PDAs [From the back catalogue of private scribbles]

Now we’re not talking about the latest blackberry handheld, oh no – we’re talking about a very different type of PDA: Public Displays of Affection.

Hang on, now before you deem me some fifty year old spinster, I assure you…I am not. No really. I even have a boyfriend whom I happen to be very fond of. However, it occurred to me recently that what I am not so fond of are other people’s boyfriends, and more to the point, their inability to control their… desires? Okay, now in the bedroom department of one’s home, it’s all well and dandy. But when I’m just about to tuck into a Zinger Tower Burger at Westhoughton KFC, the last thing I want to see is a pair of chavved up teenagers having a grope at each other in the queue. Call me old fashioned, but did common decency jump off the face of the earth?

A quick kiss and a hearty hug is certainly acceptable, don’t get me wrong. But save the open mouth and sly fumbling for somewhere a little more private. If I wanted to see that kind of thing, Id stop off at Blockbusters’ X-Rated aisle (though I should probably make it clear that I don’t and I won’t…)

Just last week, I paid a visit to the cinema to catch a new realease. It was all going swimmingly. A typical night out ; I’d got ripped off for my Pringles and I sat where I usually sat (middle row to the left). I was all set for an action packed few hours with Jude Law. That was until a giggling pair of twenty-somethings (thought their nauseating appetite for each other was enough to set them back at least ten years) decided to park themselves on my row.

The lights hadn’t even dimmed and their mouths were stuck together like suction plugs. And as I munched away to drown out the wet noise, I was horrified to learn that it was infact ME being shushed by some middle-aged recluse a few rows in front. Inevitably, the tongue tennis pros were left to finish their game for the remainder of the film.

The experience made me wonder, are these people genuinely in love or just exhibitionists? I suspect the latter. Surely you blokes can resist planting your hand down your bird’s trousers and having a good tug at her thong whilst you’re at the Iceland checkouts? Or would world peace be a more likely scenario?

Alright, call me cynical. But I think we’re destined for that doomed slippery slope. Soon enough, the litter on our streets will be replaced by fornicating couples we’ll have to step over on our way to work, sex shops will be as commonplace as Tesco and condoms will grow on trees…

A slight over exaggeration, but you get the point.

Get a room.

London Calling

Today = D Day

Though surprisingly, there were no Ds to be seen when I collected my results from personal-prison-of-two years, more commonly known as college (location cannot be named for obvious reasons, obvious reason being I think it’s shite). Infact, it turns out I bagged myself a place at a London University. QMUL (because I’m all about the initialisms, baby – but in case you’re not, Queen Mary University of London).

Yes, I’m headed where the streets are paved with gold, to find my own pot of gold (or at least an eventual career that will lead to said pot… Or several pots, for that matter). So here’s hoping along the way, I’ll be able to share with you my LDN adventures and escapades – because bejayzuz , where else in the world offers up such strange and wonderful possibilities?

It’s going to be a crazy three years, but I have a gut feeling I’m going to love every second. Even if I do spend lots of borrowed money on fabulous shoes. Hell, I might even have time to cram in a bit of Maths.

…I’ll keep you posted.

The Return Of The Scrunchie

A daring move from Topshop.

Yes ladies, it’s back. Just when we all thought we’d rediscovered everything we possibly could from 1985 – leggings (a definite success, providing you don’t look like Janice Battersby), neon and acid wash, to name a few. But first to go overboard and commit fashion suicide in the form of fabric-covered-elastic was (the usually trustworthy) American Apparel.

However, the yankies weren’t brave enough to display the controversial headgear in the accessories section…Oh no, they were spotted in a less-than-obvious cardboard ‘bin’ by the checkouts, perhaps in the hope they’d go unnoticed. And rightly so.

So, who, you might ask, refused to listen to the wise words of Carrie Bradshaw and stage such a comeback? Well, it was none other than our very own Topshop. Yes, the home of vintage chic took a turn for the worst and decided to hang those ugly fabric loops proudly from their racks. Worse still, in frightening shades of metallic purple, blue and god forbid, gold.

Now I for one can tell you I died a little at the sheer sight of the fabricated feckers, but I’d be curious to know what other self-confessed Topshop worshippers make of their return- a natural sidekick to the up and coming shoulder pads and taffeta… or a fabulous excuse to invest in a barge pole?

Fashion fume over.
Must now go and write something serious and political.

(Stupid) Cupid Returns!

 

Because there's only so much sugar-coated love we can give.

As the halfway mark of this inevitably depressing month approaches (because let’s face it,  it’s been a mere thirty-something days since the festive period and we’re all left staring into our empty Quality Street tins crying ‘Where the hell did all the fun go?’) we’re faced with the prospect of another excuse to hover in the Hallmark aisle. Yes my friend, it’s here. It’s the one you’ve been waiting for…in all it’s pink-and-fluffy-sugar-coated-gift-wrapped-glory. Dare I say it? Cupid has landed.  

At this point, you’re picturing a sour faced forty-something (single, besides her cats) typing this on the Estranged Express en route to Spinster City. Well, as much as I would love to play to the part, you will no doubt be flabbergasted to know that I am in fact in a happy relationship of several years (fingers crossed I haven’t just fecked that one right up). I am also under forty. Hoorah.

Until recently, I have never had a bone to pick with Saint Valentine himself. I was happy to fly on the wings of love and hug my heart shaped pillow. But (because you’ve been waiting for the but), doesn’t it all seem to be getting a little…Repetitive? Ho-hum? In my mind, there are only so many times we can walk into Thorntons and solve the problem with personalised chocolate, so many La Senza don’t-mind-if-I-do type occasions and so many dozens of red roses. And I hope I speak for the coupled when I say, we are reaching our limit. 

Who made up this lark anyway? There is no Saint Valentine, or Cupid as it happens (but I don’t need to tell you that, unless you’re still clinging onto Santa and wishing on the Easter Bunny- in which case, I am most sorry).  You see, I thought said boyfriend and I were on cloud nine and tickled pink. And the truth is, we are! But this year, the prospect of V Day only seemed to draw attention to the sober fact that we no longer feel that fresh thirst for one another, we are no longer greeted with the jelly-legged-butterflies-in-stomach-effect upon meeting.

Don’t get me wrong, the spark is certainly still there – but the light that started it has long gone. No doubt recycling it’s chemical properties to bring about brand spanking new couples. 

So perhaps we should leave the day of love to the newbies? And maybe the spare tables and no longer fully-booked restaurants that would inevitably ensue would give them an excuse to depart from their love nests.  And the rest of us? We could breathe a sigh of relief and stop making those desperate attempts to recreate that first time feeling in order to prove wrong our irrational thoughts that being settled is just downright sad. Because it isn’t.  It’s actually bloody lovely – which is why I should probably scoot and hit Clinton’s before my other half reads this, chucks me and leaves me stricken and single on Valentines. Now that’d be another blog all together…