Sunday, 2 April 2017

Living With Roommates

As someone who didn't have the full university experience and opted to stay at home with my family and treasured pets, the idea of flatsharing always seemed so foreign to me. I grew up watching television shows like ‘Friends’ and ‘Will & Grace’ but only ever envied the characters wardrobes and hairdos - NOT their living situations…enter, London. When I decided to make the big move to the city of dreams and overpriced cocktails, I was faced with the harsh reality that in order to live in my desired new home I would have to bunk with strangers. There is a list as long as my chubby arm of things I wouldn’t do with strangers but for some irrational reason, I thought it’d be okay to share a home with some. In the 2 years I’ve lived in my lovely little flat, I have had five different women occupy the other two bedrooms down the hall from me and it has without a doubt been a continual learning curve. Despite being painfully aware of my own idiosyncrasies and knowing how much of an introvert I am most of the time, I was not aware of how my roommates habits would grow to drive me exaggeratedly insane. Don’t get me wrong, I like the people I live with but as time goes on, it becomes abundantly apparent that I am not easygoing enough to live with strangers, I am an uptight nana and all the gin in the world isn't going to change that. I get easily irritated by stupidly small things which is exactly how I felt towards the end of living at home with my family, the difference is…family is family. If they make you irate, you can say it their face and call them a prick whilst knowing in the back of your head that your minor outrage will be long forgotten by tomorrow so living with people you don't have pre-determined relationships with is harder. You have to bite your tongue, you have to be a lot more rational, you have to forgive and forget immediately to avoid foreseeable awkwardness and at times you have to say a bold lie such as “No, that’s fine to use my milk from the fridge without asking! You weren't to know, you must have thought you purchased it, silly!” or “Oh my god, don’t be sorry. I didn't even hear you come in at 4am…with all your loud drunk pals. I slept through it!”

Thanks to the smorgasbord of 20-somethings that I’ve shared a home with, I feel like its helped me to grow up a bit and at times has forced me to genuinely get my shit together. My cohabiters have ranged from the most passive aggressive woman I’ve ever met, an incredibly sexually liberated office dwelling hippy, a Mancunian whom I adore and who loved nothing more than a binge of 90’s music…and an actual hedgehog. He may have been my favourite of the whole bunch despite his vile odour. And what did these women think of living with me? To be completely honest, I have no clue but I can only assume it would be something along the lines of the following:
‘Faye is an okay flatmate despite the fact that she walks around in just her pants a lot, listens to Taylor Swift obnoxiously loud when she showers, makes too many ‘fingering’ jokes, annoyingly sets herself 8 different alarms to wake up in the morning and you can occasionally hear her theatrically faking orgasms through the wall to please whoever she is dating…apart from that, she's fine I guess’. I will be the first to admit that maybe doing a flat or house share was out of character for me. I am a person who loves their own company, thrives off of personal space, detests invasions of privacy and depending on stress levels at the time, can accumulate various germaphobic tendencies. Alas, despite having some very memorable and great moments with my flatmates, this living situation has taught me many, many lessons. Here are a selection of the most prominent:

1. Remember privacy? No? Me neither.
Privacy truly is a privilege and this is more apparent to me than ever now I live in close quarters with humans I met on I love my solo time and am a reasonably private person but I have learned to accept that if I have a private phone call, have friends over or seriously give singing a go, people may hear. Luckily for me, I live with British people so I rely heavily on the English mentality of being too polite to publicly acknowledge anything embarrassing you’ve heard. It's what the Queen would want.

2. ‘Hook-Up’ strategies need to be in place (& give yourself plenty of time to plan)
Unless you are some sort of exhibitionist or really in to bragging about sexual encounters, having a sexy sleepover when flatsharing is awkward at best. A good ‘hook up’ strategy being in place is highly recommended - give your flatmates notice, warn them that you’ll purposely make them feel awkward for the entirety of your date because you’ll probably be drunk and subtly suggest that it might be a good night for them to go back to their parents house…it’s in all of our best interest. 

3. It’s like living in a Uni house (except we all have jobs and pension plans)
My flat has been lovingly described as looking like ‘student accommodations' on multiple occasions, for this I blame the fact that we don't own it so we can’t decorate it how we want to, we don't care that much about it so we treat it like its our frenemy and it is filled to the brim with random things we have all accumulated when drunk like stolen pint glasses and pub coasters. 

4. Shared chores bring occasional resentment…
I’m lucky enough to currently live with tidy human beings so the rare occasions that things are messy for long periods of time, I do tend to grow resentful of it like a bitter ex-lover. I remedy this by just cleaning it myself after a little while. Why? Because it feels great to be able to say ‘I’m the only one that does the dishes!’ despite knowing this was a one-time issue and you often leave your own dishes longer than you should… Mmmm, sweet irony.

5. …shared groceries bring further resentment.
Bin bags, loo roll, cleaning products; all things I couldn't have cared less about 25 months ago but now I will internally lose my shit if I have to buy these things twice in a row. ‘Why don’t you ask your roomies to buy these things when you run out?’ I hear you cry. Firstly, stop being so nosey. Secondly, because they often buy these things multiple times in a row without complaint so…there.

6. The guilt of staying in…a lot. 
I’m a homebody and at times I have lived with social butterflies. The judge Judy looks on their faces when I’m staying in and wearing PJ’s from 6pm onwards for the 4th night in a row...those looks cut me deep.

7. Can I borrow this?
I’ve lost count of how many times various roommates have been in my bedroom chatting, spotted a book/dvd and muttered the dreaded words ‘Can I…’. As a rule I don’t lend out things very often because 99% of the time I don’t get it back and I don’t have the patience to continually ‘politely’ ask for my belongings to be returned, bitch I am not your live-in Blockbuster. As I write this I am confronted with the realisation that I am just selfish and a worse realisation is that I’m completely okay with that. 

8. The secret codes of “I fancy a chat”.
Sometimes you really fancy a chat with your roommates but don’t want to be a desperate Debbie who knocks on their bedroom door so you can shoot the shit. To show your roomies that you fancy a chat, leave your bedroom door open, spend longer than you normally would in the shared rooms of the house (kitchen, living room) and stare at them until they pay attention to you.

9. The secret codes of “I don’t fancy a chat”.
Sometimes you really don't fancy a chat with your roommates but don’t want to be a anti-social bore. To show your roomies that you don't fancy a chat, seal your bedroom door shut, spend almost no time in the shared rooms of the house (kitchen, living room) and if they look you in the eyes, scream ‘I’VE GOT A SERIOUS CASE OF THE MONDAYS’ then hide in your room.

10. Embrace one anothers smells… (shared bathroom woes)
We all cook various scented meals, we all produce various scented…scents and we all need to be okay with it. There’s no time to be self conscious or not cook that curry you’ve been craving all week because you’re worried about pissing off your housechums, you do you boo. And then Febreeze like nobody is watching. 

11. Hallway chats are a wonderful thing.
Sharing multiple rooms with various people means you will literally cross paths a lot and will often stop along the way to chat ’til your hearts content and until you’ve forgotten that you were actually on your way to the bathroom to pee. Hallway chats have become some of the deepest chats to happen in this flat and I think there’s a metaphor in there somewhere (much like the beloved ‘Choose your own adventure’ book, please feel free to ‘Choose your own metaphor’).

12. Shrapnel in the form of hair, crumbs & spills.
A shared flat can occasionally resemble a giant field the morning after a festival has finished. A single human being accumulating a little hair loss and creating crumbs when feeding themselves is easy to ignore but when you multiply that by 3, your home can easily become the set to ‘Trainspotting’. There is no pain like walking around your flat barefoot, stepping on something sharp and realising it is in fact your worst nightmare…you’ve just stepped on someones toenail clipping. On the bright side of domestic bliss, floor wipes have saved my sanity and allowed me to only hoover once a year. Blessed.

13. Noise control needs to be established (in all situations)
I for one love nothing more than blasting music in my bedroom and dancing like a has-been stripper (male), this doesn't bode well when you live with others because apparently it’s ‘rude’. Most people I know are reasonably respectful to one another when it comes to noise control but add alcohol in to the mix and were all assholes. All respect and volume control goes out the window and it’s something I’ve learned to live with. I’ve learned to live with it because I know I am incredibly guilty of this at times…I can creep in to my flat wasted like a pro but occasionally, if I’m over excited or McDonalds have given me the wrong order, things happen and things get loud. Don’t fuck with my McNuggets.

14. Being home alone is literally the greatest.
The feeling you get when all of your roommates leave town for the weekend and you have the flat all to yourself is euphoric. It so rarely happens that when the occasion arises, I will often cancel any social plans, buy enough prosecco to drown a ‘basic bitch’ and throw all of my clothes on the floor in a celebration of nudity and alone time. You don’t know true freedom until you have spent an entire day wandering around your home naked with zero shame. I assume this is what George Michaels song ‘Freedom’ was about. 

meanwhile, behind the blogpost - 
Location: My bedroom based desk so I can delay the need to crawl in to bed at 4pm.
Currently Watching/Listening To: Binge watching ‘The People Vs. OJ’ my newest obsession…Ross Gellar got hot, am I right?
Currently Eating/Drinking: A large glass of Cava with orange juice because I am without a doubt a genuine garbage person.
Currently Wearing: A floor length black silk night gown with lace trimming on the sleeves. I couldn't feel more like a mix between Miss Hannigan from ‘Annie’ and a Madame of a brothel right now.

Faye x

Sunday, 5 March 2017

2 Years in London

On March 7th 2017 it will be my 2 year anniversary of living in London. Oh, how time has flown and patience has diminished but 2 years on from my big move to the city, I still feel embarrassingly happy that I get to live here and get ‘payday’ levels of excitement every time I casually wander past a giant tourist hot spot on my way to the shops or while en-route to my 9-5 office job. The novelty has yet to disintegrate and I hope I forever remain in the honeymoon period with London. I first set my heart on moving here at the end of 2014 when, quite frankly, I was stuck in a rut and incredibly depressed. Life was stale and I craved excitement, I needed bigger opportunities and I lusted over a life worth living. At the time I was a devoted reader of various fashion and beauty blogs that featured various women in their early-mid twenties swanning around London in fabulous clothes and spending their evenings toasting to their fantastic lives with multicoloured cocktails - I wanted in. During this period of my life I was working full time for an Estate Agency in Reading and it was, for lack of a better word, hell. Spending 10 hours a day commuting and working in a job I hated for arrogant money-hungry mortgage brokers whilst getting paid the salary of a sweatshop worker really makes a girl question why she bothered getting a degree. I would waste countless hours at my horrible job thinking about my ‘dream life’ somewhere exciting like London, I wrote endless bucket lists for things I would do when I got there and continually binge watched episodes of ‘Made In Chelsea’ for inspiration (turns out they are all rich and therefore their lives are unattainable, who knew?!). The only issue was…I had no money and London is expensive but what did I have to lose? I was a woman on a mission! From November 2014, I saved every penny possible for my big move. It was a little easier for me than some 24 year olds because I had very few friends, no boyfriend and really enjoyed wasting my days in bed with reality shows therefore the lack of socialising helped keep funds safely tucked away in my savings account (not a lot has changed to be honest except for having more friends now and watching my reality shows from the comfort of a desk chair like a grown ass woman should). 

Finding my London job.
With a tiny bit of money in the bank for a flat deposit, the next challenge was to find a decent paying job role. After endless online applications spread over a few weeks and a great recommendation from a family friend, Network Rail lassoed me in. Did I know anything about the rail industry? No. Did I care about the rail industry? No. Did they offer me a great role with a lovely team and a pension plan? Yes and after a few months of polite begging, I had my role as a Team Organiser right next to the Olympic park in Stratford. The final step was to find a humble (aka cheap) place to live. Now, as a self confessed introvert, the idea of living with strangers in close quarters and paying hundreds of pounds a month for the privilege did not quite match up to my ‘dream life’ I was pursuing but rent is pricey and I was desperate so communal living it was! I assumed it would be like a super chic cult but less matching outfits and our cult leader/landlord wouldn't use us to murder people. I digress...

Finding my London home.
When it came to looking for a home, I didn't even know where to begin! As a person who dreamed so much about living in London, I’d actually not spent a lot of time there. My dad used to treat me, my sister and my mum to a fancy weekend in the city every so often whilst I was growing up but that was about it! Whilst knee deep in my regular Youtube binge from the comfort of my bathtub, I was watching some LLYMLRS videos (my favourite blogger at the time who happened to live in London), she mentioned in one of her vlogs that she lived in an area called Balham so I immediately googled it - if a woman the same age as me with the same interests lives there, maybe that’s the place for me? I did a lot of research and spent many an hour on whilst pretending to do my actual day job and finally settled on Clapham. It was within my limited budget, it was reasonably safe and had plenty of places to have boozy brunches with the metaphorical gal pals I hadn’t made yet, it was perfect! Whilst scrolling through at work, I stumbled across a 3 bedroom flat in Clapham which 2 girls my age currently resided in - at this point I’d only viewed 2 places, both in East London (as my job was based in Stratford) and both were a pale comparison to the pictures posted online - I couldn't get too mad about it because I do the same with my selfies on instagram, only great angles and good lighting. Needless to say, my expectations were low but after sending a little message to the girls to ask about the room, they asked if I could come and view it that night. Without hesitation, I replied yes and then immediately faked an illness from my boss so I could leave early. One lie, two hours and a £32 return train ticket later, I met with the girls. We laughed, we bonded, we talked about our mutual love for Beyonce and the room was mine. As if I didn't already have enough to thank Beyonce for.

My favourite things about London Life.
When I first moved to London, I was the biggest and most embarrassing tourist you ever did see. I was that moron who took frequent selfies alone in public whilst in front of tourist gathering spots like The Shard, various museums and whatever was hanging in the centre of Carnaby Street at the time. Myself and my lack of shame spent all of my free time exploring my new home and would wander aimlessly for hours. Allow me to share a few things that spring to mind when frequently professing my love for 'the big smoke':

- The incredible transport. My entire life has been spent living in beautiful towns that are picturesque and quiet but have little to no reliable transport so the ease of being able to get anywhere I want, stress-free and at anytime here in London is without a doubt my favourite thing. I even love the tube! (despite the fact that I've been sat one once, sneezed on twice and fallen asleep on three times...)
- There's always something fun & free to do. If I have a day with zero plans, all it takes is a little peak on twitter and I'll be able to find something free to spend my day doing. Museums, galleries, beautiful walks, live music and all whilst having more money to spend on food. I love nothing more then getting up early and heading in to central to wander with a coffee before the rush of humans arrive. It's all so much prettier/instagramable when it's not filled with obnoxious tourists and angry commuters.
- Shopping. This feels like a really obvious one but I bloody love how much shopping there is here. The iconic shops like Liberty and Harrods being minutes away on the train is great for humble brags and I practically live in Westfields during my free time. I'll often go just to have a gander at pretty things I can't afford while walking laps like a Grandma in an American Mall. I assure you it's more fun than it sounds.
- The 'Buzz'. The hustle and bustle of a busy city is off-putting to some people but I get a real buzz from it. I love the feeling that there is constant movement around me, exciting things happening, festivals, marches, celebrations. Occasionally if I'm having an 'off' day, all it takes is a trip to somewhere busy and beautiful like Green Park or Brick Lane and I feel rejuvenated. 
- People watching. With a big city comes big nutcases and for the most part, I enjoy them greatly. As a certified nosey person, I bloody love a people watch and there's no better place to do it than the crowded streets of London. Grab a coffee and enjoy the terrifying show.
- Everythings open late. Again, I reflect on my previous hometowns where everything shut at roughly 6pm and you'd be lucky to find a bar open past 11pm. I love that this is the city that sleeps but just stays up late. I don't want to stop drinking with pals at 11pm, stop shopping at 7pm and hurry to finish my meal by 9pm! And as a sidenote: if you haven't gone for evening drinks and then been on an impromptu drunk shopping spree then what are you even doing? Stop reading this and go do that right now. 
- Food, food and food...oh my. There are so many incredible restaurants here, my favourite being Flat Iron in Carnaby Street, and there's too many options most of the time but for someone like me who gets bored easily and only enjoys socialising if the element of food is involved, it's bloody great. I love the variety of independent places to dine and the constant stream of new places to try. Even within 10 minutes walk of my flat are endless dining options so my constant woes of not being able to cook are a distant memory. Here's looking at you, Tortilla. 

After 2 years of London living, I am still very much in love with city life and despite knowing I will never be able to buy a property here (I’ll never be E.L James levels of wealthy and I have grown to accept this) I truly can’t see myself leaving for calmer ventures anytime soon. It isn't perfect by any means but moving here remains to be the greatest decision I have ever made and I have truly done more in the last 2 years then in the 24 previous. Will I be 40, single and still renting a room in a shabby flat? Maybe, yeah…but Bridget Jones has pretty much become Britain’s version of Carrie Bradshaw so that life wouldn’t be all that bad, right?

Faye x

Sunday, 19 February 2017


Sunday’s have slowly become my favourite day of the week. This seems like a controversial choice with the more obvious universally loved days being Friday and Saturday (unless you work in retail to which you deserve a medal, I’ve lived those days and look back at them as my Vietnam). I love the lack of pressure that comes with Sundays, the acceptability to stay in bed all day with no judgement, the guilt-free all day binge eating and the lack of bra wearing - sidebar: ladies, treat your tits to at least one day a week where they don’t have to go to boob jail. It’s only fair. I call these coveted days my ‘Sloth Sundays’ and it has become almost like therapy to me, a relaxing end to a usually busy and stressful week and a chance to chill before another week begins.

My current favourite way to spend my ‘day of rest’ is on my bed (not in my bed because I actually don’t enjoy laying in bed when I’m not sleeping. I find it boring. I know right, what a weirdo) and I choose a TV show to binge watch all day. This is usually a low rated reality show filled to the brim with garbage people - the following examples are shows I have recently binge watched during my Sloth Sundays; Laguna Beach, Flavor of Love, Who Wants to Marry Harry, Geordie Shore and the classiest of the bunch, Rock of Love. I recommend you don’t google any of these as you WILL think less of me and my pride simply can’t deal with that, especially on a Sunday you sadist. To accompany my terrible habit of watching horny American’s fight for love in front of a camera crew, I like to fill up my Cafetiere with some fresh coffee grounds and get my caffeine buzz on whilst in my ‘uniform’ of choice which is always an oversized T-shirt (usually with a witty slogan or Betty White/Mick Foley’s face on it), no make up, hair reminiscent of a homeless hipster and some form of Disney character themed slippers.

To really make use of your time during Sloth Sundays, here are some bed-based activities you can do so this day is equal parts productive and lazy:
  • Do Some Writing. This blog post comes to you straight from the comfort of my Next bed sheets.
  • Read a Book. I know on the surface, this doesn't sound that productive but don’t you dare for one second pretend you don’t feel smug as fuck when you finish reading a book (bonus points for books with no pictures/illustrations).
  • Utilise the Internet. The internet is a wonderful thing filled with hours of endless (and free!) enjoyment! Watch documentaries on Youtube, plan your dream holiday, google image ‘smiling kittens’ or shop online for dope things like groceries or DVD’s from Amazon.
  • Masturbate. I’ll be real, for me this is too much effort for a Sloth Sunday but it seemed like an obvious (AND SEXY) recommendation. Get some candles lit, some Luther Vandross on and love yo’self. In the words of Ru Paul “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?! Can I get an amen!”
  • Bed-Based Yoga. Carefully place a yoga mat down on your duvet and Voila! Positions are hard to achieve on a springy mattress so it’s mostly made up of a position I have named ‘sleep’ which is just lying down but if you can manage more than that, you’re an overachiever and I’d rather you didn’t read my blog.
  • Phone Admin. Reply to all those texts you’d forgotten about, delete the 25 rejected selfie attempts from your camera roll, ring your mum/dad for the overdue catch up, tweet that company that messed up your online order…all from the comfort of your sheets.
Happy Sunday to all and to all a good nap.

Sunday Girl x

Sunday, 12 February 2017

My Hair Nightmare: A Short Story.

It’s 9.30pm on a Wednesday night and I've just gotten home from the worst hair salon experience of my life. Now, I understand that previous sentence is almost exactly the definition of a First World Problem but bare with me. It is bad. To paint a word picture, I now look like a pissed off bleach-blonde scarecrow and right now, I cant see the light at the end of this unevenly cut tunnel. In the famous words of Hilary Duff, let’s go back…back to the beginning…

I began using this particular salon (who I will not name because I am too lazy to find a new salon and will probably go back there for my next trim. I hate me.) around 18 months ago when my lovely ex-flatmate Sophie recommended it to me. She gave it a great review by informing me that its nearby, reasonably priced for London and they ply you with free booze while you get pampered, she had me at free booze but I pretended to be pumped for the location and price. Needless to say, I have been a loyal customer for the better part of 2 years now and have always left happy and tipsy. That didn't happen today though, they really fucked me this time. Not even a free chilled Pinot Grigio could heal this ugly wound.

So I arrived at the salon for my appointment full of vigour and after a quick flick through Hello magazine, I was greeted by my stylist who never actually told me her name (convinient…) but she had the thickest French accent which made general communication quite difficult. Not ideal when this person is meant to be hacking at your head based purely on your verbal requests but hindsight is a real bitch, isn’t it?! We began our appointment with her assessment of my current hair situation - she just continually said the word ‘dry’ while touching my hair with as much enthusiasm as a person picking up dog shit, the disgust in her eyes when she had the task of touching my barnet with her bare hands was palpable. I told her that I hadn't washed it for a while and it had a lot of dry shampoo in it but she was having none of it and spent 10 minutes trying to sell me every overpriced conditioning product they stock. I just kept nodding and saying ‘Yeah, I already own that. I bloody love it’ in between mouthfuls of white wine. She was like a sexy French dog with a bone. After what felt like a lifetime of her giving me the hard sell, I explained to her that I wanted a long bob with a slightly shorter fringe that could be swept to the side. She immediately argued my choice in an aggressive tone and kept telling me to have my hair longer and flat out said no to my fringe idea, I just awkwardly laughed and said ‘yeah…I still want it though’ until she painfully agreed. I reiterate, I did not receive that desired hairdo and now look like Angelina Jolie in ‘Girl Interrupted’.

She took me over to the sink so she could wash my hair, it all seemed pretty standard at first but then she began to give me a head massage and things went south. After a couple of minutes of scalp foreplay, I became paranoid that this procedure was going on far too long and it became practically pornographic (well, as pornographic as a head massage can be), my ears were continually lovingly touched and she petted my head intensely like I was her fuck buddy. When I say it went on too long, I’m talking 10 or so minutes of silent head caressing. After I came, we headed back to my designated salon seat so she could ruin my life. I decided to explain again exactly what I wanted but I assume I was just a human fog horn to her by this point, my request might as well have been a fart in the wind. She smiled and nodded while she secretly planned my demise and then went to town on my mop. She brushed my hair out, furiously towel dried it to within an inch of its life and then asked me to stand up. ‘Okay?’, I thought it was so she could get a good view of my hair before she began but no, I was very wrong! She proceeded to cut my hair in the middle of this busy salon while I stood in front of her. I can’t explain in words how uncomfortable I was. No one else was receiving a stand-up-snip and we were legitimately in peoples way (I know this because she paused her massacre roughly 20 times so she could move out of peoples walk way), people stared, I looked like the most awkward human alive and it felt like it went on for 9 hours. My inner monologue mocked me, my unwillingness to ask what the fuck was happening and the obvious uncertainty for what I should do with my arms…hold them at my side? do a sassy hand on the hip motion to tell the room I was okay with what was happening? The embarrassment finally ended, she pointed at my chair so I could sit and then gestured a lot while giggling and saying ‘so much hair on your back now’…yeah, you nutcase! Because you cut my hair standing up! The only response I could conjure at the time was ‘Yeah, weird, right?! HAHAHA’. Her final act of aggression was focused on my poor fringe. She cut it a lot shorter than agreed which was evident by the fact that gravity took over and the hair was sticking up like in the film ‘There’s Something About Mary’.  This proved my earlier assumption that she zoned out while I passionately explained (with the added use of pics from google) my dream hairdo. As the cut was coming to an end, I drank the last of my glass of wine and my hairstylist supreme let out a huge obnoxious laugh. I smiled at her, acting as if I was in on the joke and she said 'you drink so much!', I couldn't believe it. I'd had one glass of wine and this broad is acting like I'm Amy Winehouse! I just politely smirked and said 'Yeah, it's been a long day, needed to take the edge off' which met a plain vapid response of 'K.', to her I was a walking bottle of booze so I let it go and just said mean shit about her in my head. Satisfying. 

She spun me around enthusiastically in my chair for the final result to be revealed. My face dropped. I couldn’t hide my hatred but thanks to my inherent fear of complaining and that glass of wine, I word vomitted ‘Thanks!! It’s great!’. Clocking my actual feelings via my facial expression, she had a slight panic and hurriedly attempted to restyle the fringe. It was a game she wasn’t going to win, the deed was done and there wasn’t enough hairspray in the world to stop me from looking like overly-gelled 12 year old boy at a school disco. I got up and said ‘Thanks again!’ and then gave this establishment money for what can only be explained as a hate crime against my head. Due to hating how flat my hair is after salon visits, I had the bright idea to pack a beanie hat in my bag for my journey home and holy fuck it was a blessing. As I waited for my printed receipt (you know so I can be reminded not only on bank statements but also in my wallet that I paid for this new look), I grabbed my beanie out of my bag. The lady behind the counter stared at me like I’d just taken a dump on the till, ‘It’s so cold out and I’m walking home’ as the words flew out of my mouth, it dawned on me that she hadn’t actually asked why I had put a hat on and she was most likely looking at me funny because I was covered in my own clippings from my stand up cut. I raced home on the Northern line and barely took my coat off before I had shoved my head under the shower, I wet this disastrous do and hoped for the best. Spoiler alert: water cured nothing and I still look nuts.

So back to the present and here I am, looking like someone who is in the midst of a mental breakdown and decided to cut their own hair. I know it will grow back. I know I will wake up at 4am tomorrow to allow at least 3 hours to style it before I have to go outside and see other humans. I know that my lovely work pals, roommates and friends will say nice things about my gross hair because they are good people. I know there are bigger problems in the world and this has been a nice little distraction from my actual issues that can’t as easily be solved by simply waiting for time to pass/getting a dope wig. Believe me, I know all of this but for tonight I will wallow in self pity and listen to episodes of my favourite podcast ‘The Guilty Feminist’ so I can be reminded that I shouldn't care about my looks while crying about my looks. Swings & Roundabouts.

Faye x

Thursday, 5 January 2017

2016: The Highs & Lows.

2016 truly was a shit show.

If 2016 were a television show, the network would have cancelled it mid-August when shit really started hitting the fan and the viewer complaints were piling in...but, we made it through the wilderness. We are now knee deep into the first week of 2017 and I have so many thoughts and feelings. Allow me to express...

New years is a strange time as so many of us rely too heavily on it to be the cure for the lack of personal growth within the previous year. I'm incredibly guilty of this and usually around November time, I tend to give up on goals completely and just wait for the new year to roll in so I can be 'motivated to give a shit again'.

My birthday is on New Years Day which always sounds great to people for around 5 seconds until it sinks in and then most mutually agree that it's basically child abuse to be born on the 1st January. There are several shite things about this birthday but the top 3 that spring to mind are:
- People having the balls to give me 'joint' Christmas & Birthday gifts. They are still separate occasions, don't be an asshole (and when your birthday rolls around in July, guess who's getting a very early joint Christmas gift...)
- Every grown human (usually including me) is hungover and unwilling to be fun and is usually in bed until around 4pm.
- Everyone is broke and fresh out of festive spirit by this point and therefore trying to organise a birthday celebration is like herding cats.

This year, I spent the first half of my birthday with my head in a toilet in a Travelodge hotel thanks to mixing 6 different alcoholic beverages (in varied quantities) within 6 hours while I made out with a stranger (name TBC) at a bar in-between us romantically sharing shots of Jaegermeister and attempting to drunkenly hit on each other. Not really sure why we felt the need to still be polite and chat each other up with multiple inebriated compliments but alas, I bleed chivalrous British blood. Despite spending my morning forcing myself to vomit (while a terrible Christmas movie starring Melissa Joan Hart played in the background) I actually had a great birthday. I spent it with my tiny tight-knit family and was spoilt by my favourite people from the comfort of my bed all day. Not even a morning of tactical chundering could ruin my 26th day of birth, after a terrible 12 months, my family put in more effort than usual on my special day and I lapped it up like a desperate housewife! 

The added pressure that comes with my birthday landing on the first day of a brand-spanking-new year actually worked in my favour this time around. For the first time in years, I felt motivated at the thought of a year ending and spent some time writing down some highs and lows of the past year to reflect on and for once I revelled in the fact that I could have 2 fresh starts to keep me focused, a new year and a new age. This combo gave me a real Liz Lemon 'I can have it all!' kind of feeling that I fucking loved. Such a love buzz (which is also the term I use when I orgasm so...take that however you want. And don't think too much in to it. Cheers.)

Here, for refection purposes, are some of my highs and lows of 2016. I have chosen to not include every sad celebrity death and keep it to personal achievements and losses because, let's face it, this post would be a mile long because 2016 was basically the grim reaper to anyone in the entertainment industry. (Dolly Parton made it out alive though to which I'll be forever thankful.)

The Lows...
  • My beloved cat, Tiggs, passed away.
  • Experiencing my drink getting spiked which lead to the scariest/one of the most humiliating nights of my life.
  • Two break ups: one was a man who treated me poorly for a long time and one was a very selfish 5 year friendship. Both needed to end as they were toxic but it was shitty nonetheless. 
  • Pokemon Go was a thing that really busted everyones balls & The Great British Bake Off was 'Trumped' (a new adjective to describe white people ruining nice things).

The Highs...
  • Treating myself to a relaxing weekend away in Brighton at my new favourite hotel, The Artists Residence and spending the weekend eating, bathing and staring aimlessly at the beautiful scenery (and visiting the flour pot bakery roughly 7 times).
  • Going to Download Festival for a second year running and having the best drunken time with a great group of pals.
  • Having a real 'Eat, Pray, Love' moment and running off to New York for a week alone. Possibly my bravest move of 2016 as I'd never been before but I had the greatest time. Genuinely life changing.
  • Visiting the 'happiest place on earth', Disneyland Paris for a long weekend with my sister/soulmate.
  • My creativity being reignited by various exhibitions & shows in my beloved home, London. Most notably was the Bob Dylan exhibition I visited in Soho which inspired a piece of writing I am so proud of (but am still too scared to share.)
  • I went to my first ever Gay Pride celebration in London and met the greatest people. (The booze and drugs combo made me a ball of love though so in hindsight, I could've met Hitler that day and thought he was dope as my judgement was hindered. Pretty sure everyone was great though. And pretty sure my dancing was on fleek.)
  • I dated quite a bit and for the first time in my life, I actually really enjoyed it and embraced being single.
  • My childhood favourites came to life: I saw Limp Bizkit, Good Charlotte and Fall Out Boy live and met my childhood rebellious leader, Steve-O from Jackass. 
  • I fell back in love with writing.

Hopes for 2017...
  • I hope I am brave enough to share more personal writing.
  • I hope I am motivated enough to look after myself.
  • I hope I remain close with those who I care for so deeply.
  • I hope to travel to more new places.
  • I hope I let my guard down more often and let people in.
  • And finally, I hope David Attenborough carries on doing his thing and that Channel 4 doesn't shit all over the GBBO franchise.

Happy New Year...let's not fuck this one up.


Friday, 30 December 2016

Pet Peeves (aka: ridding myself of the negatives before 2017)

As a way of 'cleansing my mental palette' before a brand new year, I have jotted down my ever-growing list of Pet Peeves. Things that truly annoy me, affect my mood more than they realistically should and most of the (valid) reasons that I prefer not going outside. Here, World...have my negative thoughts so my brain has more room for things that matter like remembering peoples birthdays and planning my future pets names.

The following list is sponsored by my pessimist father.
(Disclaimer: this list isn't meant to offend, if you find yourself offended or upset by anything I have written, go take a long look in the mirror and question all of your poor life choices.)

Everytime someone pronounces 'Something' as 'Somethink' a page from the Oxford English Dictionary falls out, turns in to an origami bird and flies away to die. 

Farting in Public.
It's just gross. Excuse me if I don't want to smell your insides. This is particularly upsetting when I am in an enclosed space such as the London Tube, some jokester always lets one rip and I have to go through the effort of making obscene 'offended' looking faces as to tell the world that it wasn't me. Save me the hassle, you human petting zoo.

Keira Knightly.
I don't really know why, just something about that face.

People Who Crack Their Bones.
You know, like when people crack their neck, fingers and back. It's disturbing and I'm in constant fear that a bone is suddenly gonna pop out and I'm going to have to help you push it back in.

People Who Spit on the Ground.
Look, I'm aware I'm not Royalty of any kind (yet) but I do believe I shouldn't have to walk on the waste that comes out of your mouth because you spat on a public pavement. Grim.

Children (any human under the age of 10).
This one sounds harsh but hear me out...children are awful. They come with so many accessories, toys and germs. If I am emotionally attached to your child (like, if you came out of someone I love) then I'm fine, but if I don't know you, I'll never want to know you. Stop crying in public, if I have to keep my emotions at bay when out in the real world, then so do you kiddo. 

Consistent Lateness.
I had a friend that would be at least an hour late every time we met up, no matter how much warning she had and even when you would secretly alter the meeting time to counteract this, she'd be late. It's rude and sends the message that your time is more valuable than mine. Don't be a dick, be on time.

Tourists (London Based).

I understand that this does in fact make me a hypocrite because I have been a tourist in many countries but since moving to London a couple of years ago, I was exposed to the annoying combination of Tourists + Central London. No one knows where they're going, people stop to have their photo taken in the middle of pavements and they have shopping bags that are so large, I can only assume they are housing St. Bernard dogs in them.

The Phone Walkers.
Don't text while you walk, it's so irritating. No text/sext is so important that you need to slow down foot traffic to send it. Your witty musings will wait. A guy fell down the stairs infront of me in Clapham because he was instagramming while walking. Really think about that and his mindset at the time - "the world MUST this now, it simply cannot wait". I applauded his daring filter choice though, that absolute maverick.

Small Talk Text.
I hate this. If our text exchanges consist of and are limited to the following questions: "How are you?" "How was work?" "What are you up to this weekend?" then maybe let's not bother. If it would be a boring conversation in person, what on earth makes you think it'll be stimulating in writing. 

Humble Genetic Brags.
When someone brags about something they haven't earned like a fast metabolism or naturally thick hair, go fuck yourself.

The Smell of People's Sneezes.
This is niche but bare with me...when someone sneezes in an enclosed space, the smell is vile. This has happened to me in a lift before and I genuinely heaved a bit. If you've also had this experience, you will KNOW what I mean.

The Majority of Womenswear.
This is inspired by some of the great women I work with and a recent discussion we had. The lack of pockets and the abundance of only fitted clothing is a real pain in the tits for a lot of women. I just want clothing without always wanting to show every curve and whilst storing all my belongings on my person without a handbag. Here's looking at you, H&M.

Pokemon Go.
In theory, was a great idea. As a devoted Pokemon fan of many years, I was so excited for this, however it got boring real quick and made me resentful of my friends who got TOO in to it. Not once or twice but three separate times, I was with actual adults, out socializing but sitting in silence around a table because they were all playing Pokemon Go. Actual adults. With jobs and savings accounts. I just sat silently contemplating how I'd make new friends. 

Excuse me while I glide in to the new year, free of negative feelings...
I'll leave you with the wise words of Lauryn Hill:
"How you gonna win when you aint right within?..uh, uh...come again"


Thursday, 24 November 2016

Periods: A Poetic Tribute


Help me, help me, my uterus is shedding
I’m cramping, I’m moody and I’ve ruined all my bedding.
Try not to pity me, I’ll take it on the chin
but please don’t acknowledge the contents of my bin.

Love me, love me, I’m feeling so unhinged
I’m paranoid of panty lines and extra bloat from where I’ve binged.
You’d think after 10 years, I’d know what I was doing
but every 4 weeks, I fear the bloody monster that is brewing.

Leave me, leave me, I just want to be alone
but on the other hand I’m horny because I’m a walking hormone.
I’ve never felt less attractive and my vaginas a crime scene
you say I’m overly sensitive, WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!

Humour me, humour me, allow my bitchy ways
I didn’t request the privilege of non stop bleeding for days.
Toilet trips are traumatizing and you’ll never understand
as if my day couldn’t any get worse, I just got some on my hand.

Kill me, kill me, I can’t take decades more of this,
the excuse to not have sex is the only part I’d miss.
But now the crimson wave is ending and my woes are harder to find…
so you know when I requested you kill me? Yeah…never mind.

(During a recent visit from 'Aunt Flow', I was brimming with emotions and decided to channel these feelings in to a somewhat graphic poem. Soooo there's my tribute to that special time of the month…)