Dot Dot Dot

Its 3:30pm on a Tuesday afternoon. I am currently sitting in my Primarni dressing gown watching reruns of gossip girl on Netflix. There are three empty mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of me, evidence of my not-so-productive day. Prospects of me not leaving the house are strong. Put this on repeat and you have the vision of my week, aside from the occasional outings to Sainsbury’s to top up my milk and chocolate supplies. I have nothing to do, and nowhere to go.

The dissertation is done. It’s funny how the devilish reputation of writing a dissertation is so underwhelming, yet so accurate. I found the process of writing my dissertation a lot less stressful than my misconceptions of the task led me to believe. I was imagining sleepless nights fuelled by sugar and caffeine, or even worse, alcohol, to finish the ma-husive challenge of writing 10,000 academic words. In reality, it was more like a nagging ache that kind of just hung around, forcing you to think about it all the time. I spent hours in the library researching, note taking and writing, yet when I came home in the evenings to unwind, the ache would guilt me into thinking I was wasting time. As the weirdly organised person I am, I managed to space my work out enough that I was only editing and referencing in my last three weeks. There was no huge rush, or breakdown, or crisis, just a dull ache that kept me on my toes for the past 3 months. Yet, in reality, the stress and pressure of not fucking-it-up makes it the huge and scary task that it is. A weird combination, really.

Then, hand-in day came, and my flatmates and I were two bottles of prosecco down when we gleefully took our proud pictures and handed it in (at 11am might I add). A haze of fizz, Weatherspoon’s and sunshine followed, the feeling of no responsibility elating us to a dizzy drunkenness. The next day arrived, and suddenly it dawned on us all… What’s next? What do we do with our lives now that we don’t have to be stock piling library books in our bedrooms? What do we do now that we can ramble on about a ridiculously specific theatre issues for days on end, yet don’t have to anymore? What do we do now that we have nothing to do?

Well… flash foward a week later, and here I am. There are biscuit crumbs on my jumper, and the kettle is on for tea number 4. The momentary lack of responsibility has been a joy but now I must move on. And so, the job seeking begins, applying for anything and everything that doesn’t sound too laborious (the glamorous jobs of a graduate, hey?). I have to admit though, I am so excited to begin this new part of my life. I cannot wait to truly find out where I want to be, find out what jobs I like and don’t like, and found out how I can fit in to a little corner of the jigsaw of London. I am ready to leave behind jobs for money, and start doing jobs for me, and for my career.

Basically, I am just fucking excited to get out there and do stuff, however keen and naive that may seem right now. I mean, come back to me in two months time when I still haven’t found a job, and I may have changed my tune, but for now, I am riding my high of unknowing possibilities!…Just maybe once the next episode of Gossip Girl finishes.

Cafe Squatting

So I’m sitting in the corner of a hipster little café in Hampstead. I have a flat white, complete with swan art, to my left, and a finished plate of smashed avocado to my right. I am wearing a big swishing scarf, and bright red lipstick, in the hope that I may scream some sort of sophistication in this place, that is definitely far too cool for me. On the overhead speakers, some husky man is murmuring meaningful lyrics, accompanied by a guitar and the chatter of the people dining in this small space. Of course, everything is wooden, mismatched in the way that looks put together, if you know what I mean. Even the staff are all co-ordinating in their dark shirts, pierced noses and waxed moustaches.

I love going to places like this, it’s a prime spot for people watching, and so let my totally inaccurate observations begin…

Sitting opposite me, are the ladies that lunch. Two middle-aged women who definitely do Pilates on the weekends. They are munching down on their gluten-free salad option, because they are trying to watch what they eat. They sip on their extra hot cappuccinos, but of course, no sprinkles, thankyou very much. Their double denim attire, completed with a beret and boots oozes luxury. As their second round of coffee arrive, they completely ignore the young server, as they are too busy gossiping to acknowledge anyone around them. A dismissive wave of the hand as the guy offer’s two cappuccinos, but oh no, they have sprinkles! A slightly curt suggestion that he should’ve known what they ordered before he served them is said, and they continue their loud catch-up as two new ones are made.

Next, are the cool guys. Two youngish boys dressed in an effortless sweater and denim combo. Pulled up socks cover the area of their shins that their too-short jeans don’t, and the white trainers tie the look together. One guy has his hair tied up in low buns behind his head, accentuating the three gold hoops in his ear that he and his mates pierced themselves. The other has a beige cap on to cover his mop of curly hair, and a strong beard to match. They are only drinking water, because they don’t actually like the taste of coffee, but that’s okay because coffee is probably to mainstream these days anyway. They are looking at a laptop, and discussing ideas together, maybe for the next start-up business venture in east London.

On the opposite side of the table, is the first-time mum. Hair tied-up in a fuss-free ponytail and a knit thrown on, that definitely has a stain from this morning’s breakfast. She clutches her latte for moral support while her baby cries in its pram, for no particular reason. As she pulls her little one out, and balances him on her knee, you can see her tired eyes wishing for some sort of magical cure for crying toddlers. She shares her portion of plain toast, out of love but also in the hope of a moment of silence. As she folds him in a hug, you can see the bond of love between them, despite the sleepless nights.

Finally, the coffee guy. He has short brown hair, and is dressed in vintage chic that only waiters in cool coffee shops do. He is shy, not wanting to interrupt his customers as he carries over coffee after coffee. He has been working all day, but still wears a smile on his face as he welcomes new people into the café, a smile that his masking how bored and tired he really is.

As I sit in the corner of the coffee shop, I notice each group of people, sipping their coffee and enjoying their afternoon chat. They flow in and out, but I am that one weirdo who has been here all afternoon. After all of the judgements I make on other people, which are definitely in jest, the staff are probably making the same on me:

There is a girl sitting in the back corner of the shop, who has only had one coffee all afternoon, but keeps asking for water, probably because she is too stingy to buy anything else, but wants to sap our free wifi. She has been furiously typing away on her laptop, probably writing some essay about the arts, judging by the colour of her hair, and her bright clothing, not to mention the nose ring.

If only they knew, that if café squatting was a sport, I would be the champion….

The Grandma In Me

Do you enjoy a great smelling candle?

Do you revel in the thought of a Friday night spent on the couch, watching The Crown and drinking tea?

Does a comfy, new pair of pyjama’s give you that tingly feeling all over?

Are you under the age where it is socially appropriate to be slightly rude, grumpy, and often hard of hearing?

Well then, you my friend, are an underage grandma! But never fear, because I am too. And Proud.

The horror my teenage self would be feeling right now. She would be out partying, dancing away to music until 4am and drinking everything like it was water! I used to love dressing up and being in an underground darkened room that would progressively get hotter and sweatier with every song. And that was just on thirsty Thursday! Sounds delightful doesn’t it!?

In saying that, I would like to point out that I do still love a drink and a boogie every now and then… but boy, I definitely need a week to mentally prepare for anything more than 3 glasses of something! And the hangover stamina is not what it used to be, at all.

Having hit the withered and decrepit old age of 21, less often do I find myself wanting to go out clubbing and getting ridiculously sore feet, but rather, sitting somewhere much more mellow, enjoying a nice glass of wine. Erghhh… who am I? (I should definitely not know the difference between a pinot grigio and a sav blanc at my age!) When I put it like this, it really does age me by about 25 years! Even my parent’s tell me I’m getting old. They are out at concert’s, parties and dinner things, whilst I am at home, in my sleeping gown, treating myself to a bubble bath while dinner is cooking!

But you know what?

Sometimes, I really fucking love going to ikea and looking at homewares!

I really fucking love getting into bed before 11pm and having a great night sleep!

And, I really fucking love scatter cushions!

I am honestly laughing at myself as I write this, but I don’t think I’m the only one suffering a case of underage grandmaism…. My flatmates revel in those nights where we are all home, drinking tea and watching movies together. And yes, we have all taken part in that buzzfeed quiz, and we definitely all got diagnosed as a Grandma in our 20’s.

It’s the way of the future, and I am all about this revolution. Bring on the young people who are already embracing their elderly selves (I mean, I have dyed my hair silver for god’s sake)! Never be embarrassed to claim it, and be proud of your array of scented candles and bedding.

I sure am!