Young Professional

I’m The Classiest Thing to Happen to Swindon Since Billie Piper

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult, Coffee, Humor, Humour, Music, sophistication, Swindon, Uncategorized, University, Young Professional , , , ,

With a title like that you’re probably thinking one of three things, “too right Alice is”, “this girl has got right up herself since she set up a Facebook page. Who is she, Donald Trump?” or “huh, I did not know Billie Piper came from Swindon”. Either way, I’m going to say it loud and proud* (*not in real life you understand? Just online).

Two weeks ago was carrying an unzipped suitcase down the stairs when all my belongings tumbled out. At that very moment I thought to myself “you really are a piece of something” and now I know what that something is. It’s pretty obvious that I am the embodiment of class and comedy gold (I’m also the embodiment of a minor caffeine addition and sleep deprivation, but I’ll leave that to the obituarists).

Backtracking a little, with a name that translates as “Pig Hill” not a lot of celebrities have graced the streets and houses of Swindon. Case in point: when was the last time you saw Jude Law in the Canal Walk McDonald’s? Exactly. And don’t get me started about the fact Canal Walk is no where near water. I’m going off on a ranty tangent here, but Swindon needs to have a serious rebrand. Why not change the name to, say, “Swingdon” and make the place full of jazz or “Richdon” (subliminal messaging for the dumb rich people)? I pay you enough ruddy money in taxes, sort it out council.

Until a new name is implemented or Jude Law decides to unleash his offspring into the concrete jungle that is Swindon’s Tented Market (really, it is made of that – WHO WORKS IN BRANDING?!), then I’m going to claim the title of classiest female to grace Swindon. Sure, I spill tea quite literally everywhere and yes, I can be reduced down to a child-like mentality when presented with new pillows, but given my competition is Billie Piper then I think I have good grounds for asserting my case. For anyone not in the know, Piper made her name in the late 90s/early 00s as a pop star and then as an actress (more commonly known for playing Rose Tyler in the reboot of Doctor Who). She’s good, don’t get me wrong, but Swindonians don’t half like to harp on about her like she’s a big claim to fame. You know who my local town of Stratford-Upon-Avon had? Shakespeare, that’s who. Trust me, there’s no beating that, however competing against this I think I could take Piper on:

(Seeing bins melt into men, billboard cartoons come alive and rhino bouncers? Yep, it’s called a standard Saturday night out in Swindon.)

I write stuff, good stuff, and despite my frequent Calamity Jane moments I like to think I represent a good role model. I walk to work, go to the gym, I even do the occasional bit of baking. I tell you what, get Anthea Turner (star of How to Be a Perfect Housewife) on the phone, she’ll support me (and in doing so knock back Feminism to 1969 but hey, we’re talking about me here.)

In short, I’m a ruddy aspirational professional.

And you know what? I think my presence is having an effect on this town. For instance back in 2014 you would never see this type of thing out and about:

 Glass.png

You might have come across a cider can or an empty beer bottle, but never a wine flute carefully placed on a window ledge. It’s a sign!

Not wanting to brag, but I’m the classiest thing to happen to Swindon since Billie Piper.

(Disclaimer: before writing this post I had consumed a large, strong, coffee. This may explain pretty much all the comments made in the above. Do I regret them? Not at all.)

Catherine Mayer on equality, red reads and the manifesto she wants you to steal

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) #book, Book, British, comedy, Culture, Event, Feminisim, Humor, Humour, newspaper, Nonfiction, Novel, Review, sophistication, Swindon, Uncategorized, Young Professional , , , ,

Crossing the stage, Catherine Mayer strikes a formidable figure as she throws down her bag and proclaims, “will there be rock?!”

Such an entrance is bold, confident and, above all, powerful, but then what else would you expect from a former TIME editor, turned pro-equality figurehead? An awkward chuckle fills the room from the collection of predominantly white, middle aged, women who sit before her.

Before starting her pre-prepared speech, Mayer casually brushes a few strands of hair from her face and dives into why Prime Minister Teresa May doesn’t represent female empowerment. The speaker’s assertive tone and head strong approach creates a stronger reaction in the auditorium. This is no ordinary run-of-the-mill feminist. After a couple of minutes, the speaker looks down at her stop watch and realises she’s been Minister bashing for too long. “Sorry, I tend to ramble” she apologises, before beginning the focus of her allotted slot; a seminar of her new book Attack of the 50 Ft. Women: How Gender Equality Can Save The World!

Mayer’s presentation style is intense to say the least. You can almost taste the venom being spat from the author’s lips as she laments over those who suggest women are empowered. “It’s the same with red heads,” she explains, “people assume they form the majority in Scotland when they don’t. The simple truth is that red heads and women stand out, so we imagine their numbers to be higher. If you include Scotland, only sixteen of the world’s leaders are women.”

Alongside the publication of a book, in 2015 Mayer founded the Women’s Equality Party (WEP) with the help of media personality Sandi Toksvig. The empowered speaker was keen to put across the struggles facing modern day politics and her aims for the WEP. “If we get into power, we win! If the other parties steal our ideas, we win!” Nods of approval circulate around the room. In an age of politicians scrambling over each other to reach the top, it’s refreshing to have a party which doesn’t seek to necessarily become ‘top dog’.

Given her background as a political reporter and the nature of the viewing audience before her, it is no surprise that Mayer devotes a portion of her time explaining the electoral candidates and policies representing her party. “In the Tunbridge Wells local elections we got 10% of the vote and beat UKIP” she comments smugly. It was therefore just as unsurprising that the audience challenges Mayer on ideology, notably the use of the word ‘women’ in WEP. Conceding that the use of gender in the party’s name did make broaching the opposite sex a harder task, Mayer firmly argues that to call themselves “the Equality Party” would detract from what her party was trying to achieve. “We might as well rebrand ourselves the Labour Party” was the sly remark.

Disgruntlement from Mayer’s groupies emerges when the female lead comments on other political organisations stealing WEP policies. Mayer, unperturbed, shrugs it off. “Can you keep a secret?” She giggles, “we’re going to send out copies of our manifesto to the main parties with a note that says ‘steal me.’” The audience laughs with the speaker and peace is restored once again among the frustrated women in the reaches of rows F to I. Already on a pro-feminist high, Mayer ends her segment by boldly proclaiming her plans to organise a one day strike for all women. The reaction couldn’t have been more overwhelmingly positive from the crowds below.

Even though this humble writer didn’t quite see eye to eye on all her beliefs, there is no denying Catherine Mayer knew how to work a crowd of disgruntled activists. Move over Wembley, Swindon Arts Centre may just be more rock and roll than you think.

catherine-mayer

Previous Swindon Literary Event write ups from AEB:

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Five Reasons Why I Can Never Become Famous

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult, Humor, Humour, Photos, sophistication, Swindon, Uncategorized, Young Professional , ,

No two words fill an office with more dread than “team” and “photos”. I mean it’s effectively a modern-day, corporate, form of torture. It doesn’t matter if you’re Angelia Jolie or if you look like the back of Wayne Rooney’s head, nobody jumps for joy when faced with the prospect of having a camera being shoved in one’s face for use in the office team chart. Just thinking about my face filling a wide angle lens makes me naturally tense up and feel queasy.

At the time a few people laughed off my concerns. “It’ll be fine!” they said, “no nobody wants their photos done, we’re all in same boat,” they reassured. But they were wrong. It wasn’t alright, we weren’t in the same boat. For while all of my colleagues were able to at least obtain one semi-decent photo for the team structure chart, these are the best I could pull off with a professional photographer…

, English Heritage, Swindon, Wiltshire, UK
, English Heritage, Swindon, Wiltshire, UK
, English Heritage, Swindon, Wiltshire, UK
, English Heritage, Swindon, Wiltshire, UK
, English Heritage, Swindon, Wiltshire, UK

Jesus Christ they’re awful.

Needless to say the hunt is now on to find a photo where I don’t look mad/confused/infected with some terrible tropical swelling disease. I’ve also decided that as a result of this I cannot ever have my photo taken for semi-formal purposes ever again. If people need to know what I look like they can ruddy well come over and say hi. I’d rather have the profile picture of a happy owl than my constipated face.

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The look I wanted to pull.

 

3. Going Cold Turkey on Property

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult, House, How To, Humor, Humour, Swindon, Uncategorized, Young Professional , ,

After the failings of the first house viewing I was ready for a couple of weeks away from house hunting. It was November and the whole world was gradually gearing itself for the hype of Christmas, so much so I wondered if it was a sign from God that houses were not to be considered when you have fifty clients screaming for their branded posters. For all of about two days I accepted this and for those two days life without property searches was good. Blog posts got uploaded, newspaper articles written, outside of work life was a very productive affair. However my brief moment of tranquillity was not to last. On the third day I started involuntarily twitching at the site of Rightmove’s consumer-targeted advertising.

“Oh no, not the twitch!” I thought, “it’s the very reaction mum has to house programmes. The property twitch.”

I tried to hold my finger back, I even went onto various other non-property websites to distract the demonic spirit inside, but it wasn’t working. By the time day five came around I found my eyes wandering the streets to look at the bright bill boards outside properties for let or sale. (Some of the feelings I felt towards the sight of a new ‘For Sale’ board are too disturbing to be described anywhere on the internet.)

A particular low point came when I realised the property twitch had spread from my hands to my feet and, scarily, my brain. A house on a nearby street was undertaking

Sale Boards
Boards, boards everywhere!

substantial building works around this time, a thirty-something male and his mates were ripping the place to shreds. One morning the need to be near the smell of brickwork became so great that, without thinking, I crossed the street to walk past the house and thereby straight through a mini-building site. Without thinking, in my black pump shoes and office wear I strolled through the mud and brick dust that covered the street. The two builders who had witnessed this from the comfort of the doorway with their tea couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It was only later down the road I realised what I’d done and subsequently cringed and made for the nearest patch of greenery.

 

“Christ, I need help” I muttered as I wiped my leather shoes on the dew covered grass.

Help (of a sort) came shortly after this event. I was watching Pointless on TV which to me represented a bit of a low point in my viewing choices (pun not intended), when an email flashed up in my inbox. No surprises for guessing who it was from.

“THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR IS FOR SALE!! ON RIGHTMOVE! LOOK!”

(It was as if there was a sale on exclamation marks.)

Thinking her to be either a) insane b) nosey or c) a combination of both, I gave in to my inner twitch and logged onto Rightmove. Immediately my body relaxed, it was as if it was destined to spend many nights on this website. As I started entering in my search criteria into the various boxes all I could think to myself was “what monster has my mother created?” A few clicks later and I was able to track down the property. It wasn’t hard to find, as mum had correctly identified it was indeed the house next door. My housemate’s white car sat proudly on the driveway to the left.

As I scrolled through the property images one thing that kept coming to mind was simply “this can’t be the house next door, this can’t be the house next door”. For starters it was a heck of a lot cleaner and minus the clutter of the house I was sat in, but it was also just so different. Fewer bedrooms had resulted in a different approach to space layout and planning. A bigger kitchen, normal straight staircases, access to a patio area! All things which number 22 lacked and suffered for. I was in my own bubble and couldn’t help but smile reading through the description. The agents needn’t have gone to so much bother, I was already sold.

Meanwhile, in the reality of number 22, a roommate set off the kitchen smoke alarm, triggering the property’s hard-wired alarm system. Shouts from other housemates rippled around the house while I sat staring at images of a tenant free property with its clean carpets and stylish bedrooms. I sighed. Carefully avoiding the spring that was starting to protrude from my mattress I took the one stride needed to cross the marked carpets to where my phone sat quietly charging. God knows I had tried to ignore the call of the housing market, but enough was enough. I made the call.

This post is part of “The First Time Buyer Diaries”. To read the entire series (so far) click here.

2. Surface Wiring, Scruffy Bathrooms and Slanted Radiators: House Viewing #1

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) British, First Time Buyer, House, How To, Humor, Humour, Nonfiction, Swindon, Uncategorized, Young Professional ,

In the days leading up to my first property viewing evenings were spent looking at the same picture real over and over again until I nearly convinced myself I actually lived there. In what can only be described as mildly sociopathic, I scrutinised the property listing to deduce that the current owners were recently married with a small child (male) and the move must be linked to that. Careful study of the photos did however bring up other issues. My parents had also spotted something which had the potential to be much more damning; surface wiring.

I’d heard of surface wiring before. I knew it was something typically found in older buildings and it was a nightmare to sort out. (Remember the antidote on Warwick Castle and scrambling around floorboards? That was Dad rewiring a bungalow.) What I didn’t know however was how much it would cost to rectify. “Thousands” my Dad said bluntly, an opinion very much concurred by Mum. “It’ll cost you thousands to fix and you’ll never see the benefits” she said.

The three of us did everything to try and get a better look on the wiring, but the magnolia walls and grainy indoor photos made it virtually impossible to establish the presence of surface wiring. In the end we agreed to go through with the viewing anyway. The house was nicely presented in the photos, it was possible that the owners had already had the work done as part of redecorations.

On the day there was mild trepidation on my part. Yes, I was viewing a house, but what kind of house? There is something very different about viewing month-old still shots of a clean house compared to walking through an active family property in the here and now. The weather did nothing to assist with my spirits; on that particular Monday lunchtime it was chucking it down. Dashing to get work completed in the office my phone started pinging incessantly in a manner associated with only one person.

“Yes, yes Mum, I’m coming out now,” I grumbled as I tugged on my coat and walked past my professional colleagues. A sprint to the parked car outside and a speedy drive took me to the property in question, a Victorian mid terrace house.

I suppose the signs were never great to start with, it poured with rain that lunchtime. All three of us sat in Mum’s tiny Toyota IQ waiting for either the rain to clear or the estate agent to show up (whichever came first). As the appointment time came and went I sighed under my breath. As the viewing had been conveniently scheduled by my property agent to coincide with my lunch, every minute I went over my allotted hour was another minute I’d have to work overtime to compensate. After what felt like an age in that small car the agent appeared and the rain paused just long enough to get inside.

Dad had planned a few choice questions to ask the agent prior to the viewing. Questions linked to the electrics, the wiring and the attic space. Mum wanted to probe into the circumstances of the sale. The property had been on the market for a short while now, was there any room for negotiation on the price? I was there to see if fundamentally I wanted to live there and quietly ask questions to Mum when the agent was out of the room. If I’d learnt one thing over my many years of property involvement it was this; never, ever trust the word of the estate agent.

Our hopes were quickly dashed when we entered the property to see the vendor sat quite contently on the sofa with a baby on her knee. She smiled politely and greeted us, the baby likewise. Already we could see a probable reason why the property was still on the market, they had done this all before. We reciprocated and commenced our viewing. If the awkwardness of the vendor didn’t make things off putting, then the attitude of the estate agent certainly didn’t help. During the whole visit he was difficult and mildly unpleasant, it was as if he was irritated that the three of us had common sense. When the inevitable subject of surface wiring came up early on (which, we discovered, DID exist) the agent flippantly suggested it would only cost “a couple of hundred” to resolve. Dad, with his previous experience of rewiring a property, had little faith in the white-collar quote. “It’ll cost more than that” came the blunt response. Stood between two very differing opinions, I could sense the tension that usually preceded a Victorian street brawl. I moved swiftly into a room where Big Brother and its baby wasn’t present.

Where does one begin with the faults of that house?

To start with, the supposedly pristine kitchen had whacking chunks missing from the cupboards and the floor had stiletto-shaped holes in it. It was if a glammed-up Bull Terrier had gone through a Saturday night stint in the small space. Adjoining this was the one singular bathroom of the house. In the photos the bathroom looked like had been recently refitted, nicely done out to a high spec. Unfortunately, in the same way the camera supposedly adds pounds onto models, the camera had very much over promised on the offering in this room. We stood in dismay at the sight of broken wall tiles and the scruffy shower door swinging over a ‘well-loved’ bath. Climbing up the narrow stair case (the type one has to walk up sideways like an awkward crab), we walked across the landing and entered into what was the second bedroom. In amongst the piles of clothes and discarded children toys we could hear the loud banging and drilling of an engineer installing a new boiler in place. This was the boiler that the agent had boosted about in previous communication. It was also the new boiler that had caused the house price to increase by £5,000 overnight.

“Did she ask you to put the boiler there?” Dad called over the mess. Sandwiched between the bed and a pile of outgrown baby clothes, the engineer took a brief rest bite from his work.

“Yep. I would have installed elsewhere personally,” he shrugged, “but she insisted.”

Dad shuffled out to enable myself and then Mum to see the room. Who knew surprises lay beneath the raised clothes carpet, although even with all the junk removed I argued that as second bedrooms go it would still be a small room.

Like bedroom two, bedroom three had also been omitted from the listing photography of the house. A child’s bedroom, it naturally was also the smallest of the three in the property. A quick look around and, surprisingly, all seemed in adequate order (aside from the ‘stuck on’ looking plug attached to the sideboard. By this point though dodgy looking plug sockets had become water off a duck’s back to me). The rain having stopped, the three of us could look out over the garden from the small sash window. From a source above water was dripping down the pane in large blobs.

“That’s a bit suspicious,” Mum observed.

“Forget that, look at the wall!” I pointed to the wall of the second bedroom, visible from the indented third room.

A massive crack stretched right across the exterior wall, a diagonal split that in the dull November weather looked as menacing as it did damaging. Knowing that the crack would still be there in five minutes (and if not, the engineer would be the first to suffer the consequences), our little trio moved on. The agent meanwhile, clearly having written us off as serious contenders, only started to amble up the stairs as we entered the third and master bedroom.

By this point I don’t know what I was expecting the last bedroom to provide. A bit of normality I guess? Just a single space where there were no hidden horrors or things that needed urgent attention. I stepped into the bedroom and laughed. Put it down to insanity or the actual hilarity of what I was looking at, but I couldn’t help myself exclaiming my observation for all to hear.

“That radiator is wonky!”

The final blow had been cast. Disbelieving it for herself, Mum walked over to the piece of old plumbing to check. The secondary opinion came in, the radiator was, indeed, crooked. The estate agent started bleating that straitening the radiator would be a quick and easy job to do, that it was not an unusual feature of period properties. Our trio had long since stopped listening to the advice of the suited bald man, we scuffled across the tattered carpet and exited the room without even acknowledging his opinions. At the bottom of the stairs we bumped into the engineer again.

“Have you seen the crack on the exterior wall of that bedroom?” Dad muttered.

The engineer exchanged us with a knowing look, the classic look of a tradesman who wasn’t born yesterday.

“Yeah, it’s a mess. I wouldn’t want to sleep in that room,” he gruffly responded, before slipping out of the front door onto his next job.

We briefly popped outside to the back garden, more than anything to get away from the all-hearing estate agent and to participate in the unique British need to congregate and exchange negative comments about other people’s houses. Half of the guttering was missing, leaving a streak of mould down the second bedroom wall, but that felt old hat now. Give us something new. The rear parking was so far up a back-end dirt track that to get a car up there would be virtually impossible. Pfft, so what? Another stick in the fire. As we walked back up the crumbling garden path I cast a brief look at the neighbouring garden. With long overgrown grass, a knocked over fence, and disintegrating garden toys lying about haphazardly I whispered to Mum, “the garden next door looks rough.” I didn’t much fancy angering the neighbours.  

From the dirty grout in the bathroom, to the rough looking garden next door (which, we were reassured a few too many times by the vendor, belonged to “lovely neighbours”), the three of us knew this period property wasn’t ‘the one’. Other than the mild humour that came when Dad realised he wasn’t going to fit through the Jimmy Crankie attic hatch, the level of investment required by this house was farcical. Two words; money pit.

Maybe this house was destined for someone more naïve or for first time buyers who wanted a long-term project, but someone that was not me. A feeling reciprocated by the agent, he shut the door firmly behind us as we walked out, leaving him, vendor and a crying infant inside.

“Is he going to come out?” I cautiously asked.

“Must be talking to the seller.” Mum replied.

“Perhaps he’s telling her she’s a fantasist to ask that much when there’s so much to do.” I mused.

“Maybe. At any rate, I’ve never experienced an estate agent like it. He seemed so nice and, well, typically estate agenty on the phone. Remember him Alice, you’ll never experience an agent like that ever again.”

From the house we ambled over to a local coffee shop where we sat and discussed the house we’d just viewed. Well, when I say discussed I mean we basically had a massive slating off session as we tore apart every single element of the past forty give minutes. Mum and Dad had travelled some distance to attend this viewing while I only had a five-minute walk back to the office. Waving them off I felt a pang of guilt that they’d travelled some way to see a duff house. However we all agreed that the house was in no way a goer, to the point where Dad said he’d step in if I even vaguely suggested putting an offer on it.

Two days later the estate agent contacted Mum with a markedly different attitude. With a friendlier tone, he accepted our points about the surface wiring and general state of the property.

“I have told her she needs to drop the price, but she’s set on getting higher than the market valuation. It doesn’t help that she seems in no rush to move. Her partner is currently working in North Devon but she doesn’t want to let the place go.”

Mum left the agent with a simple and clear message “fine, good luck to her with that.”

So this particular house was a no, but I refused to be downbeat about the whole experience. My first property visit had been an eye opener and educational to say the least. There would be other houses to view in the future and I there would be many more rejections before I found ‘the one’. The property search would continue on.

 

This post is part of “The First Time Buyer Diaries”. To read the entire series (so far) click here.

1. Steamy Nights in With Mr. Rightmove (The First Time Buyer Diaries)

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult, British, First Time Buyer, House, How To, Humor, Humour, Swindon, Uncategorized, Young Professional ,

“Mum what are you doing?”

“Just searching.”

“You’re not looking at houses in Swindon again are you?”

“Well, a couple of nice places have come up in the past couple of days. Look at this one on Morrison’s Street…”

“Oh for Christ’s sake mum! How many times have we been over this?!”

The start of my home buyer journey began many years ago, before I had even stepped foot in Swindon. Picking up property magazines, browsing through estate agent windows, the glossy images of marble topped kitchens and designer bedrooms scattered across the kitchen table. The rise of the internet changed nothing but the advert medium. Praise and scrutiny of homeowners formed an integral part of the Bennett way of life, one which still exists to this day.

“What a messy garden.”

“Overpriced.”

“Look at the tape across the sinks, that one is a repossession. If only we had the money…”

My folks have dabbled in the property market for as long as I can remember. My childhood memories are pin pricked with flashbacks of being traipsed around rentals, scrubbing holiday cottages and, in one fond memory, being convinced that we wouldn’t go to Warwick Castle unless I got under the floorboards and helped dad with the rewiring. It also meant exposure to heated discussions when things went wrong. It was ok though, if it got too much I’d go out into the field and run around with a stick. It didn’t matter if the tenants in Bidford were being difficult, because I was Superwoman and the proud owner of the biggest and best mud pie in Gloucestershire and that was all that mattered.

When my parents decided to pursue a new investment venture in my university city of Southampton some ten years later I was introduced directly into the world of house buying. How to view a property, how to negotiate and how to spot potentials and money pits. 19 Highcrown Street indeed helped to cultivate my inner middle-aged persona. As students in neighbouring streets slept off their hangovers, at twenty I was hanging out with handy men, builders and carpet fitters. I was also monitoring house accounts, handling awkward topics of underpayment (and evictions) and doing house viewings for potential roommates (and responsible tenants). For two years I helped manage my student digs, giving me invaluable real-world experience in a student bubble that provides you with anything but.

My deep seated need to buy a house was therefore nothing less than expected. As house prices steadily rose and fell, I steadily saved, watching intently as the Recession broke across Europe and interest rates fell. By the time I was at University the bigger concern was over employment at the other side, but even that wouldn’t stop me trying to achieve my dream. With a peculiar level of pride I lived off £4.50 a week to save on my student loans and limiting spend to need only purchases. ‘Want’ buys tended to come with mild guilt and/or heavy usage (to this day I still wear particular dress I bought when I was sixteen years old, partly because I felt bitter at splashing out £18 on it at the time). If you were to ask any of my friends and colleagues, past and present, they would testify the same about the surreal outlook on savings adopted by Alice Bennett. Even I myself used to consider myself to belong to a very special club for having the aspirations of owning property before owning a car.

I graduated from Southampton in the summer of 2014. On the day I graduated (16th July) Bashar al-Assad was sworn in for a third term as president of Syria and at around the same time throwing buckets of ice water over people became a thing. Luckily by this time the graduate employment was starting to bounce back and, thanks to assorted extracurricular activities, I secured a job working in the head office of a nationally recognised Heritage organisation. I bit a tearful farewell to Southampton, packed up my bags and headed to a House of Multiple Occupancy (otherwise known as a HMO or house share) in Swindon. Renting a room with other young people, in a town that also wasn’t particularly pretty, I would come to refer to the Wiltshire town as “a smaller Southampton”.

 

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#HouseGoals

The housing market in Swindon has remained fairly unchanged since 2014 but don’t be fooled, the town is on the cusp of a substantial property boom. Compared to other local towns in Wiltshire and the neighbouring Cotswolds, Swindon is cheap. Inexpensive (relatively) but not too bad a place to live. Close to the M4 corridor, a commutable distance to Bristol and South Wales and, when the railway line is fully electrified, it could take less than an hour to get to London Paddington. The average house value in Swindon (complete with multiple bedrooms, parking and a garden) is considerably lower compared to London (which, based on what I’ve seen, will get you somewhere as big as a box room). You don’t need to have an A* in British currency to see the difference. And investors are not stupid people, they were starting to realise it too. As quickly as I could save £1000 by living off mouldy cheese and plain rice house prices around me would increase by £5000. The problem was not my level of saving, more what was obtainable. My resistance to mum searching on property websites such as Rightmove wasn’t due to a lack of property interest, but more because I simply could not afford to buy something that wasn’t a shed. As she got to learn the housing market of Swindon better, mum started to send me links to properties with the comment “I give it two days” and sure enough a perfect house would change to SOLD within the allotted 48 hours. She meant no harm by it, she was after all a self-titled housing guru, however it didn’t stop me feeling utterly helpless.

I decided to set myself (and mum) a few choice requirements for any property that I wanted to live in, thus reducing the ill feeling towards the natural cycle of house markets and start a more realistic internal monologue (“people sell houses and buy them, get over yourself Alice!”)

The requirements were:

  1. Ideally three bedrooms (I didn’t want to live alone and I wanted lodgers to help cover the property costs).
  2. West Swindon (close proximity to work and amenities).
  3. A sound investment (I am my parent’s daughter after all).
  4. No dumps/long term projects.
  5. AFFORDABLE!! (Unless I shacked up with Mr. Bank of England any property had to fall within a tight budget.)

Mum’s reaction to my list was as expected.

“Well, they’re not going to get you onto any house buying shows are they? Kirsty Allsopp would hate you!” She exclaimed. “You’re searching in a half mile radius of Victorian terraces. Do you know how hard it is to find parking in this area?”

“Yes.” I responded, walking out the door. “Good luck.”

I thought the list would stop the constant emails from my unpaid land agent. It didn’t.

Things remained unchanged for the next two years. Searching Rightmove for property became a hobby sport more than an actual, let’s look for something to buy now. Spending Saturday nights throttling the next button, tapping on floor plans (“ooh, look at that nicely sized living room…”), passionate shouting matches with a dodgy broadband connection as it cuts out part-way through the photo slideshow. It was only when I told a friend about my nightly activities that I understood this was not how most young singletons spend their finite time on Earth.

In 2016 two things would happen to change my outlook: securing a permanent contract and a hefty handful of luck.

Obtaining a permanent job in Swindon equalled job security and meant for the first time I could apply for a mortgage (if so wished). It was a real game-changer in how I perceived the town. It gave me the freedom to do what I wanted without having to constantly prepare for my contract coming to an end. No more would I have to beg my line manager for a contract extension every four months. It also forced me to acknowledge that, after nineteen months, chances are I was going to remain fairly fixed in Swindon for the foreseeable future.

As for the luck, well that came into play on a damp November day in the shape of a harmless text.

“Just emailed you. Let me know what you think. x”

When I got back into my small room that evening I dumped my bags on the floor and scrambled across the bed to get my laptop. A click on the email and a double tap on the link took me to, surprise-surprise, a house for sale in Swindon. However this one looked nice, there was a charming bay window and some nice potted plants outside. Inside it had three bedrooms, a decent sized garden and even off road parking. It was also a reasonable price. With a deep breath I picked up the phone and made the call to my land agent.

“That house looks nice mum, I think I’d like to view it.”

“Already booked. Next Wednesday at 1:30 to fit around your lunch.”

“Your mother is crazy Alice! I couldn’t stop her!”

“Don’t listen to your father.”

It was official; I was going to view my first Swindon property.

 

This post is part of “The First Time Buyer Diaries”. To read the entire series (so far) click here.

An Honest Rejection

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult, British, comedy, Culture, Girl About Town, Humor, Humour, Review, Swindon, Travel, Uncategorized, Young Professional ,

Yesterday I experienced my first authorship rejection. It also marked the first time that a group of people didn’t consider my work to be truly, fabulously, awesome. Weirdos.

The piece was short, a 500 word review which described a recent experience I had at a local restaurant. After working through a few drafts, I finally submitted the piece to the web content editor and moved on to the next mini-saga that is my life. In truth the post was quickly forgotten because a) I spew out a lot of waffle articles and b) like all my work it was a mini masterpiece, something that children will look at in the years to come and think “wow, Swindon really had some rubbish eateries in 2017”.

And therein lies why my article was rejected. The email that I had expected to contain a link to my work contained instead a put down. The web content editor had made the decision not to publish my review due to the tongue-in-cheek negativity portrayed in the copy. I forced myself to read the email again to be certain that I’d read the electronic text correctly. Realising that my article had indeed been rejected I shoved my laptop under the bed and grumbled into a cup of tea. You know, the kind of response mature people adopt.

A couple of hours later, after a sufficient amount of tea and biscuits had been consumed, I calmly reread the short email again. This time I was able to gain some reassurance at least that the quality of my writing wasn’t to blame. Essentially I had been rejected for not pampering to a catering outlet which, in my mind, didn’t quite reach the mark on the night I visited. I still stand by my views and remain of a firm opinion that any venue, author or artist should be open to both positive and negative criticism. I know that my reader base would quickly bore of my writing or disbelieve its authenticity if everything I wrote was a falsehood of how wonderfully magical everything is underneath our blue skies. Free speech and my own personal sanity is dependent on balance.

Like hitting writer’s block and slowly improving my work over time, I don’t view this rejection as a bad experience but a new one. I now know that that whilst this particular outlet has no qualms with the quality of my work, they only want to hear good news stories, not controversial. I wish they’d told me that before but at least I understand the lay of the land. What can I say? Haters gonna hate…negative writing. Besides, they’re not paying me anyway.

On the flipside, the other news outlet I freelance for love balance and spicy writing so they have happily published my work (huzzah!) You can check out the rejected review here:

http://www.theswindonian.co.uk/girl-about-town-biplob-tandoori-old-town/

The Devil in Carb-ate

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) food, Humor, Humour, Photos, sophistication, Swindon, Uncategorized, University, Young Professional , ,

This evening I was reintroduced to a world of vice and nutritional sin. My old foe reared its ugly, cream filled, head and called to me from across the supermarket floor. Standing at the reduced bread stand I heard it whispering to me and made the fatal mistake of making eye contact. It was at that point my destiny for the evening was sealed. My poor body never stood a chance. The name of this dastardly snack? Custard creams.

A whole pack of custard creams now lay decimated on my bedroom floor, the empty wrapper and a string of pale crumbs serving as the only reminder that here once stood a tall stack of heavenly sin. The scrunched up wrapper of a product once fulfilled and bulging, now hollow and useless.

I dare not study the custard cream wrapper at length, the nutritional values which once seemed hidden from view now laugh at me in mockery, inspiring those inner feelings of guilt and shame. “You’ll remember this one moment of weakness for years to come!” it cackles. In frustration I reach out and grab the snack wrapper with such aggression that the orange skin lets out a rustling squeak. I thrust my hand into the bin and release my prisoner there to join the rotting carrot and greasy pizza boxes, before walking out of the room and switching off the light.

Wrapper dealt with I thought the guilt and ill feeling of consuming 50,00,000 calories in one sitting was removed from my life. I pick up a book and start reading in a bid to distract my mind.  A little voice pipes up from deep inside me, it is coming from my stomach. It says “you thought you could dispel me so easily? You fool!” And the self loathing begins again.

The devil lives inside me and he is not red, nor is he a horned beast. He is a custard cream.

Money CAN Buy You Happiness

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Friends, Young Professional ,

Right now you’ll probably be thinking a) she’s lying, b) she’s mad c) she’s referring to Thai brides or d) she’s been set up by Chanel to sell their new fragrance “Happiness”. But hear me out on this ok? Because it is true, money has bought me happiness and really there is no excuse why it can’t do the same for you, you annnnddd you. Maybe not you though. I can’t put my finger on it, but just not you.

Anyone expecting a Buzz Feed list or a three step plan to get happiness with bundles of cash should metaphorically walk away how. Such a list does not and will never exist. If it does exist it’s a con to get you investing in gold goats in the Congo. You would not expect someone to tell you how to make millions of pounds in cash in three steps so why would you expect someone to tell you how to make millions of pounds in happiness in a couple of bullet points?

Lets take this back to the start. Que wavy, squiggly, lines and enter into a flashback…

Back in August 2014 I had just moved to Swindon. A recent graduate, I was sat on my bed knowing no one and nothing about where I was, with only a degree and assorted volunteering experience to my name. Financially I was not destitute but I also had the lovely student debt monster living with me.

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Not the stuff of nightmares, just an annoying creature that never buggers off.

I was sat there and it was ruddy scary, I won’t lie. It would be for anyone. You go from being with family, then you are ripped apart to go to university/college and then torn away again to start afresh as a proper adult. What nobody ever tells you (particularly the higher education institutions) is the the second split is much harder than the first time. So much harder. When you go into university no one knows anyone else, so you’re all in the same boat. You’re put with other new people in accommodation blocks (or halls), so you’re huddled closely in said boat. And the university puts on a range of social and course related events to help you settle in, they provide the gentle wind to safely direct your boat to stop you wanting to jump off. What I quickly learnt post higher education is that after you’re received your qualification, once paper and sweaty palm shakes have been exchanged, universities really do not care. “Have you got a job?” “Yes” “Would you deem the job and wage graduate level?” “Yes” “Good. Fill in this survey and off you pop.”

Moving to Swindon to start work was hard. In the real world everybody knows each other already, they are all a range of ages and live in their own properties, so you can’t live with them (I tried that card, apparently it’s not a thing). And these people have things that take up time called children and partners? I.e. they don’t socialise in the same way. I felt like I was in a leaky boat, by myself, being pushed along to China, or maybe South Africa, there was no map or wind to guide me. I felt a bit betrayed by my university, especially when the Alumni please-give-us-all-your-money emails started coming through days after I’d begun my job. At this time a self-help email to work, tax, living alone etc. would actually have made me feel so much better when I was at my worst.

It was around mid September 2014 I realised happiness and a social life in the real world does not land on your lap without effort. With that I switched off TV, cracked open the laptop and started singing “Eye of the Tiger” while I searched for a solution online. I sounded like this.

Pottery Classes

I searched evening classes at my local college. I decided on Pottery classes, a 10-week course which would introduce me to the subject. Annoyingly it was fully booked for the Autumn term, but I handed over £90 and signed myself up for the Spring term class. It was meant to be an introduction but I ended up paying to do the Summer term as well. Pottery was a great way for me to relax after work and learn something new. I was never great at it and truth be told being back in a classroom with people that were naturally better than me always played on my mind. However it gave me something to do on a Monday evening and I met new people outside of work. It was a creative release from the day-to-day. After two terms I felt I’d reached my potential and was reach to move on. I packed up my assorted creations (including my humble bowl) and moved on.

Happiness rating  – 5 / 10

Gym

The idea of going to a gym, let alone signing up to gym membership, was an alien concept thought before I moved to Swindon. Why would anyone pay to put themselves through torture? But after I had stopped my pottery I found I had a gap in my evening schedule and, lured in by the promise of company and attractive men I was persuaded by my housemate and a colleague-turned-friend to sign up. I recently wrote a post on said gym, where you’ll find more information on my experiences with various equipment and those who use it. Gym membership minus corporate discount is £12.99 a month (including fitness classes) which works out as a very good deal. A good deal but also a good investment. Since I’ve joined the gym I now feel better about myself (the extra slice of cake isn’t so guilt ridden), I feel happier due to the extra endorphins I now have (the type I used to believe were a work of fiction) and I aim to go at least once, if not twice, a week which keeps the mind and body distracted. The only drawback is the lack of social company. A gym is not the place to make new friends. With the gym my body started to feel happier and I’ve come to learn that physical pain can result in mental gain. I’m still a member of said gym.

Happiness rating – 10/10 (physical happiness) 2/10 (social happiness)

Founder and Manager of Swindon 18-30 Professionals

My housemate Cherice and I had moved to the area for jobs post university and both struggled with our non existent social lives. We cracked around October 2014. We both ploughed our joint efforts into finding a social group for young people in Swindon. “Swindon is a pretty big place, there must be something” we both thought. We were very wrong. I struggled to find something that wasn’t for over 40’s or amateur dramatics.

(“I thought you’d like that sort of thing Alice, you were very good when you played the gangsta rat in the Pied Piper of Hamlin” “mum, a) that was a year six school panto and b) I was the leader rat, George Richards was the gangsta rate” “Oh, well he was pretty good”)

Five minutes later of searching online I got bored. 10 minutes later I was in this part of the internet.

Cherice and I did end up going to to meeting for Swindon’s JCI group (I still don’t know what it stands for or does). We went to the event in jeans and very causal tops expecting a small group of people to chat and socialise with. To our horror we walked into a large room, which was packed (and I mean packed) with suited people aged 45+ who had all come to persuade myself, Cherice and two other nervous people to join their cult organisation. We were trapped in a surreal corporate environment listening to a power point presentation where each slide changed when the lead speak clicked his fingers. I didn’t notice it at first but when I did I couldn’t forget it. Combined with the ridiculously formal environment which made it unacceptable to laugh, his click and flick of the hand became unbearably hilarious for the two of us. I was crying at one point. 1.5 hours later we dashed out while the room ‘networked’ and roared with laugher all the way home. At the very least we said it was a bonding experience.

There was also another group called “Swindon Young Professionals”.  We went to two events hosted by this body. The first was for Pizza Express, where we paid a small fortune to go to a pizza making class and the second was two months later where again we were ripped off by the organiser who made us pay £20 to enter a pub quiz created by them and have a very poor quality Indian meal. Both events gave us a harsh dose of clique society. All solicitors who worked together, people who didn’t give the slightest dam about us. The pub quiz was like the scene in Bridget Jones where she’s at the lawyers’ Christmas party. More in jokes than you can shake a stick at. On principle we refused to not give them a penny more of our time and money.

We also tried a couple of events in Oxford, but these events were too far away from Swindon for us to seriously commit to. We met people, then the next time those people weren’t there and we had to start again from scratch for one evening. “If only Swindon had something like that” said Cherice as we walked back to the train station, “I enjoyed that, but you can’t meet people in Swindon. Where we live is so boring compared to Oxford.”

This planted a seed in my head which turned out to be the best dam thing I’ve ever done. If Swindon didn’t have a decent social group for 18-30 year olds, I would make one myself. And that is what I did. Swindon 18-30 Professionals was born  on 1st February 2015. To set the group up I had to pay fixed amount of around £30 (the website runs on dollar currency) which granted was a special half price offer, but still took courage on the grounds I didn’t know if anyone would join or it would work. I opted for the higher fee so I could have more than 50 members in the group. At the time mumma Bennett was doubtful I’d get that many members (I kinda was too).

I created some provisional events and waited to see what happened. To my amazement they came, at the launch event about 12 people turned up. This took me by surprise, for months I hadn’t met anyone new and yet in 5 minutes I was overwhelmed with new faces to talk to. With many different events being hosted by the myself and others in the event team the group quickly went from strength to strength.

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As the group increased in size I was able to pick up the courage to ask a large bar called Baker Street in Old Town to put on special drinks offers for us. They happily obliged.

More events put on and more members increased. To give you an idea, in my post Educating Alice where I talk about good things in Swindon, the group had 34 members. That was in March. The group now has 205 and we haven’t even reached the 10 month mark. The group has an average of one new member a day, and several more will apply and not be accepted (Requirement: this group is for people aged between 18 and 30. How old are you?  Response: 45.)

At the six month mark my subscription was up for renewal, this time at a much higher rate. In need of sponsorship I put on my empowered professional female hat (an actual thing I own) and typed a lengthy proposal to Baker Street with the situation and why they should invest in us. I outlined the group’s growth, projected growth and the money my members brought into their establishment. To my utter joy they accepted and a new business partner was established. Sponsorship meant my members could now join for free, another big feather to our cap.

Baker Street have supported us massively ever since. They have even helped me radically improve the promotional material we put out and about in Swindon. The images below give an idea of the evolution of our posters:

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February 2015

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July 2015

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November 2015

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out which poster was created with the aid of a professional designer and which one has helped to radically boost membership. All the same, being able to have a strong creative input into the design has helped give me new skills and boost my inner confidence that I am pretty awesome.

While the growth of the group is amazing, it’s the people I’ve met that have really brought about the most happiness. At every drinks night we host on the first Wednesday of the month I see a range of people. I see the well seasoned members who have been there from the start, those who tend to only come to this one event a month and those who are completely new and, understandably, nervous. All three types stood around, chatting, laughing, enjoying themselves. Sometimes I get caught off guard and feel quite emotional at what I see around me. There are no cliques here, everyone has different professional backgrounds and opinions. It is a welcoming environment, everyone is relaxed and open with each other. No matter how many events they have attended every person in that space has been in the same position when they were new to the group, coming along to meet new faces. Everyone is in the same boat. Members may not live together but they socialise in the same boat. And, with all the events myself and my now extended event team put on, there is a schedule of events that people can go to to forget about the stresses of work, even if for one night. We provide the wind to safely guide the ship.

We recently had our Christmas party where we went to Pizza Express for a three course meal and then onto the group favourite, Baker Street, for endless complimentary prosecco from the venue and 2-4-1 cocktails.

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It was a great night. An old friend from university was visiting me for the weekend (the girl sat opposite me at the table). As we stood in the cold waiting for our taxi she said to me, “you’ve made a life for yourself here, they’re a great bunch of people. They all really care about you, you just don’t see it because you spend all your time making sure they’re having fun. They call you God!”

When I went to upload the album on social media the next day I contemplated what to call it. It was a Christmas party, but it wasn’t a traditional work Christmas do, nor was it so detached from my personal life that I felt happy calling it just “Swindon 18-30 Christmas Social”. I settled in the end with something much better:

“Christmas Party with Friends”

Happiness Rating – 1,000,000 / 10

Conclusions

So there you have it. Money CAN buy you happiness. If I hadn’t spent £90 on pottery or £12.99 on the gym I would not have learnt as much about myself as I do now. If I hadn’t spent £30 on setting up my group, well, I don’t want to even think about what my life would be like I hadn’t done that. I laugh now thinking about me sat at a kitchen table debating whether to invest the money to set up the group. If I could I’d go back in time and throw a banana at myself. I’d know it was future me trying to knock sense into my head and I’d stop faffing about.

Yes, money can’t buy you everything. I’m not telling you to invest all your saving in meaningless gifts and spending outside your range. What I am saying is that your social life should be treated as a business or a bank account. If you keep investing little and often into it you will find the interest and rewards will build up. Money should not always been seen as the enemy that will prevent you reaching your personal Nirvana. How about a new ethos to life? Something like…

Money in modesty makes for happiness.

(Alice’s big book of terrible sayings, coming not-so-soon to a discount book store near you!)

Because, at the end of the day, how can anyone argue differently when faced with an image of Alice after a couple of glasses of free wine mixed with an additional glass of complimentary prosecco.

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And if that isn’t happiness, I really do not know what is.

FYI: you can find out more about the group I run here on it’s official page: http://www.meetup.com/Swindon-18-30-Professionals/ or on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/swindonprofessionals/ or even on Twitter: https://twitter.com/swindon18_30s?lang=en-gb

I know, I am so social!

Blogging – The First Year (Alias a year since I bought toilet roll)

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Anniversary, Young Professional ,

It may/may not surprise you to hear this, but I’ve now been blogging for over a year (one year two days to be exact).

I’ll be honest, it took me a bit off guard when WordPress pinged me a little congratulations notification on Wednesday 11th November. It was like WordPress was saying to me “well done you for making it to a year. We’ll be honest, when we saw your first post we were a bit unsure whether you’d hack it. We were not sure the content was really appropriate considering most of our bloggers write about interesting, informative things and make an effort with their photographs. However you sure stuck at your own little niche writing style and lo and behold you’re still around. I’ve lost 50 Bitcoin in a bet to Tumblr and still don’t get what keeps your readers coming back, but all the same well done you.”

Of course, all I got was this:

Capture

(I studied English Literature at AS Level, I can read between the lines. Well, line.)

At first I shook off this news. I was halfway through writing my last post and too focused on Ainsley Harriot’s tomatoes to process this notification. When I was 75% of the way through writing said post I was actually annoyed with WordPress for telling me this news randomly when I was typing something else that was unrelated to blogging for a year. I felt the site had robbed me a golden chance to post on the actual anniversary that I created My Housemate’s a Mermaid and my Grimgrad identity.

“Dam you WordPress” I thought.

“Sod off, I’ve already lost 50 Bitcoin to Tumblr and now I’ve got MySpace on the phone laughing at me. MySpace!” An anthropomorphic version of WordPress responded.

Anyway, here I am, a week later than billed, writing my thirtieth anniversary post. Sometimes it feels weird to think this image marked the start of something new for me:

Shock, horror! I'm a real adult now!

I mean the image itself is not strange, I pull stupid poses all the time (regardless of whether there is a camera present or not). But four things make it particularly interesting to me:

a) I think everyone will agree this photo expertly sums up everything about this blog. The style, the importance, the sheer randomness about every word that is written. Someone once asked me if I did stand up as well as the blog, they found the writing style to be so amusing and witty. Unsure whether I should be flattered, concerned or ring up my local comedy club I simply responded with the truth; that every word I write for my blog is 100% natural me. Colleagues and friends may say I’m nothing like this in real life, family will tell you I’m worse, but what I type are literally the mental ramblings of my little brain.

b) This one photo marked the start of a new interest, hobby and creative release. It kinda makes it a big deal to me.

c) Since posting it on my blog I have never taken the time to look at or use this photo again. I could have used it for the Hat Season post but I didn’t. I remember at the time thinking it was a photo of significance and it should not be repeatedly used without a justified reason. In a bizarre twist of fate, this silly photo had adopted a degree (pun not intended) of near holy importance to me.

and 4. It looks like a mouse is hiding on the top of my mortar board. Never noticed that before.

Perhaps I should be submitting the above picture to the various examination boards of Britain. I mean clearly this is an image that school children can and should rip apart to fully understand Britain in the early 21st Century. Best to get the resources together now AQA, you’ll only be regretting it when you have to pay my grandchildren royalties for using this photo.

To bring it back to the title, why is this post also being referred to as a year since I bought loo roll? Well, it’s not uncommon for people to ask bloggers the predictable question of “what made you want to start writing?” Now, the normal answer to this would be equally as dull and expected, something along the lines of “I was inspired to write because…” or “when *blank* happened to me I felt impassioned to tell this important story to the world”. Which one was I? Come on, you know me better than that. Did you seriously think this blog had a dully beautiful creation? I’ll tell you the story of how this blog came to be:

I was in Sainsbury’s after work. It was wet and cold out and I really could not be bothered to go, however we were out of toilet roll and it was my turn to buy some. Sure, I could have left it another day, but we were down to the last roll and you are playing with some serious hand grenade if you’re sharing a bathroom with two other females and you keep putting off the loo roll shop.

I was standing there in front of all the types. I think a new Olly Murs track was playing? Yeah, I think it was him. Singing some generic tune, something to make me feel happier about a product that would see my money being literally flushed down the toilet. In front of me was the branded Andrex on offer at £3.50 for nine rolls vs. Sainsbury’s own brand at £6.50 for 16. Sheri and I had always bought in high volume on the grounds that loo roll isn’t about to go out of fashion. I remember debating it forever, analysing every single aspect of each product. Sheri had always bought branded toilet roll and I didn’t want to look like a tight wad by purchasing own brand, but did I really want to pay up any more than I needed to?

I don’t think in the history of loo roll has anyone spent so much time studying the details of something no one really cares about. “Lovely bathroom Tina, but it’s a shame your toilet roll didn’t feature a floral boarder” said no one ever. I finally selected the Andrex family pack. I paid for the goods and walked out of the store, chuffed at my purchase.

“This will see us through to the new year. I won’t have to buy any more toilet roll for ages,” I thought “not even this misty rain is going to get me down.”

I pressed the button at the pedestrian crossing and waited for the lights to change.

“Hey, why don’t I start writing a blog? That could be interesting, although I probably wouldn’t be able to hack it. I mean I tried it once ages ago while at Southampton, when I created the account for a party pineapple…

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…that was until I realised I’d created a persona that was more Twitter than WordPress. He rotted away and I did not have the energy or funds to invest in a new pineapple. Yeah, that was a bit of a fail. But maybe I should try again though.”

Green man appears, I walk across the road.

“But what to call it…”

There was literally zero thought process to it, I don’t know how it came into my head but two minutes later the title “My Housemate’s a Mermaid” was firmly stuck in my head and I became more determined than ever to write my first post.

Ever since that moment the only time I’ve been frustrated with blogging was the first fifteen minutes when I got back and I just wanted to write something. I had to quickly research which site to use and fill in so many boxes to create an account “Jesus Christ, just let me write already!”

And that my friends is the true story of how I came to be sat in bed a year later, still writing the same old waffle. The same old waffle you’re still reading now. I’ve come a long way since then, I now type with the duvet over me as opposed to under me. No need to thank me, thank Sainsbury’s special promotions and your natural bodily functions. I was actually in the same supermarket a couple of weeks ago to buy loo roll. Even though I had no idea my blogging anniversary was coming up I had this weird feeling which I couldn’t quite place. And then it dawned on me…

Own brand toilet roll had increased from £6.50 to £6.65.