge men in a similar vein when I’ve always said it’s not how I would find or build a connection with anyone – man or woman, relationship or friend.

I want to do more with my life while I can, I want to write more, do more, be more. I want to think “wow, I did something good this evening” or have a lazy, evening where I can watch rubbish TV guilt free, instead of beating myself up because I didn’t get any matches on Bumble.

That has settled it, I’m deleting the dating profiles, removing the apps and focusing on me. I’m not saying I’ll never return to dating apps and I’m certainly not about to become a nun, but right now I need the detox. If someone happens upon my path then I at least know it’s natural and, dare I say it, fate.

I’ve signed up to a writing course and am now dedicating my energies into that alongside my career, Swindon 18-30 and volunteering at my local Samaritans branch. I genuinely won’t/don’t have the time for time wasters.

Watch the clip below. Right now I’m Owen Wilson’s character but with time and dedication I want to become more like Corey Stoll’s (aka Hemingway).

I wrote this and The Time I Discovered I was a Dominatrix in mid June so by the time you read these I’ll already have removed myself from proactive dating and be very much stuck into my writing course. If for the time being I don’t post as much on this blog, you know why.

Lets make this work, because I can.

In a bit, AEB x

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The Time I Discovered I was a Dominatrix…At Speed Dating

“There you go, one large glass of wine. That’ll be £6.50.”

“Sorry but can I get some more? I can see the level is just off the 250ml mark on the glass.”

I turned to my two friends stood either side of me.

“What? Look if I’m going to go speed dating then I’m damn well getting a full glass of wine.”

I took the glass off the bar in a swift motion that resulted in the extra liquid splashing across my suede heels.

“Good job you demanded more wine Alice.”

“Sush.”

**

“You’re so funny!”

“Thanks, it’s just me being me I suppose.”

“No really, you’re naturally great. How you can make someone laugh just on the topics of pens, that takes skill.”

“Calm it down, if all the guys knew I’d leant you my pen after three minutes I’d be the talk of the town. Now I don’t know how you men play it in Calne but in Swindon this is big stuff. What are you on anyway, Diet Coke?”

“It’s actually full sugar.”

“Jesus Christ! Full sugar? Now it all makes sense, now I know what your game is. You’ve been eyeing up my pen all night!”

And then there was a minute of laughter.

“You know, you really should write this down.”

“Funny you say that, I actually write a blog.” (Said for the eighth time that night.)

“What’s it called?”

My Housemate’s a Mermaid.”

He started scribbling it down on the paper when showcase Alice leapt out of my throat.

“I have a business card if it helps?”

“Oh yes please!”

As I handed over the tiny card I caught my friend’s eye from the table opposite me.

“What?” I mouthed. She responded with a look that said “you know what”. I’d joked all week about giving out business cards at this speed dating event, in fact only a few days before at a house party a friend had yelled “for God’s sake Alice!” when she pulled out one I’d smuggled into a card deck. In many ways giving out just the one business card all night was a poor showing on my part.

When you go speed dating it’s hard to get any understanding of what half the room are doing. In fact it’s probably the only time in your life when you have a better understanding of the opposite sex versus your own. As a woman you never get to (or want to) get a firm grip on the ‘competition’. At best you get hear-say reflections from what rotating men tell you about the other women they’ve chatted to on the night.

My grasp on how I was polling? I was the funny one, the leading one, the in-control one or, as one man put it, “the dominatrix of the room with the submissive friends”.

I was strangely flattered by this comment and in the same way that when I was six I let my policewoman ambition go to my head, at the next interval I told my two friends to get on the floor and worship me. If they didn’t I’d hit them around the head with a copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

“Why have you even got that out on the table?”

“In case I get bored. Also a conversation starter.”

“And has it worked?”

“Why aren’t you on the floor already?”

My Dominatrix man was Jade’s ‘White Guy’ on account of his white shirt (although not before I’d yelled out “they’re all white Jade!” For all to hear). And White Guy was my other friend’s ‘Awkward’.

The latter description was fair, this man wasn’t a first class in fast flowing dialogue. In fact he’d come to my table with the opener, “I’ll probably say something that’ll weird you out and you won’t want to talk to me.”

“I wrote a blog post comparing men to snack bars. Try me.”

“Oh.”

“I mean you could try to weird me out but in three and a half minutes you would be doing a very good job, so much so that actually I’d be more impressed than weirded out.

“As for me, I’ve long since learnt to not care. See if you chat to me now and think ‘she’s alright’ and we match then good times all round, if we don’t then that’s life. Why should I care what you think of me after four minutes if we never meet again? I don’t care. So go on, convince me why I shouldn’t tick yes for you.”

If Dominatrix was a computer I turned him into the blue screen of death. He froze for a second, that fraction of a moment when you could sense something was rebooting and then went from being uptight to putty in my hands. And, once again, I was branded “hilarious” for being me.

Another highlight mistake of the night was agreeing to do a collaboration video with a YouTuber who dresses as a Bear (I did an impression on my bar stool of how I’d be dancing in a mermaid costume. As glamourous as you’re imagining.) There was also a man who announced he’d seen me before, which given work, blog, Swindon 18-30 and being a normal human did not help either party. Someone else set up Cloud software for IT illiterate companies but had never seen this clip…

…which I instructed him to watch the second he got home.

“Ha-ha, sure.”

“I’m not flipping kidding Jim*.”

There were other guys who either rocked up to my table as being loud and outgoing or deeply introverted to the point of barely getting a word out. At the time I just played me, I’d comment on their shirt and get them talking from that, or I’d make it obvious that I knew nothing about motor bikes.

“Like the Wallace and Gromit one?”

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I.e. I got them all laughing and smiling. And although it seems a bit narcissistic, me thinking I’m God’s bringer of four minute joy…

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…but I genuinely wanted to put people at ease and avoid the alternative option of four minutes of torture. I’d have thought I was being normal if not for the fact that the men were leaving my table with a look or comment that suggested they would linger longer if they could.

At a post event debrief I learned of some of the more ‘challenging’ conversations my friends had experienced, conversations that were non-existent on table nine. My little perch where I’d been doing me, chatting, laughing, smiling warmly through ink-laden eyelids. And while I sat there in the well-worn and stained surroundings of a neighbouring Wetherspoons a thought flashed before my eyes and exited through my mouth.

“I’m going to have to be the bad guy aren’t I?”

And then I realised the UHT milk pods I’d taken from the pub’s condiments table had leaked in my pocket.

 

To be continued…

Single Girl Seeks +0 for Family Wedding

This post features images of taxidermy. To understand why visit the Powell-Cotton Museum website. “The past is a foreign country” – L.P. Hartley.

**

Sometimes on those rare moments of peace and tranquillity I take a step back and think to myself, “where does my creativity come from? My ability to construct a half decent sentence together that delves deep into an experience, item or concept while also being able to pull out some humour that keeps people coming back time after time to this humble website of mine?” It’s on such occasions I naturally turn to my family to find the source of my flowing words…

…and realise I really must have been adopted.

Despite the fact my normal dress sense makes me a walking advert for the French rom com Popularie (and something I’m completely fine with, even if it is set in 1958)

…the Cotswold Bennett clan were in fact dressed up to the nines in the Powell-Cotton Museum at Quex Park for a family wedding. The union of my lovely cousin Stella with her Welsh husband-to-be Alun. Because if there was one thing our family needed, its more Welsh (given I’m only 25% of the rugby-mad stuff this marriage couldn’t come soon enough, our family is becoming far too English).

The day started in the same way most my weekday mornings do, wondering why the hell I was awake and why wasn’t I drinking coffee. Not that it got in the way of me catching up on the zzz’s, I woke up some 2.5 hours down the M25 to find a blob of saliva on my dress and a chicken roll having appeared on my lap. I think India might have thrown it at my face. If my bodily fluids didn’t ruin my make up before then the massive size-of-your-face chicken roll did. Again, I took a bite of the roll to be very concerned over the amount of red behind (thankfully my lipstick, not thankfully an expensive brand of the stuff).

Once we’d arrived at Birchington (where Mumma Bennett had booked the apartment for the extended weekend) there was a delightful scene where the postcode wrongly took us to the wrong spot, causing us to drive up and down the street multiple times. When people in mobility scooters and shorts start giving you looks you know you’re looking like class A muppets. A particular highlight was when Papa Bennett proposed us three women get changed at the wedding venue seeing as it was apparently so close to where we’d be staying. The response?

As if we’d even be dared seen by other guests before we’d got into our wedding gear. I only had one of my normal 50s outfits on! Men.

Flash forward a few hours once we’d finally found the apartment, got bags, got changed, went to the loo, changed shoes, updated make up, went to the loo again and hopped in the car for all of the two minute journey and were at the venue. One of the first people we saw when arriving at the venue was Aunt Shiona, mother of the Bride.

“What are you doing all here so early?! We had bets on you!” She said as she gave us all hugs and chatted briefly before dashing of to more important matters.

“What a funny thing to say about having bets on us.”

“I can believe it.” Mumma B said.

“I think she was joking.”

“We’re a whole forty minutes early Dad,” I interjected, “that’s not like us at all.”

And then we were chatting and chilling with relatives and I was complaining that I couldn’t be the little toddler who got to wear a pretty dress and roll around in the dirt on a wedding day.

“I mean you could,” Uncle Martin said.

“Don’t worry, on Alice’s wedding it’ll be all mud pies and S Club 7 songs” Mumma B said. While everyone laughed I muttered to India “do you think we can get Aqua live?”

And then the wedding happened. Sorry Stella and Alun, I know you guys love my blog but I honestly can’t think of much to say – I wish I could write something wonderfully romantic but unlike your friends I stuffed up my poetry module at A Level. Urm…

The ceremony was wonderful // Stella’s dress was anything but colourful.

(I think I’ll stick to the writing.)

Here is a very small sample of some of the photos taken of Stella and Alun on the day.

And here is one of the child I want to be when I grow up.

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And here are a selection of all the many selfies I did whilst we were waiting for the drinks reception.

And then things ground to a temporary halt while we tried to fix the selfie stick/camera.

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But luckily Aunt Yvonne was on hand to capture me at my most beautiful.

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I never met the guy stood behind me in that photo but I think he liked me, that or he felt pity (very easy to get the two mixed up in my world).

And lets take a moment to admire how amazingly my bun held up, despite the four hour drive/sleeping/undressing-dressing/just being me.

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You know, with some of the pictures I’m seeing here you’d think the official photographer could have taken the day off. Anyway moving on and back, the venue was lovely. I mean a wedding in a mother flipping museum is always going to get me excited. Don’t forget this…

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…This was taken before the consumption of any alcohol. So I was living the dream being able to drink prosecco and wonder exhibitions with suited and other smart type people.

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Even if it made me look like a horned beast.

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But they had a kid’s trail (and seemingly unlimited prosecco and canapes) so I was prepared to overlook this.

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We sat down for food and, you’ve guessed it, took more selfies (remind me again why we were there?) Mumma B tried to set the camera up for Bluetooth group photos, but by this point I was on the table wine with a stomach lined with a couple of mini spring rolls. Of course I wasn’t going to be taking anything seriously.

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Stella and Alun then cut their wedding cake. FYI am I the only one thinking Stella was far too happy to be holding such a sharp knife?

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Alun probably had his eye on it for his tomato addiction. His need to consume £50 worth of the little red things a week got a mention in every one of the speeches to much laughter. Everyone needs a hobby I guess.

After speeches, food and yet more table wine (suddenly the headache I had the next morning makes a lot more sense) people broke off while the function room was set up for evening entertainment.

Papa B, India, Uncle Chris and a few others got excited over a drone and Mumma B grabbed a photo just in time to get my typically Alice reaction.

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Mumma B and I instead spent time wondering around the gardens and discussing flower beds and architecture. Standard. Once the evening portion of the night kicked off it was all dancing and fun way into the night. Have you ever danced to the hit song Nelson Mandela by The Specials at a wedding? Well you have not lived my friend.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing for Mandela India! We’ve got to free him!”

“[Laughs] what the hell?”

“FREEEEEEE NELSON MANDELA! INDIA! IT’S MANDELA!”

(For context, Stella spent a good deal of time in Southern Africa growing up.)

And then eventually the whole night wrapped up with a UB40 song.

“What’s this?” India asked.

“The song played when the DJ wants you to bugger off.”

***

The following days were spent relaxing and enjoying the Kentish sunshine. A particular highlight was when the four of us visited Walmer Castle in Deal. India, with her expert technical knowledge helped restore my confidence that I must be at least related to her.

Further shored up when she got just as excited over a pair of mini Wellington boots as I did.

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Tell you what, I have a lot of time for a young Wellington. Before I say anything further let me explain a bit of background behind the rationale.

Whilst loving life in Granada recently myself and one of the girls I was staying with developed an heightened interest in olives. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the fact we didn’t know each other and were jumping on the first connection we had but our lust of olives was just off the scale. Our friends would have told us to get a room, if we hadn’t already decided we were going to because of the olives. We bought a massive jar between us and in started taking ‘shots’ of olives and eventually skipped the middle man by carting the whole jar to bed with us at stupid o’clock (don’t ask me to explain why). Anyway, because the jar was so hard to open and because of how much we loved those olives I coined a phrase to subtly describe any man (or woman) that the perciever took a fancy to. I explain this to you now a) for future reference on any subsequent blog posts and b) because seeing a young Wellington in Walmer Castle prompted me to say it.

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“Ooh. He can open my olives.”

“What?”

I related the above story to India.

“Again, what?”

**

I attended my cousin’s wedding with only my immediate family and happily so. It made me wonder why people have this need to put on their dating profiles “seeks +1 to attend weddings”. Why? What’s wrong with going solo? I had just as much fun being a plus zero, if not more so by being able to be classic Alice and wander around a museum late at night after a glass or two, pretending I was living my own version of Night at the Museum. Would I have wanted a plus one to see we twirling about and exclaiming “I love History!”? Goodness no!

The Cotswold Bennett clan left Kent early on Sunday having spent a four days in South East England, a part of the country that none of us had visited in any depth before. We came away feeling very relaxed and India and I with a long list of wedding ideas for that of our own one day (although for the love of God don’t let that be any time soon – Aqua don’t have the availability).

**

Big love to my cousin Stella and her husband Alun, I had a wonderful time at your wedding and wish you all the best now and long into the future. I’m no poet but I hope this, alongside the wire chicken egg holder (memories of hunting cheap eggs in London), I hope they both make you smile.

With love, AEB x

 

Seven Little Books

“29/04/18. My arms are aching, my legs are covered in bruises and I’m completely shattered. I must be in London.”

It has been a week since I vacated my flat in central London and returned once more to Swindon. It almost feels like the past year has all been but a dream, vape steam in the breeze. Invisible, abstract and only memorable by the faint smell it leaves behind.

On 2nd May I left London Paddington station for the last time packed like a loaded Buckaroo: an overfilled holdall case, a heavy rucksack, an additional handbag, a canvas tote filled with redundant bedlinen and a heavy laptop across the body for good measure. I learnt from my mistakes moving out and managed the travel back relatively bruise free, however my body has ached for days from strain. The day before I fully moved I’d completed a separate trip to Swindon with a similar amount of goods and wondered why I couldn’t stop violently shaking. I spilt coffee everywhere at the formal work function, of course. At the time I put it down to the amount of rushing around but now I see it as the culmination of mental and muscular stress.

Other than the short term pains it would be easy to pass off what I’d been through and achieved in just over twelve months living and working in the English capital as nothing more than normal. ‘Business as usual’ as my colleagues would say. But it isn’t. And it’s not just the big things that make me say that, like moving into the flat and travelling solo in Europe for the first time, but it is the little things as well. The events I put myself out of my comfort zone to attend, the weird obsession with finding the cheapest eggs, the men (goodness the men). And as I stood in Brompton cemetery one Sunday afternoon while a random man called Nicolas tried to chat me up I thought only one thing.

Thank God I’m writing this all down.

Seven separate notebooks, all documenting the experience of spending a year in London. Seven books with unique but different personalities as I went through a deeply personal and professional journey. Just glancing over extracts from book one and comparing it to book seven the transformation is really quite something (excluding coffee spilling and egg hunting, those two are deeply trademarked parts of me). Admittedly I haven’t read any of the books in depth since writing, I want to let some water trickle under bridges first. But I remember so clearly picking the first notebook off a shelf in a stationery store and telling myself I would make every effort to record the upcoming eight months in London (as it was then supposed to be) so that I should not forget the experience when I returned once more to Wiltshire. To ensure that I never let this fantastic opportunity turn into little more than a faded dream. And maybe, just maybe, one day I will do something more with my scribbles, that people will know about the time I ended up at a celebrity wedding, when the artist Grayson Perry became a fan of my writing, the time I got screen tested for a dating show. And again, the men.

If two things show how much I’ve changed over the past year then look no further than these separate quotes.

“11/05/18…Let’s make this work.”

“06/04/19…Because I can.”

 

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Why Can’t Men be More Like Snack Bars?

I was recently sat in a bar with a glass of wine and my new portable laptop (best investment of the year so far) when I had a flashback to all those Jordans’ Frusli snack/cereal bars I bought before London. Remember those?

So I decided, quite randomly, to send a letter to the lovely people at Jordans to make them aware. Of course this is me so naturally it wasn’t a standard letter. I took a sip on my rapidly depleting glass of red and wrote the following:

Dear Sir or Madam,

RE: Why can’t men be more like Jordans Frusli bars?

My name is Alice and I’m a finance professional and freelance blogger/kooky lady living in the centre of London. Now I’m pretty sure you’ve taken one look at the RE there and thought “hmm, this complaint may involve the assistance of a therapist, or a year seven biology guide”. But before you fear on that front, don’t worry, I know men can’t actually be like your Frusli bars. Everyone knows men are made out of used socks, cheese puffs and that weird smell no one can ever quite place. I think it’s a mutation of Lynx. Anyway, I’m not stupid but hear me out on this.

I relocated to London in May last year, a pretty stressful process as moves go. I was leaving Swindon with not a clue in the world what to do. I assumed that everything in London was expensive and topped with some kind of skinny foam, so I thought it wise to stock pile on what I knew to be good, wholesome and something I could pretend was 3 of my five a day. In my keen to stockpile for an event that you may have thought was a new Cold War I may have bought enough boxes to reach my hip… [picture insert]

You can imagine the fun I had transporting those from Paddington to E1. With everything else my bags weighed a ruddy tonne. However, unlike the many, many men who walked on by, the energy I got from a blueberry Frusli bar helped give the me energy to lug those bags on/off tube lines and up a flighty number of stairs. The power of the Frusli!

Once in the flat I managed to locate a drawer to put my various bars in to which I was quite satisfied. The drawer has since become a mini shrine to the many snack bars I have and, unlike men, I find the content of the drawer provide much enlightenment. Do I eat chocolate? Do I go out food shopping? When I open my Frusli drawer it always shows me the way. And I tell you what, they never ask me to make them a sandwich as a solution to my query.

Frusli bars offer variety, they have a fruity content and are even eco-friendly without rubbing it in your face (I see what you did with the packaging). They don’t take up space, they can accompany any meal or make time for you any point of the day and my parents love them. In fact, in many ways they’re the perfect partner. Wait a moment, maybe they’re too good…

Ok scratch the above, this is now a complaint letter. Congratulations on making something awesome that keeps me going and kept me strong when I didn’t know where to buy eggs in this crazy city. But you’ve made something too good so now I’m unable to find a living male who is as adaptable as an apple and cranberry cereal bar. Disgusted.

I look forward to hearing how you’re going to resolve this matter ASAP.

Yours Faithfully

I wrote that and sent it without re-reading it (until now, golly gosh that Merlot). I genuinely thought I’d never get a response. Another crazy lady from London. Well I was very firmly proved wrong when today I received a large parcel from the customer service team at Jordans. Inside the cardboard box was a letter.

Dear Alice,

Well what can I say? Other than, yes! Our Frusli bars are pretty awesome and they do offer the standard when it comes to offering variety and honest goodness. I am certain however, that there is a guy out there with equal qualities who can make time for you at any point and, most importantly, help you find eggs in the crazy city. In the meantime, here are some more Frusili bars along with some of our breakfast cereals – who knows, maybe once you’ve found Mr Right you’ll be able to enjoy our Granola together for breakfast.

All the very best,

Emma Morris, Customer Experience Advisor

And under the letter was this!

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How awesome is that! Completely unexpected as well. The luxury of Jordans cereal! I’m used to handling own brand Wheat Biscuits so this really is a massive step up. And given when I had to reschedule the missed delivery Mumma Bennett was convinced that I’d be getting her quilt cover this is very much a surprise to everyone. Mumma B said I must have written a very good letter to get such a response from the company…well, now you’ve seen it I’ll leave that final call with you.

(Ps – Jordans/Emma, I’m still hunting for the best reasonably priced eggs in London and a man, in that order.)

Why I Should be on Love Island (and other Discoveries this Week)

We all have those moments when someone makes a comment and it comes as such a surprise or so random that all you can think (or my case say) is “ha-ha, no seriously” because a suitable response fails you.

Well I’ve had a couple of those recently.

 

Why I’m a Corporate Celebrity

About a week ago I met with some members of senior management. About three quarters into the meeting we’d covered most of the agenda I’d set out originally and conversations turned into more laid back topics. When asked broadly about career development I gave a simple answer, that I’m there to be challenged but also to challenge. At this one of the attendees smiled and quipped “you don’t need to remind us, we know about your email to Joe.”

(For anyone not sure of the reference click here.)

Boom, corporate celebrity.

 

Why I Should be on Love Island

Good friend: “You’re so thin! You could be on Love Island!”

Me: “Bless you but no.”

Two weeks later…

Mumma Bennett: “You’re thinner nowadays.”

Me: “Thanks, I think it’s all the walking.”

Mumma Bennett: “It’s not a good thing.”

Friend approval and parental disapproval. Given personality doesn’t come into it I’d say that was a glowing reason to be on Love Island.

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Although this woman…

I take it back, keep me as far away from these people as possible.

 

Why I’m a Pillar of the Community and Getting an MBE Award (Member of the British Empire)

I manage an 18-30 group in Swindon for which I’m frequently doing poster drops for as part of its promotion. I’d put a few up around the main offices in Swindon, including my own organisations, but you can imagine my surprise when in the middle of a live webcast being broadcast to thousands of people I noticed something in the background.

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So I’m sat there in the London office mildly losing my marbles because one of my 18-30 posters has somehow appeared behind the head of one of our directors and the deputy CEO. Meanwhile my colleagues are thinking that they work with a mad woman or someone who is far too excited over the prospect of organisation restructuring.

Either way I’m getting an MBE from the Queen.

 

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Swindon 18-30 Poster

 

Why I’m a Trend Setter

I eat tomatoes on trains and if I need to give you a reason why then you’ve missed the point. Trend setter 101.

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Why I’m Addictive to be Around (but no one knows why)

…because you’re still reading this.

A Renaissance Night Out

I was hanging out in the Ashmolean in Oxford yesterday. First up, I didn’t think it was possible for me but I was unable to view everything. I had a cultural overload. So I’ll be visiting there again soon. Secondly, spending some time in one of the Renaissance galleries I was reminded that the Italians, they knew how to party. In the same way I went to the Louvre in Paris and ended up scouting out the ugliest Jesus (so. Much. Religious. Art), I went to Oxford and found myself seeing (as well as the beautiful classics), seeing only the many stages of a lads night out.


 

A Night Out (As Told by Renaissance Art)

A few drinks to start the evening off, all well-meaning. Jeff is already dipping his hat in the wine, so you know it’s going to be a good one.

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From there you hit the town. You’re on fire tonight, waiting at the bar with all the ladies wanting your attention, although you can’t decide if you’re that committed to either.

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Next thing you know you’re getting roped into taking selfies with people you’ve never met.

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And suddenly things get very crazy and trippy.

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You stumble back home with your boys (Jeff isn’t there, did he even come out on the end?) and collapse in a heap. From what you can remember it has been a great night out.

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The next morning…

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