My Two Cents on the New Five Pound Note

October 6, 2016October 7, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Economy, Humour currency, five, pounds

In the last few weeks we have seen the emergence and growth of a new currency on these fair British shores. Slowly creeping its way into our wallets and homes, into the lives of our mothers and children. What am I talking about? The new five pound note, that’s what. And oh my God am I fed up about having the same conversation about it. Yes, I know us Brits will happily discuss the weather for hour after hour, but at least there’s some variety in that. The five pound note conversation revolves around on one inanimate object, lends itself to no hilarious anecdotes and goes on for-ev-ever. Worse still, no sooner have you finished that conversation someone else then exclaims “look! I’ve got the new five pound note!” It is the actual embodiment of groundhog day, I swear.

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Ok, so here are my thoughts on what is effectively a new bit of paper that gets you things. Please see below before you start waving your cash in my face.

Yes, it does look very different and I agree it’s good they’ve kept the colour the same and the Queen still looks youthful.
Yep, it’s about time Churchill featured on the note. Nah, it doesn’t make you a woman hater for not knowing who the female figure was on the old note, most feminists didn’t know either:

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(FYI it was Elizabeth Fry, well known for her charity work and attempts to reform prisons – but then I only learnt that because I wrote an exam paper on her at University.)

Does it feel weird? Plastic coated you say? Scrunch it and it bounces back to shape as well? Well I’m going have to take your word on all of that because I’m clearly on a look, but not touch, policy when it comes to your special five pound note.
Oh lucky me, you want me to feel it for myself. Now I have to go “wow, it does feel strangely different” as if I haven’t already touched multiple notes already. You clearly take no issue to me touching around. Because I’m a note playa like that.
Now you’re bringing a ten pound note out for comparison. Well someone is smug they’ve got the money to fondle. Care to look at my penny collection?
Yep, certainly smaller than a ten pound note:

Yep, it does look like Monopoly/play money. Better keep it away from children, could be all manner of hilarious consequences! (Hah-hah)
Ah! You can see through the panel:

You could even watch a Royal-based drama, such as Victoria, through that panel:

I don’t think I’ll ever view the world in the same way again. My whole life has changed.

What’s the serial code? If it’s AA it’s worth money, well, more than what it’s worth. It’s a pants version of the national lotto really. I agree, no one has time to study every five pound note for that code.
Hmm I suppose it could be forged, just like the current fifty pound notes, pound coins, your mate’s Man U t-shirt from Rayne Woony. Just like everything in the world. I wouldn’t lose sleep, your five pound note will be safe.
Yep, I miss the old notes already.

We all good now? Good. And while I’m at it, Mr Mark Carney, Governor of the Bank of England, can I please ask you make one change when you implement the new ten pound note? Please, please, pleaseeee just implement them into our lives over night. You can send Santa during August, or come into my bedroom yourself (you have my permission). Because seriously if I have to have the same ruddy conversation 100 times again I may be forced to put my foot down. That’s right, I’ll put this video up:

Instead of talking about the economy we’ll be talking about Ed Balls. Not Tony Blair, or Theodore Roosevelt. Actual Ed Balls.

And I don’t know about you, but a world where Ed Balls is more interesting than currency is a world I do not want to live in.

I Don’t Know…Pub?

October 3, 2016October 3, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) alcohol, Humour alcohol, colleagues, pub, Work

No matter what the circumstance, in Britain you can guarantee we will rally round one of the below:

A proper brew or a sophisticated coffee (dependant if you’re from the ‘North’ or the ‘South’ – but lets save that conversation for another day)
The weather
Pubs

It therefore came as no surprise that for our department’s ‘Team Building Day’ they got in the most knowledgeable and experienced event planner to decide where the group should rest and water after a morning of ‘team building’. That person was unfortunately too busy trying to walk in a straight line, so they roped me in.

I will be the first to admit that I’m no connoisseur of the grain-based beverage. In fact it took me several years to accept that Sainsburys Basics Wine (which comes in a plastic bottle) is not a classy drink.

I will also acknowledge that try as much as I may to keep my composure, this is the face I pull when taking a sip of someone’s “really nice” larger:

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There’s just no hiding it.

However, whilst I don’t know my Carlsberg from my Peroni – they’re the same thing right? – I do know how to track things down using the internet. (Note how I said ‘things’ there, give me five minutes and I bet I can find that picture of you.) This in mind I somehow managed to produce a selection of public houses my colleagues and I could frequent this Friday.

One of the extensive requirements for this pub was parking. Because posh people back in the day were so inconsiderate, the historic property we are visiting in the morning is located on a vast estate, no where near any alcohol selling venues. (I know right, how very rude of them.) This in mind, I found myself using Google Maps’ Street View function to establish the local scenery. In the space of half an hour I was reminded a) how interesting and exciting it is to fly through streets (I felt like I was on the magic carpet ride at Disney all over again) but b) how incredibly tedious it is when the man decides he wants to go to a residential street and yet c) how intrusive it can actually be. During my theoretical travels I was actually able to go inside one of the pubs. I won’t name the pub or chain in question, for name sake I’ll say it’s called ‘Blue Queene’. Going into the Blue Queene was interesting, a sort of “come to this pub and all going well you could be using these very toilets, minus Jeff.” In my department there is often a lot of discussion of the ‘visitor experience’ and I think nothing best sums up the experience of the Blue Queene’s clientele better than this interior photo:

I think it’s a bizarre on every level. I mean if you’re out walking your dog and a Google van whizzes by it’s over in a second, but can you imagine sitting down and someone walks in to photo the ‘contents’? In a dark, 1984, sort of twist, the satirical comedy The Revolution Will Be Televised predicted this years ago:

Me being me, I thought up all manner of theoretical conversations the couple could be having in this otherwise empty pub.

“Sandra, we really need to talk about our divorce.”

“Try to act normal, as if there aren’t weird men watching us”

“So, we’ve been here half an hour and your still have your coat on…any reason for that?”

“Hey, can you take another shot but this time with my arm over the chair, so it looks like I’m really engaged in conversation?”

“To be honest I don’t care how I look, as long as you get my Star Wars bag in the shot. I want people to see this photo and think ‘wow, he’s living the dream'”

“Can you make sure we’re centre of the photo? I would hate to be overshadowed by some kind of cheap gambling machine.”

After thinking up all these imaginary conversations which in truth are 100 times more interesting than the pub itself I decided that, owing to lack of parking and location, the Blue Queene was probably not the best pub to go to. (FYI Nailsea on a grey day is not somewhere to book a package holiday.)

Luckily I was able to source a suitable alterative. The inner monologue went like this:

“Ok, interesting. It’s a fifteen minute drive from the historic property, located on the outskirts of Bristol, near the Marina. Plenty of parking, looks modern in the images, very stylish. Sure, it’s a Wetherspoons but it offers good value for money which, on our budget, is a definite box ticker. Yeah, looks good, I’ll recommend it to the department manager now.”

Email winged off, I started focusing on actual work (you know, the stuff I’m paid to do). About an hour later I think to myself “I wonder if you can go inside this place as well?” I had a spare five minutes so I got up the old Street View on Google Maps and searched the postcode.

So this is where, under my recommendation, eighteen of us are going:

Take note, at 13:30 on Friday 7th October the department is going to either be sat in a stylish bistro, praising my choice in restaurants, or they’re going to be standing on scrub land discussing how best to kill me.

It’s good to know I have a trusting team.

Oh My God, I’m Going to Die

September 27, 2016September 27, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Death Death, Victorian

Whenever I think of death my first thought is of week one ‘Cities of the Dead: Victorian Death Rituals in Society’. Our lecturer, Dr Jonathan Conlin, silently walked into the lecture room and said “before we start this twelve week course there is something important you need to know”. He pulled down the white board to show in capital black board markers the statement:

WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE

There was a mild chortle in the class (yes, we chortled at my University) before Conlin went to wipe the text off hastily, “that’s been up there since yesterday evening, I hope it didn’t scare the cleaners.”

By broaching this awkward subject in the first five minutes it set the tone for the rest of the module, significantly aided by a lecturer with an informal teaching style (“hey! Guys! I know we’re here to look at headstones, but look what the monks gave me, this granola bar!”) The term ‘you had to be there’ is overused in modern society, but when it comes to the study of morbid subjects you really had to have been there to understand why Victorian Death Rituals was one of my favourite ever courses. By the end of the twelve weeks I actually had a bit of era-envy for the Victorians. They celebrated death in a way that hasn’t really been seen since the start of World War One. Granted, as with everything Victorian, they did on occasion go one stage too far (I don’t think anyone wants to revive the tradition of death photography anytime soon:)

victorian-death-photos

…but ultimately they were not scared of their impending fates, (not as much as we are now). I came away from the overall experience feeling more enlightened about the whole subject.

So all this aside, why do I find myself spending my Tuesday evening on Web MD convincing myself I’m going to die? It started with a slight tooth ache, most likely my wisdoms coming through, which caused me to think “hmm, I wonder how serious this could be?” I go online and bam! I’m told to go see my dentist. In Google terms that means I’m going to die. At this stage I started freaking out that my dentist is a two hour drive away and has a waiting list of ten years. If I’m going to die this would prove to be a slight inconvenience. I then tried to source another, more local dentist, only to find myself treating the search as if I was looking to buy a property. “I won’t go for anything less than four star rated, but then it needs to be in a central location with good access to work and public transport. Is there room in the budget for private? Hah! No chance, NHS only please! Ah, now I’m down to two…located in the next county.” All this stressing over impending death and dentists gave me a slight headache, so I popped in a couple of paracetamol and paused to ~~burn~~ make dinner. Half an hour later I was pleasantly surprised-come-relieved to find both headache and tooth pain had vanished. Guess I wouldn’t be dying today.

Admittedly I was a little bored after the excitement of the above, so I thought “I wonder if there’s new research on dry skin treatments or preventatives?” hit that up into the search engine. Guess what? There isn’t. “See your doctor or dermatologist who will be able to advise further.” So basically my hands are going to fall off. Thought of trying to type up the reports without hands = stress = dry skin = escalating chance of handless working. Isn’t that a paradox or something?

I’ve now started using Web MD symptom checker to see what various illnesses and/or diseases I could be incubating. Turns out there are a lot, all ending in one of three ways: paracetamol, doctor or calling loved ones and an ambulance because you’re stuffed. Overall, if you don’t act you’re going to die. When you think about it, isn’t it a bit alarming how much trust we put into computer software, the most un-human thing there is, to tell us how to deal with our ailments? Computer code informs us whether that sprain is life threatening or can be left alone? Why are we even at this stage when we’re frequently being told our General Practitioner (doctor) service is at the point of collapse? Are these websites fuelling the pressure by playing to innate fear and paranoia or are they reducing it by prescribing us with a couple of aspirins? More likely the former than latter.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that we seem to think ourselves liberated, that we in the Western world can, within our agreed laws, do whatever we want, say whatever we want, think whatever we want. But are we though? It’s funny how we look back on the Victorians as uptight, stiff upper lip sorts that didn’t know the meaning of ‘letting one’s hair down’ and we in the 21st century seem to think ourselves as being more free in comparison. But lets take a closer look at that theory. I mean, when was the last time you frankly talked about death? Not just the existence/non-existence of an afterlife, but everything from how you want to die, how you want the funeral to be conducted, even how long you want to be publically mourned? When was the last time you received a letter with a black border, or saw someone walking down the street dressed head to foot in black crape? Funny how nowadays someone in similar attire may attract stares or verbal abuse. Back then black held a higher regard in society.

Now, when was the last time you talked about that dishy guy on second floor? Or the girl you slept with the other night? Did you watch 50 Shades of Grey or buy some handcuffs from Ann Summers? On the surface it seems weird to think people would have their coffins made whilst they were still alive, or that news of someone ‘dying well’ would draw crowds. I won’t lie, I can think of better ways to spend my Sunday afternoon. But then these people would have equally looked at us as weird backward creatures for discussing such puerile topics on the street for all to hear.

So, to summarise, we’ve gone from one era who celebrated death but was disgusted by sex to another era 150 years later who celebrates sex but refuses to discuss death. And we think of the Victorians as an uptight bunch. Kinda funny, huh?

A Spanish Sunday in September

September 25, 2016September 25, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Humor, Humour, Spain Spain, Spanish, Sunday

(I know right – all of the ‘S’s! Can you tell this girl works in marketing?)

With the weather being truly glorious today, many in the Bennett household are taking this opportune chance to moan about the weather, well, BBC’s Weather to be precise.

“This wasn’t forecast for today”

“It was meant to be sunny yesterday and rain today, not the other way round!”

“It’s too hot for my body warmer!”

To be fair, it is what we’re best at doing in this country. Weather moaning is a skill that has taken centuries to hone in. It’s what makes us British.

Owing perhaps to the delightful temperatures, I’ve spent a great deal of the day in a somewhat Spanishy mood. Oh, I hear you ask, have you been nibbling on some chorizo or sipping on sangria? Have you been learning the steps of the flamenco or viewing the works of Picasso? No, in answer to your theoretical questions I have not been doing any of these things. I have not even sampled any of the authentic cuisines of Spain recommended by Papa Bennett (these being pizza, paninis and baguettes. Tres authentic dishes.) Not a crumb has passed these lips. In fact the only thing which has made today particularly Spanishy in outlook, aside from the unseasonably hot weather, is this song:

This song has been stuck in my head all day. It’s by no means a bad thing, it’s very cheery in outlook, but it’s coming into my life at the worst possible time. It’s late September and as Muma Bennett has delightfully reminded me, next week it’ll be October. This is a song full of up beat vibes and Summer feelings. The lyrics, the music, the video, it is all dripping in it. I do not want to be thinking of this song when it is pouring down with rain and blowing up gale force ten winds outside. And do not get me started on how this song sits next to the High Street’s ever increasing need to shove Christmas down my throat as early as possible. All joking aside, there is a very real possibility that if I listen to this song at the wrong moment this year’s Secret Santa will be getting a mango. This song is also a nice little reminder of my non-existent lingual skills. That ‘learn Spanish’ New Year’s resolution was ditched way back on January 5th. I mean I’m here bopping away in my head to this song without any idea or context to what Paulina is signing about. Before today I’d never witnessed this music video. I’ll be honest, I found the song on a Latino Spotify playlist whilst I was having a hipster moment and I have cradled the track as my own ever since. All I’m getting from this video is that the song has something to do with obsessive stalkers and paint. (It says something about my mental age when the first thing that sprung to mind was “thing of the cleaning costs!”)

So, on what must surely be the last Sunny Sunday of the year, let’s all make the most of the upbeat vibes and let a little summer back into our lives for what remains of the day. That would be just brillo (because if you stick an ‘O’ on the end of any word, it makes it officially Spanish).

I really need to give those CDs another go.

Brace Yourself…This Blog is About to go Off the Chain

September 22, 2016September 22, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Humor, Humour #blog, #book

…Why I hear you ask? Two things:

a) This is the fourth post in one week (it must be all that semi-skimmed milk, the fat has gone to my head)

b) I’ve recently purchased this book:

I mean, not that my blog was lacking before (I think we all can agree it’s the funniest thing since sliced bread), but now thanks to this book I can start myself on the route to fame and blogging fortune. It’s almost enough for me to chuck in the whole career thing and make my sole living off witty commentaries.

I’ve already learnt so much, for example did you know that public blogs can be viewed by everyone on the planet? That one knocked me right for six. I’ve also learnt that a ‘proper’ blogger should blog at least three times a week, hence why I’m gloating that I’ve somehow managed to put up four new posts in one week. Don’t get too comfortable with it though, I mean these bad boy writing skills take time to compose. I’d rather upload one post in two weeks than eight one liners in the same space of time.

Now it may say something about the previous owner when there are numerous frustrated scribbles and highlighted sentences, and I suppose their decision to ‘donate’ it to an Oxfam book shop may also speak volumes, but then I suppose they just didn’t have natural talent to nourish.

I’m not pinning my hopes of world domination and success on this one £3.49 book, I mean that would be silly. I will say this though; brace yourselves to have your minds utterly blown.

(…And if your minds aren’t blown? Well that’s the fault of the book, not me.)

100 Things to Do Instead of Watching The Great British Bake Off

September 21, 2016September 21, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Baking, Humor, Humour Baking, GBBO, Great British Bake Off

Unless you’re a Mexican flamingo whose had its head stuck in a pile of sand for the past few weeks, you’ll be very much aware that The Great British Bake Off (alias GBBO, hereafter ‘Bake Off’) has triumphantly returned to television screens up and down the land.

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This delightful cookery-based competition has been gracing UK television sets for seven years now but in truth it feels like judges Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood have always been part of our lives.

Great British Bake Off

In fact a few weeks ago I came to the conclusion that Mary and Paul were born as they are now. Mary was never an infant, moody teenager or rebellious 20-something, she has always been the endearing grandmother partial to a gin and tonic (or two).

Paul has always been the uncle who you know loves you, yet at the same time you feel you have to earn that right to be loved. He’s also the uncle who is banned from Tesco’s bakery aisle due to excessive poking of goods.

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Now those of you of a nervous disposition may want to leave the room when I say this, but there are those out there who (and I say this with a deep calming breath), there are those who do not like Bake Off.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. 1..2…3…4…5. Ok, I think I’m good.

I don’t know whether to feel angry or sorry for these persons. This is a minority group who has never experienced the elevation of a Paul Hollywood handshake or the despair of watching a baker’s gingerbread house fall apart at the very last second. Bake Off can make you experience every single emotion in the space of 58 minutes and all through the medium of cake. On paper it sounds like this is impossible to achieve, like I’m over inflating this show’s abilities like a puffed up pastry. But I’m not. Until you watch this show and give it your full attention you’re never really going to get it.

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Something I am prepared to accept is that due to the Bake Off effect there is very little else on TV between 8 and 9pm on Wednesday night if you’re not tuning into the show. This is something I can help out with. Like a trusted and highly professional councillor I will leave people to discover the joys of Bake Off for themselves. In the meantime, here is a list of things you can do to pass away the hour whilst Bake Off is on. Just pick a number between 1 and 100 and hey presto! You have something to do instead of watching soggy bottoms and plump buns. (To be honest if that sentence doesn’t convince you to watch Bake Off nothing will. Moving on…)

100 Things to do Instead of Watching Bake Off:

1. Watch Bake Off

2. Ok, ok, watching Bake Off isn’t an option. Other things to do…

3. Draw a picture

4. Look up the weather for the next few days

5. Read up on the news because lets be painfully honest, the world has bigger problems then the rise on their sour bread dough

6. Watch cat videos on YouTube

7. End up in ‘that part’ of YouTube

8. Look out the window and people watch (judge them for not being as productive as oneself)

9. (Realise these people are actually being productive in taking exercise.) Go for a walk

10. Go onto a buying channel and make a reckless impulse buy (buy that rotisserie cleaner, it’s what life is missing)

11. Do an IQ test

12. Go food shopping

13. Get back and discover an essential item has been forgotten, go back to the shop again

14. Watch catch up TV

15. Call Mum

16. Buy an intellectual book. (War and Peace? Pfft, easy!)

17. Read the online synopsis and reviews of said book (e.g. War and Peace) and realise it’s actually a hard read. Buy the TV adaptation

18. Read a magazine instead

19. Binge on wine and chocolate

20. Cry that a) Bake off is leaving the BBC and b) that Mel and Sue are not going to present it

21. Text an old friend and arrange to meet up

22. Tinder

23. Convince yourself you’ll be single forever

24. Download a cool new app to replace time spent on Tinder

25. Learn a new dance, because you’re Beyoncé

26. Join a local club

27. Learn a language

28. Enrol on an evening course

29. Blog

30. (If above is not possible, start a blog)

31. Go through photos online and clear out anything that you wouldn’t want an employer to see

32. Create a LinkedIn profile

33. Update the CV

34. Write a book

35. Job hunt

36. Work on that essay/dissertation/homework/report

37. Buy a new music album

38. Paint nails

39. Watch make up tutorials online

40. Have a shower

41. Research summer holidays

42. One word: Christmas

43. Make a proper dinner for once

44. Call up the landlord to chase him over the broken freezer, again

45. Book tickets to the music gig/festival/event you’ve been forgetting about

46. Call British Gas to discuss recent energy bill

47. Be put on hold

48. Still on hold

49. Seriously?

50. Complain to British Gas about being on hold and end up forgetting what the call was about in the first place

51. Have an existential crisis

52. Scream into a pillow

53. Hit the gym

54. Do the washing

55. Iron the clothes that live in ‘the pile’

56. Start budgeting finances

57. Watch a film

58. Watch a David Attenborough documentary and convince yourself you know everything about nature

59. Look up deadly animals around the world

60. Shave and/or wax

61. Wrap and write Birthday presents and cards to those distant relatives you don’t really care that much about

62. Read up on local events/exhibitions happening in the area

63. Go onto meetup.com and join a social group

64. Watch Homes Under the Hammer

65. Look up local house prices and tell yourself you’ll be renting forever

66. Look up the cost of raising a family and kid yourself you want to be childless forever

67. Check online banking

68. Acknowledge spending money on petty items has to stop

69. Buy a samurai sword

70. Eat pie

71. Make plans for the weekend

72. Look up what films are out at the moment

73. Play FIFA/Call of Duty

74. Go for a run

75. Tidy the house

76. Clean the bathroom

77. Watch another program on a different channel

78. Play Bake Off drinking games (with/without friends, depending what sort of day it is)

79. After a few shots, find oneself uncomfortably attracted to Paul and/or Mary

80. Stalk Facebook friends

81. Do a Facebook ‘cull’ clearing out all the friends that haven’t been seen in decades

82. Send a well-crafted Tweet to a favourite celebrity

83. Log onto work emails. After all, what could possibly have come in since 5pm?

84. Spend entire evening dealing with work emails

85. Plan a big event

86. Go to the pub

87. Walk and wash the dog

88. Wash the car

89. Create an awesome music playlist

90. Sleep

91. Look up ways to volunteer locally

92. Rescan the Freeview

93. Learn ‘the offside rule’

94. Learn the difference between eyeliner (liquid and pencil), eye shadow and mascara

95. Have a cup of tea

96. Do that thing that has been ignored/put off for too long

97. Make a paper plane

98. Learn the periodic table

99. Actually bake something

100. Count down the minutes until it’s all over

And before you ask, no, of course I didn’t put this definitive list together whilst watching Bake Off. Thanks to the WordPress Gods I was able to write this days ago and get it scheduled in to be published during Bake Off. This post goes live at a time slot when I knew anti-Bake Off sentiment would be at it’s peak and therefore a good time for you to read it.

Did you think I was crazy or something?

A Monday Evening Pick-Up

September 19, 2016September 11, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Humour Crazy, Frog, Monday

Having a bad day? Feeing the Monday blues? Just think, it could be worse. A Lot worse.

You could be the employee of CeX who thought it was acceptable to price a Crazy Frog CD at £3.00

Remember the Crazy Frog?

That was released in 2004, 2004! Twelve years later I still think only one thing whenever I hear that song, MAKE IT STOP!!!

So on this Monday just take reassurance in yourself that you’re not a fan of the Crazy Frog, at least not as much as the employees of CeX. I think that deserves a pat on the back if nothing else.

Follow ‘Grimgrad’ on Instagram for Your Chance to Win*

September 16, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Humor, Humour Instagram

Can I just get something out of the way first? Whenever someone says ‘follow me’ I have to listen to this song:

(If I don’t it’ll only bug me for the rest of the day.)

As the title suggests, I have taken the plunge and joined the world of Instagram. When it came to entering the selfie-laden, filter-obsessive world of Instagram I have to admit I was a bit apprehensive. I didn’t want to become a mindless food critic, taking snaps of my amazing quinoa bean salad, and I certainly didn’t want to become Kim Kardashian (a possibility which was/is very likely to happen):

(In case you’re wondering, I’m the one on the right.)

I also knew I’d have to start to combat my difficultly in pronouncing the app’s name correctly. The ‘a’ sound in Instagram sounds so harsh, I naturally want to call it ‘InstARgrARm’ not ‘InstAHgrAm’. Classic case of Alice vs 6.9999… billion people. It’s an ongoing battle and truth be told the only way I can get over posh girl syndrome is to tell myself that if I start calling it ‘InstARgram’ then I’m going to have to start softening all A sounds, in which case I’d become ARlice. I don’t think I can bring myself to that, at least not until I own a Polo club.

These fears overcome, I’ve created my own Insta account, username grimgrad.

Because I wanted to stand out from the crowd on this photo sharing platform I’ve decided to apply my classic blogging banter style to my profile. Turns out it’s actually an easy enough thing to do. Anyone who knows me understands that, since starting a blog, I will literally photo anything of mild amusement. It will 99% of the time make no sense to anyone else, but to me it’s a potential image to use on an upcoming blog post. The only problem with doing this is that more often than not I’m left with reams of random photos on my phone. Photos which for whatever reason didn’t quite make it to the blog, however are a bit too random for me to just throw out there for my friends to see on Facebook. (I don’t think I could deal with the rejection of a ‘no like’ photo, it would be too much to handle.)

In short, there’s now a brand new outlet if you want a quick dose of grimgrad and MHAM goodness. Follow grimgrad on Instagram today and you could be viewing wonderfully witty photos like these:

untitled — No reduced white bread in shop. I guess I’ll be going without fibre this week.

Wow, just what I always needed in my life!

This corner of my bedroom is a scarily accurate portrayal of my life right now

In other news, Swindon council deny claims that budget cuts have impacted on local signage.

When bae decides he wants to watch you sleep instead of doing the respectable thing and buggering off. #daddylongleggs

I think you’ll agree it’s worth a cheeky follow.

*Competition rules – by following Alice’s Instagram feed you are entering yourself in for the chance to win one of three prizes: 1. Swindon/English air, delivered by air mail. 2. a daddy long legs. Alice will throw it out the window and yell “GO AWAY! GO AND PESTER MR J SMITH” (Alice claims no responsibility if said insect is eaten/gets lost/gets crushed by an impatient Alice whilst in transit). 3. the chance to go on a no-expense paid holiday to Kenya, courtesy of your own wallet.

All entrants will receive Alice E. Bennett’s semi-dying gratification.

Any questions can be addressed to the dead Daddy Long Legs on my wall.

Good luck.

Caves, Cannons and Geriatric Broadband: South Devon 2016

September 10, 2016September 15, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Holiday, Humor, Humour Devon, Family, Vacation

Some of you guys might be getting a little fed up of Alice posting “about me holidays”. Well, with the help of Simon Pegg, I’ve only got one thing to say to you people:

Haters gonna hate.

In true white, middle class style I’ve just got back from a break spent at the family’s holiday cottage (South Devon). The little village of Stoke Gabriel on the River Dart has, for many years, been a destination for the Bennett clan. It’s a location close to my heart, a little chocolate box of a village with plenty of charm and boats.

It’s pretty nice, huh? Well, as someone that’s been holidaying there for cracking on fifteen years I can certainly vouch that Stoke Gabriel is a village that keeps giving year after year.

Before we could reach our holiday cottage though we had to make a stop off in the local, equally pretty, town of Totnes. Not that Totnes isn’t a nice place to go:

In fact it prides itself on being a very welcoming place:

They even were very supportive and welcoming of national coffee shop chain Costa Coffee.

So much that Costa went “you guys are so nice that we just can’t build our coffee shop in your town, you guys use it for a charity shop instead.”)

It’s a nice enough place but it was just that, due to our desire to not spend Saturday parked up on the M5 near Bristol, we’d left the Cotswolds early enough to arrive in Totnes at 8:45am, six hours too early to get into the cottage. Morning spent doing the traditional Bennett activities of “Spotting The New Shops And Working Out If They’ll Last the Year”, losing Papa Bennett to the cheese stand in the farmers’ market, and Mumma Bennett going to Totnes Castle (owned by English Heritage). Not to visit the Norman castle, but purely to raid the English Heritage gift shop of raspberry curd.

Here is a helpful diagram to explain:

Top Paint/design skills there.

Once we’d spent a sufficient amount of time and money on cheese, jam and pies (courtesy of Morrisons’ reduced aisle and the effects on Papa Bennett), we headed back to the cottage to unpack and unwind. Well, three of us unpacked. I took to throwing India’s clothes across the room in a political statement-come-demonstration in a bid to force her to put her socks and swimsuit in a less in-you-face location.

Sunday we went to Kents Cavern, an extensive series of underground caves and tunnels. Much to my surprise, despite the poor lighting my new iPhone (I have an iPhone now, don’t you know?) took half decent pics.

However, don’t be fooled, the caves were dark at points and even had spooky faces in the walls.

Because India studies Human Geography she didn’t know what to make of it all. She felt very lost and confused in the cave systems.

“India! Don’t go down there!”

At the end of the caves there was an exhibition, including a reconstruction of human settlers using the caves for protection. I didn’t really understand what the curators were trying to portray – all of my hungover mornings with friends look like this?

Bacon, mindless staring into the abyss, a random baby showing up, what’s new there?

I found this guy very relatable:

Following on from the beauty of the caves, we progressed onto another natural feature: the tourist gift shop.

(David Tennant would have been very happy.)

Outside, India found a new outfit and posed for an attractive series of photos.

Another day we went to the up and coming town of Brixham:

As long as you’re not OCD on your hygiene it has a great sweet shop:

And if you’re not OCD on quality, there’s many shops stocking a wide range of products:

On the holiday there was also a family outing to the county capital of Exeter city. During our day out we went on a delightful free tour of the city which took us from the city centre right down to the historic quayside. Whilst we learnt a great deal of many facts and history about the city, highlights for me were posing with this cannon:

And this ferry sign:

Who said I wasn’t easy to please?

Speaking of education, I also got chance to visit a delightful little zoo in the village of Shaldon and learn all about a range of small animals, notably of the primate variety.

I even learnt a new language:

“Ah! So that’s why I’m still single! I need to up m seductive face…”

“…and learn how to get other females off my man whilst keeping his attention.”

“Sorted!”

Shaldon also had some other charming features, such as the local custom of leaving labels on beverage fruits…

…A large mermaid (one which puts my housemate to shame)…

…and a very large passive-aggressive sign targeted at dog fouling:

It truly is a very wonderful place.

Of course it wouldn’t be a Devonshire holiday without a few technical issues and scraps in the cottage, the main one of this holiday being the internet. The broadband, for whatever reason, decided to be rather temperamental for most of the week. At the lowest point we had two laptops and my mobile phone all desperately trying to look up website information, with no one having any success whatsoever. Amongst the shouting “I’M TRYING TO LOG ONTO THE SITE!” and “try turning it off and on again” and even the classic “oh just give it here! You’re doing it wrong! Huh, it’s not working” I was sat in the middle just laughing. “Great family holiday this is, I come for some relaxation and get lumbered with a geriatric broadband connection! Get the leaflet drawer out, we’d have found out about the Red Coat guides half an hour ago if we’d gone there first.” Inadvertently the broadband issue turned into a family competition every time it went down. Never has Googling cinema times of Jason Bourne been so exciting!

Overall, aided hugely by good (well, half-decent) weather we all had a great time once again in Devon. Now that it’s SEPTEMBER…

(Sorry, not sorry)

…it’s all a go-go on Autumn/Halloween/Christmas. The day we got back from Devon the weather changed instantly. Seems God wants to start buying his tinsel early this year.

But if you think that’s miserable enough, just take a look at this pointlessly long sign for sale in a gift shop n Totnes:

How did that make you feel Mr. Seagull?

How to Organise a Summer Ball (and not lose your head in the process)

August 22, 2016August 26, 2016 My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) Event, Humour Ball, Summer

“India! Start cutting flowers! Emily, can you put bubble wands out on the tables? Alice, I need to get this table plan pinned up, can you sort it please? Oh and can someone please go and tell Laura to stroll around the park, we’re not ready to receive guests yet.”

When local press called me on Wednesday to talk through my decision to organise a Summer Ball single handed the above scene flooded back into memory. At that very second it felt like I was back there in Lydiard’s Luxborogh Suite, although I had long stopped calling it anything more than ‘the room’. For the briefest of moments I witnessed myself dashing around with multiple centre pieces, tired eyes hidden by hair refusing to follow any routine on the hottest day of the year. It was the first time I had felt completely in control of a situation yet at the same time totally out of it. Controlled chaos at it’s pinnacle.

Apologises, it seems I’m getting ahead of myself as always. Let’s leave stressed, sweaty, Alice behind so she can set up bunting and name cards in peace while we take this back to the start.

Amazingly you don’t have to go too far back to find a (relatively) care-free girl. A world where the mere notion of a Summer Ball would have been laughed at. At the beginning of Spring life was, well, normal. I mean sure there was the job and the Meet Up group but the day to day was fairly uneventful (FYI I am fully aware of the irony of the term being applied to a social group, but it’s true.) Life ticked on, bearing me no trouble, and in return I accepted the odd morning of clothes drama (#SockShortageSaturday) and food limitations (#OffMilkMonday).

It all changed in April 2016.

In April one of my event organisers hosted a pub quiz. To say it was ‘just a pub quiz’ would be a vast understatement. When Swindon 18-30 attend a pub quiz it means only three things: beer drinking, outrageous exclamations and open discussion. It’s one of the few times all bets are off and anyone can say whatever they want about anything they want, good or bad. The result? A hot bed of ideas, opinions and, on occasion, the odd eyelash flutter.

It was in Mid April that I received the fatal Facebook message (because that’s how all news is transpired nowadays). Over the pub quiz’s sports round several members had expressed an interest in attending a Summer Ball. Some of them had friends outside Swindon planning for theirs, others never had the opportunity to attend one. Regardless of their situation and the theories of Darwin, women in the group suddenly had this deep animalistic urge to attend a formal Ball. Unfortunately, because I am also of the female variety, it only took Alistair’s brief message to convince me round to this idea. And with that the Summer Ball was conceived. Totally unplanned, totally off guard and soon to take up my total life.

In all honestly the first few days were hardly event milestones. As I recall I bought a muffin hat in Accessorise the next day. I hadn’t seen or been able to buy a reasonably priced muffin hat in years, so this (understandably) engulfed the Ball in terms of joy for the rest of the week. It was a mini success story in my little bubble.

The initial feedback from leadership and member meetings all pointed to Lydiard Park as the venue of choice. But what is Lydiard Park I hear you ask?

Listen to this introduction music and look at the photos.

That, dear readers, is what Lydiard Park is to Swindon. I hope no additional explanation is required of the venue’s status. It’s pretty decent.

So, myself and two others went to see the venue. Our thoughts?

Anyway, we liked it. The guys were keen to have a theme, but having watched one too many episodes of Don’t Tell The Bride I knew that themes either end in a blown budget or a grumpy lady in a dress. I was not of the persuasion to be broke or moody on the night. With the notion of a theme quietly put to bed there was then the minor arrangement of bookings and deposits. There was only one Saturday left in August for an evening booking. Given I was making enquiries in April for Lydiard Park in peak wedding season I could only come to the conclusion the availability was the work of divinity. If only everyone could have seen that at the time. In an alternate Universe the Summer Ball never happened due to opposition to Lydiard. I won’t go into the grizzly details of it all, but there were loud voices that felt the venue should be made to wait while we searched elsewhere first. Strong opinions that tore into every aspect of the venue and catering. It wouldn’t be the last time I faced a set back, but I remember feeling desperately low for days after those one-sided meetings. It was the first time I’d had my decision openly objected and thus had my stability as a leader violently shaken. It actually took the push of an impatient venue to snap me into sense. If I didn’t pay up the deposit in two days then I’d lose the elusive Saturday reservation. For me that was the deciding factor. There would be no debate or second viewings, the venue would be Lydiard.

This links me nicely to another fundamental element of the Summer Ball, getting money. Until fairly late on into the planning, ticket sales were a major underlying stress for me. As any human being will tell you, getting money off a person for an event happening months in advance is never an easy challenge, but trying to get £40 for a theoretical event from a 20-something? Washing feral cats in a bath would be an easier task. Some members were great, and in all honestly I am grateful to those few. When you’re given 48 hours to cough up £200 you need people to back you up quickly. Other members were less keen to throw their cash at me. Perfectly understandable from an objective point of view, they didn’t want to commit, they were low on cash, nights out planned etc., etc. However what most members didn’t see when I was chasing them for payment was the girl sat in her room desperately trying to make the books balance. If we didn’t hit ticket sales of 35 the venue would pull out, meaning I’d lose £200 and all respectability within my group. Of course I couldn’t show my concern to members. I couldn’t tell them that I was scared that no one was buying tickets, I mean how would that encourage people to invest in me? So I smiled and cheerfully told them that tickets were flying off the shelf, that sales were better than hoped. Some days it took every ounce of energy I had to remain positive. It worked though, the final number of tickets sold were 45.

summerballticket9 — The design of the ticket/poster was probably the only thing I ended up delegating. Even I was prepared to acknowledge my shortcomings as a designer.

The budget only held itself together though by the grace of my sponsors. Baker Street were incredibly generous with their offer of six bottles of table wine (costing £17 each) and Baila Coffee and Vinyl’s contribution of £30 proved to be the essential contingency budget when I required it later on. I owe both of them a great deal of gratitude. That’s not to say it was easy to get the latter sponsor. I emailed so many different businesses over the course of two months, I had almost given up hope of anyone wanting to help. I had hoped that people would see the rewards of supporting a growing social group, but I guess some people are more short sighted than others.

Whilst all this was going on, I also had to source evening entertainment. The truth is if people really wanted a three course meal and the excuse to wear a dress they could hit Wetherspoons on a Saturday Night and then roll into a nightclub. Lydiard’s location is in it’s name, it’s located in a park. A big park. I needed a DJ at the very least to keep people happy. Budget was always going to be very tight on this element, having invested a large chunk of the ticket sales into a generous drinks package, so I was overjoyed when I managed to find a guy who would do a DJ set for £150. DJ Danny proved to be the biggest physical and mental exhaustion of the whole event.

I should have seen the signs from day one.

On no level was it looking positive. After the initial quote he never returned my calls or texts, blaming shift work and poor mobile signal. Bizarrely it took me posting a letter through Danny’s door to get him to call me. Posting a letter! When I communicated with him he never chased for a deposit or additional information on the event. When the venue started chasing for his documentation I foolishly believed every excuse he made. He was working, he was ill, he’d recently moved house and misplaced the certificates. Even when my family got involved he lied to their face, promising my father that his friend would do the gig if he could not. I was so blinded by the low fee and painfully tight budgets that I trusted him and hung off his every word.

The final blow came when I received a text two and a half weeks before the event. In it Danny told me he’d been rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack and he wouldn’t be out for at least three weeks. He ended his text with a cheery smiley face emoji and the helpful advice that “there are lots of DJs online”. In anger I texted him back, but oddly enough he never responded. Yet again it was a Holy miracle that blessed me with Andy Grimgrod. He charged a bit more but at that stage it was a case of either cutting back on the flower decorations or no DJ. I booked Andy that night.

Photographer, same thing but on a lesser scale. Agreed for one guy to do it, he later told me he’d charge £35 to take arrival photos. Photographer A swiftly dumped for photographer B, Phil Elliot, who did as good a job on the night as any professional photographer. Unlike photographer A, he also did formal photography as well as arrival shots, a real plus. Added to this the extra freebie of a member doing balloon modelling on the night and entertainment as all set.

Menu options created the same predictable drama there with handling dietary requirements. Requests for dishes to be served without mushrooms, for alternative vegetarian options and, my personal favourite, for Bailey’s cheesecake to be served without the Bailey’s. Those ones really kept me on my toes.

A week before the event I transferred the final balance to Lydiard. The venue was booked. The event was go.

Before I knew it the fateful day of Saturday 6th August was upon me. Cue our delightfully scruffy hostess, yelling at people to move out the way and making Alistair hand out welcome drinks. I bet I looked like such a bossy cow that afternoon, barking orders and commanding people out of my way like some eight year old diva queen. If only they knew the stress involved in getting to that place, and the heightened pressure to ensure that it didn’t all fall apart when it mattered most.

But you know what? I actually pulled it off.

After the Summer Ball life seemed eerily quiet. For days I woke up in the morning convinced that the whole affair was a dream and went to bed at night trying to stop thinking about the logistics of ticket distribution. There were still things to do, the Summer Ball didn’t leave my life that night. I had to select and buy photos from the photographer and get in touch with local press to ensure the event was covered in the newspaper and given the full credit it deserved. I’m still in talks with getting Cotswold Life to put photos in an upcoming issue and, as you can see here, I’m currently writing a blog post on the whole thing.

14022379_10153675763821050_6894258626355729941_n — The Summer Ball got it’s own column in the Swindon Advertiser. I often imagined it up in times of stress to spur me on, so to see it in physical print was an emotional experience. I could finally tell myself I’d done a good job.

I hosted a Summer Ball pretty much single handed and would you know it, I still have a head. Granted at times I felt certain it was going to fall off, alongside the odd limb here and there from all the running around, but I can confirm all appendages are still intact.

Do I wish I’d perhaps thought about the logistics of tackling such a large scale event before ploughing myself, heart and soul, into it? Yes, 110% yes.

Would I recommend others do it themselves? On their own? No. With the support of others? Yes, 110% yes.

And would I host another Summer Ball? Hmm, let me think about that…

My Housemate's a Mermaid

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