All Aboard the Forty Train...

Last Saturday marked one month until I turn forty. That's right, folks. I now have a remaining twenty-six days of living it up in my thirties before old-age strikes. This very blog's bio (to the right on the desktop - no idea where for mobile users, soz) states that 'I am a thirty-something writer...' This has been true for nine years and eleven months - thirty-something begins at thirty-one, yeah? - and soon it will be a lie.

Rather than weeping at my disappearing youth or surgically lifting a variety of body parts, I am quite prosaic about the ageing process. It is going to happen regardless of what I think, so I might as well get onboard and enjoy the benefits. I'm sure there are some. But in these final days of my favourite decade so far, I have amused myself with googling those lists. You know? The ones that tell you what you should have done by each landmark birthday. I wanted to see if I was on track or exceeding all expectation. What should I have experienced by now?

Boy, it was an eye-opening experience. First of all, a casual 'What to do before you're 40' search brings up 103,000,000 results. It seems everyone's got something to say about this. At the bottom of the first page were more specific searches - so many permutations on a theme. I got the sense I was already underachieving because I couldn't be arsed reading anything beyond page one of the search results.

When I did click on some of the articles*, they threw up interesting thoughts. Clearly, there's a wealth of people out there that have all the time and money in the world for 'experiences'. Not many mundane events such as 'buy a new kettle' or 'go to work' made the grade. Likewise, 'watch TV' or 'drive to the supermarket for a big shop' didn't crop up either. It was all 'travel to every continent' or 'visit a place of worship for all the world's religions,' Or 'run a marathon'. (Like, yeah, right.) There were, however, some generic events that made it on to more than one list. All worded slightly differently, there were some things that were repeated time and time again. You would think these must be the universal indicators of life. The rites of passage that we all go though, regardless of race, gender or sexuality. The defining facets of humanity. 

So, the most recurring things to do before you're forty, in my non-scientific study are...

• Sleep outside 
• Skinny-dip
• Write a letter to yourself

Yeah, no shit. According to the Internet, that's what reaching forty is all about. So let me explain why I'm not going to be filling the next month with these 'must-do' experiences, just so you know.

I'm really happy to leave my
camping days behind me

1. I have no problem with camping. I've done it lots, but that was before I got to the stage of prioritising an actual bed for my holidays. It's OK though. People can get to forty and beyond without experiencing this aspect of life. It won't break anyone. It'll be fine. (I also threw up in a tent once, after bad pint. It wasn't pretty. I'm best near an en-suite.)

2. I did not grow up in sunny Cornwall. Maybe if I had, I'd have been skinny-dipping left right and centre, all the day is long. Instead, I grew up off a motorway junction, eleven miles away from a tidal river. I felt no inclination to get the 10A into town, take my kit off and jump into the Mersey, just so I could say I'd experienced life. Not for me. Soz la. 

3. I have too many other things to do than to write a letter to myself. If I did, I'd give profundity a swerve and say...

I think that is where my underlying cynicism about these landmark lists, comes from. We just have to get on with it. Living life to the full is an admirable aim. And some people have the good fortune to be healthy, wealthy and free to make life choices based on their own desires and needs. But equally, a lack of resources and time, alongside responsibilities that take priority, are also at play. And then there's old fashioned misfortune and bad luck. We have to make the best of what we have and what we can manage. It's OK not to have witnessed sunrise in Tokyo by an arbitrary point in life. The world still turns. As well as that, following someone else's idea of what you should have done by now, isn't the healthiest way to live. We can only march to our own beat, or something. (I think I got that from a film.) With this realisation in mind, I thought I should make my own list. What do I think I should have achieved by now? It makes sense to create my own if I'm going to dismiss others' ideas of what I should have been getting up to in my first forty years. But the thing is, I really can't be arsed. I've had lots of marvellous times so far, and I plan to have lots more. I have done some of the things that those lists have told me I should have done by now, and not done many more. But whether it's tattoos, exotic holiday destinations or classic books to read, I've done them because I wanted to at the time, not because I thought I should. In fact, if I thought I had to do them, the appeal would have truly been lost.

Just chillaxing, aged eight. 
Planning not to care about any
'What to Do Before Forty' lists in 
thirty-two years.

And so in the last month of my thirties, if I'm not going to be climbing Machu Piccu or learning to windsurf, then what will I be doing? What can I possibly fill these final days with? Firstly, as the letter to myself implores me to do, I'll be cracking on. The editing of the latest book continues, the food shopping will get done, and the weekend wine, will of course, be consumed. More excitingly however, I have some parties to attend. I know! I have two other fortieths before mine to celebrate - both long time friends who I've known for years. It's just like the year we all turned eighteen. Bashes or get-togethers every few weeks over the course of the school year, as the same faces catch-up and party together. Except it's way better now. That's because I have moved from Thunderbird to more classy and elegant booze choices (usually), I've worked out that if it's cold I'll want a coat and if I have to walk anywhere I'll need shoes I can walk in. But mainly it's better because I'm not eighteen. Nowhere near. And that is worth celebrating.

Have a lovely week, folks.

* If you want to check your own life's achievements against the many lists that are out there, here is a small selection.

1.  Forty Experiences Everyone Should Have Before They Turn 40
2.  My Before 40 Bucket List
3.  30 Things You Must Do Before Turning 40
4.  11 Things You Must Do Before Turning 40
5.  Forty Things to do Before You're Forty
6.  40 Things Every Woman Should Do Before She's 40**

**This one made me wince a little. Is it just me, or is there a focus on demure and ladylike pursuits here? I came over all Lady Catherine de Bourgh just reading it. It almost made me want to start cage fighting. Almost. 

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Ten Years and a Ridged Finger Later...

Last night my Internet was slow and it was a frigging nightmare. 

I have started to take my good Internet for granted. And by good, I mean speedy. When I moved into the house I currently live, the Internet was slow but it didn't matter. I was at work most of the day and apart from a look at Facebook or Twitter for a short burst of time, it didn't affect me. I lived Internet-free, for many hours of the day. When I did venture online, I recognised that it took more than a fraction of a second to open webpages, but they still opened fairly quickly. I could have a quick glance at a couple of sites and then put my phone down for the evening. 

 'Ground control 
to Major Tom...'

It's nine years since I moved here and by now, a couple of things have happened. Firstly, my Internet is loads better. (Apart from the inexplicable blip last night.) At some point along the way, an impersonation of a massive piece of NASA equipment turned up on the telephone table, and from mission control the speed of the whole shebang improved dramatically. 

The other thing that happened, is that the Internet began to take over my life. I'm not even being hyperbolic for comic effect. Honest to God, it's true. The thought of a daily slow WiFi speed fills me with dread. These days, my life is run on a daily basis, by the Internet. Every aspect of it. It wasn't a conscious thing. I didn't seek out this state of affairs. But little by little, it's crept up on me. Now, everything I do is based around logging into something. (Or clicking a button that opens an app or site where my login details are permanently stored for ease of access.) And it is all on my phone too. The majority of my work is still a Word document saved to my desktop, most of the time. It's for everything else in my life that I reach for my smartphone. The facts don't lie...

In the past week I have...

• Checked cinema times and bought tickets (Cineworld app)
• Built up my weekly shopping list as items have run out (Shopping List app)
• Listened to music I own that's stored in the cloud (iTunes)
• Listened to Graham Norton's radio show (BBC iplayer radio app)
• Voted in the leadership election of the Women's Equality Party (via emailed link)
• Bid on a coat (and lost!) (eBay)
• Watched TV as I have fallen asleep (Netflix app)
• Checked directions (Google maps)
• Bought shoes (Dune app)
• Created and bought a personalised birthday card (Moonpig)
• Chatted to friends and family (WhatsApp and Messenger)
• Followed a recipe I'd saved (Pinterest)
• Read news articles, comment pieces and opinions of others (Twitter)
• Checked houses in my favourite places on a daily basis (Rightmove app)
• Booked a taxi and tracked its progress (Britannia app)
• Kept a track of the food I've eaten each day (Weight Watchers app)
• Played Candy Crush for reasons unknown (Candy Crush game)
• Scrolled through (mostly) people I don't know's, posts (Facebook)

Nick Nick and the Neph!
Yes, we're wearing underwear
hats! And yes, my phone
is centimetres from my hand.

And that doesn't even count the stuff that isn't Internet-based. The camera, the notepad and the calendar, for example. One thing I do know is my phone is rarely used for phone calls. (Except for when my two year old nephew rang to say 'Erro Nick Nick' the other day.) I don't really text that much, either. And in pointing all this out, I realise I sound ancient. I don't mean to. Most aspects of the list above have changed my life for the better. The Shopping List app is fab. It builds up over the week as things get added. It's become impossible to run out of milk or Lurpak. Likewise, the ease of buying products online from the comfort of home, cannot be overstated. We all know this. Whether it's shoes, cinema tickets or personalised birthday cards, it's so much easier because of the Internet, coupled with the handiness of being on my phone. The Internet and smartphone combo has been a good thing.

So it was really interesting to read this article by Sali Hughes about this book by Catherine Price. How to Break Up with Your Phone. Phone addiction, it appears, is a real problem. The inability to put it down for more than a few minutes, the multi-tasking of watching TV whilst continually scrolling, the gradual reduction in overall attention span - these are all things I experience. Then there is the amount of consolidated time actually being used. A couple of hours a day, I'd have guessed. At Hughes' suggestion, I downloaded the Moments app. It tracks the time I spend on my phone - daily and weekly. Blimey, it was an eye opener. I have a daily average of 6 hours, 30 minutes. I peaked on Wednesday February 7th with 11 hours and five minutes. I have no clue why that day was so phone-heavy. But once again, the facts don't lie. It also explains the ridge in my little finger.

I don't even realise
 I'm playing Candy
 Crush half the time.

FML

Next month marks my tenth anniversary of being a smartphone owner. (I was an early adopter!) As a celebration of such a momentous landmark, I have decided to make a few changes. I am absolutely not binning my smart phone. (Have I not explained about the awesomeness of the Shopping List app?) but I do want to reduce my use of it. Mainly because I have been reading the same book since Christmas and I need to lengthen my attention span in order to get to the end. I miss reading before I fall asleep. Actually, I do read in bed, but it's my never-ending Twitter feed. I find myself getting riled about American politicians I don't know, or live tweets about that night's All Stars episode being broadcast in the US. It is not conducive to dropping off peacefully. 

My changes are going to be subtle. First of all, I'm going to buy Catherine Price's book. Then I'm going to draw up some rules about no phone periods. (Only for myself. I'm not a dictator.) I was thinking of meal times, the hour before I fall asleep, when I watch TV - stuff like that. I can work within those parameters. I also need to use my phone more fruitfully. Using the map app, sending a message and looking up a recipe are all positive uses. But according to the stats in my phone settings, I spent 7.8 hours last week playing Candy Crush. I could have read a medium sized book in that time! What am I even thinking? No wonder I was fidgety when the WiFi speed went south last night. 

However, don't be misled by my ramble this week. Reading this blog on your phone is exactly right. It's noble and worthy, and you should continue to do it every week. We need to take this one step at a time. If I suddenly end up with zero readers plus a load of empty hours on my hands, it would be awful. Let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater. Speaking of which, I should probably stop using my phone in the bath too. Food for thought, most definitely. 

Have a lovely week, folks.


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The Right to Bear Legs, or Not...

I was thinking in the bath the other day...

...Being a feminist means wanting equality between the sexes. The point of equality is, I suppose, the freedom to have choices regardless of sex or gender. So getting to choose how I present myself is, in itself, a feminist act. So yeah...I was pondering all that as I shaved my legs last week. (Warning - an honest and non-arousing description of my legs is contained in the following paragraphs. Don't say you weren't told.) 

Disclaimer: These are not my legs.

I HATE shaving my legs (and for shaving, read waxing, depilation, tweezing or any other form of leg hair removal. I've done 'em all!) It's a ball ache. The process is time-consuming, messy (you want to see the bath after I'm done - like a massacre of the entire world's spider community) and on top of that, rash-inducing. For me, anyway. Some women do not suffer from dotty red stingy-ness after running a blade over their pins. And they are lucky biyatches. 

An artful display of grooming
products, casually arranged
on my bathroom floor. 
I should be a window dresser.

The whole thing does my head in. And on top of that, I don't even like my legs. They are wide (I refuse to use the F word. They'd still be wide even if I were a size zero) and they're short. I'm short all over but my legs are shorter than the length of my body implies they should be. (I'm the same height as much taller people when I sit next to them.) The thing is, I accept this and don't care. I dislike clothes that showcase bare legs. As we all know, I ABHOR the summer, so floaty skirts and denim shorts are nowhere to be seen. I'm happy that my legs work and can walk me places. I'm happy that in an airplane or theatre seat, I have all the room in the world. I'm also happy that I don't have sciatica right now. With those happy and accepting thoughts in mind, grooming beyond a basic shower feels unnecessary. My legs are encased in denim, black lycra - or more usually, PJ bottoms - on a 24-hour basis. So why bother shaving them, right? Am I a crap feminist because I continue to play along with this societal expectation? Am I propping up the patriarchy's power structures by funding Gillette so generously?

Me, getting out of bed,
the day after a leg shave.

I suppose it's because I like my legs not-prickly. I like my legs not-hairy. I like the feeling of smooth shin-skin. I like the aftermath of the ball-achy process, even if the journey to get there takes time and energy, and wrecks the bath. Granted, this smoothness lasts about half a day before the prickles come back, but still. For that half day I feel lovely. I sleep with bare legs in cool, clean sheets - who am I kidding? As IF my sheets are clean! - and I wake up understanding what it is like to be an Amazonian goddess, rising from her slumber, legs up to her neck, striding about like she owns the place. (I am woman, hear me roar. Or something. I mean, WTAF is that about?) But for such a small window of shinned-smoothness, it can often feel not worth the faff of hacking through the thicket. But still I do.

As much as I feel no obvious external pressure to shave my legs (guys, they are literally cloth-encased, all the day is long. No one cares!) I am sure the world around me has contributed to this internal conflict on a subconscious level. If I'd grown up with non-smooth-legged women sexily advertising lipstick, I might feel differently. Or if Angela Rippon had done her Morecambe and Wise dance, emerging from the the news desk with week-old stubble, would I still feel like I want to keep up the shaving malarkey the way I do? If I'd seen any woman on any advert, TV show or film, positively depicted with hairy legs, would I have hit puberty with a different outlook? We'll never know for sure. But for now I tell myself it is a choice I make. One that I think I knowingly choose even if the reality is that I've been nurtured to think this way by a shaved-legged society. 

In related, but slightly different news, I watched Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri the other day. It was fabulous and there's a review here for those that want it. When I came back from the cinema, I googled to see what other people thought, to check if they agreed with me. (It's fine. They did.) But I also stumbled across a couple of articles about the lead actress, Frances McDormand. Happily, they were wholly positive in tone and referred to her recent Golden Globe win where she chose not to wear make-up for the awards ceremony. On the one hand, oh for the day when this isn't noted. But on the other, hurrah for Frances McDormand not giving a shit, and making choices that worked for her. She looked ace, by the way. Her face did all the acting in Three Billboards so I get why she wouldn't want to mask it with feature-altering coloured-grease. Plus she won! Her face was chock-full of expression and emotion. And her speech was witty, meaningful and sincere. Inspirational and aspirational in equal measure. Yet for all that marvellousness, this morning I spent twenty-five minutes applying make-up to my face, for a day spent largely alone at home. 

And this is just the everyday
stuff. You want to see me go
to town in a Sephora.

It's back to the internal struggle again. Do I wear make-up because society tells me I should? Is this really my choice? Do I want to waste twenty-five minutes of my day this way? I'll be honest, this one feels less of a struggle than the leg-shaving question. I've realised as I've got older that I actually quite like make-up. It's fun. It makes my eyes look bigger. I find the process relaxing and creative. I enjoy its application as well as its result. I didn't have to put any on today. No one forced me. It isn't a job requirement. It was a pleasurable experience. And on Sunday when it's my have-a-shower-then-put-on-clean-pyjamas-and-watch-Netflix day, I'll be barefaced and choosing that look just as much. I love that I get to choose, just as much as I love that Francis McDormand got to choose how she looked for her Golden Globe win. At the Cheltenham Literary festival of 2011, Caitlin Moran said that we'll know when feminism has worked, when a woman accepts a Best Actress Oscar in flat shoes*. I have no idea what shoes Frances McDormand wore to the Golden Globes, nor do I care as long as she was happy with them, but I'd bet money they were her choice and not the urgings of a bossy stylist, pushing this season's latest impractical offerings.

Classic Bond - late 90s to late 00s. 

So far I've (over) shared that I shave my legs and plaster on the slap. I choose to do things that, on first glance, look like I'm supporting the patriarchy, even though exercising the right to choose what I do, is enough. But when it comes to shoes, I am a million miles away from the patriarchal construct of high heels. (Although the appearance of longer, slimmer legs and a higher arse is something I could probably manage to accommodate, if pushed.) Regardless, I am so over heels. I'm currently on the look out for what to wear for my 40th birthday and it's going to be flat shoes all the way. I want to be able to walk, stand up all night, even dance if I get pissed enough. I do not want to be up on tip toes, carefully and deliberately placing one foot in front of the other, feeling the creak in my knees, worrying about the heel skidding from under me on a shiny floor, and taking twice as long to walk to the loo than I should. I don't want to feel the aching after-effects in my back for the rest of the week, I don't want to waste silly money on something I'll kick off after twenty minutes, and I don't want to fall arse over tit. Reader, I am no stranger to any of these experiences. I'm done with them. No more.

Unfortunately in my quest for the perfect pair of flats, I've purchased four that aren't quite right. They are very nice (and obviously I'll be keeping them) but they're not what I want for the event in question. By the time March comes, I'll be fully stocked in walkable, formal shoes for a life time of conscious and knowing feminist choices. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

* That was totally paraphrased. I'm casting my mind back seven years here. However, Caitlin has a whole chapter on fashion in How To Be a Woman, and a decent rant on heels. One of my favourite quotes about the topic is on p202.

"The very few who can walk elegantly in them look amazing, of course - walking in heels is a skill as impressive of being able to tightrope walk, or blow smoke rings. I admire them. I wish them well. I wish I could be them. But they are a tiny minority. For everyone else - the vast majority - we look as inversely elegant as we think we will when we purchase them. We waddle, we go over on our ankles, we can't dance, and we wince incessantly, whilst hissing, 'These SODDING shoes. My feet are killing me."

I hear you, Caitlin. I really hear you.

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Breaking News: I Drink Too Much Tea...

DO NOT TAKE HUMMUS
FOR GRANTED

It's been a funny old week in the breaking news department. Hidden within the usual litany of grim crimes and political folly, some truly disastrous world events have been reported. GLOBAL CHICKPEA SHORTAGE screamed the headlines last Monday. Forget nuclear war or global warming, THIS is catastrophic. Not three months after Weight Watchers declared chickpeas a zero point food, world stocks have plummeted. The future of the chickpea is precarious. Damn those millennials and their incessant need for hummus. It's enough to make you reach for the crisps. Then if that wasn't enough, another story quietly emerged. One that, on top of the recent chickpea revelations, had me rocking in a corner. Have We Reached Peak Costa Coffee? the papers reported. 'Nooooooo,' I yelled into the void - both in answer to the question as well as with deep existential despair.

Read the article by all means but let me fully respond to the query posed in the headline. It's a no. No we have not. Not at all. We have not reached peak Costa Coffee and we never will. Costa is my safe place. It's my familiar friend in an unknown town. It's my floating high street office. I will not tolerate it being maligned.

Prior to 2011, I don't think I'd ever been in a Costa. Mostly because I had a full time job and my downtime was spent sleeping. I'd heard of the brand of course, but I'd also heard of its competitors in equal measure. As I had no time to bother a Starbucks or a Cafe Nero either, all coffee shops remained unpatronised. But then times changed. All at once, a bunch of circumstances altered my drink needs for good. I started writing at home, I felt the need to get out and see daylight once in a while, and I quickly tired of making my own drinks. (One-cup-of-tea-a-day as a teacher, jumped to thirty-six-cups-of-tea-a-day as a writer.) It was time to find myself a coffee shop.

Not all teabags
are created equal.

As usual, Tina speaks for
me (although I don't have
a gold sparkly dress.)

I am not here to slag off companies and get myself sued. So I won't. All I know is that not all teabags taste the same and some colour schemes create a more relaxing environment than others. And if there's no skimmed milk then don't even bother. THERE. IT'S DONE. I'VE SAID MY PIECE. So having forced my hand with their better business choices, I went to a Costa with my laptop. And before you all shout at me for ignoring hard working, independent coffee-shop owners, I know. I get it. They are marvellous. But at no point did I want to be anything other than anonymous. I didn't want to get to know strangers or say hi and make convo whist waiting for change. I had no interest in being remembered from visit to visit. Sitting in a corner, blending in and cracking on, were my sole aims. When I have all the time in the world and am being social, I'm there. But not for work. For that, I needed a chain. I needed my place.

Look. I'm
drinking tea!

I'm drinking
tea again. Larks!

And I found it. I found my place. Fast-forward seven years and I'm always in a Costa. In the past week (and it's been a fairly routine one) I've been to three separate branches on three separate days. I have six that I use regularly. All of them have different vibes, all of them give me a different experience. The one on the corner with three walls of windows, is my place for writing happy chapters. The one with the back room and the low lights, is my place for writing emotion and brooding drama. The one with the room upstairs, is my place for writing stuff that makes me laugh out loud. They all have their moods and they all contribute to mine. 

So, reading that Costa may have had its day feels like a threat to my own existence. What will I do if they start closing? Well, let's just chill out and calm ourselves for a moment. They haven't made as many millions last year as the year before. I think they'll cope. And now it's been announced that Coronation Street will be featuring its very own branch in a product placement deal. My lovely surrogate office has moved into the big leagues now. It's exactly like Diet Coke and Apple. It'll be sponsoring the Super Bowl next. There'll be dancing baristas with giant jammy dodgers being thrown into the crowd. Fair play, Costa. I only hope you still find room for my 'one drink per hour and a half' consumption rate now you're all over Weatherfield. Don't let fame change you. Not when I've loved you all these years. 

It will all be fine. There's no peak just yet. And now I've got that off my chest, I need to get myself a cup of tea. And stockpile the chickpeas, obviously.

Have a lovely week, folks.
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