"What Potato Side Dish Are You?" An Ode To Flatmates and Personality Tests

Wednesday 26 August 2020

"What Potato Side Dish Are You?" An Ode To Flatmates and Personality Tests

Since my last post was extraordinarily deep and feelings-y and all the stuff I pretend not to be at the best of times, I thought I’d lighten things up with something a bit more interesting.

In case you didn’t know, I lived with the wonderful Millie Pritchard for a total of two years. Minus the fact that we were university students with no Wifi at home for nearly two months and also didn’t have running water throughout the winter of 2017 (good times), they were probably two of the best years of my life. I wish I could be perched on the end of your single bed with Han and Rach with your Rose Quartz lit up and planning (another) Italy trip. I miss getting ready to go out then sitting and talking in the kitchen till it was too late to go. I wish we could be sat on the sofa together, panic-typing essays with an hour on the clock, stressfully watching Mamma Mia and taking it in turns to scream out loud about (trigger warning) Renaissance Literary Culture.  

K, cool, promise I’m not crying. This wasn’t meant to be emotional, I swear down. I'm not even listening to Meryl Streep's rendition of The Winner Takes it All as I write this. Clearly I feel nothing towards you (jk I miss the Mamma to my Mia xoxo).

Moving swiftly on, the reason why I’m ever-so-dramatically referring back to Mills is because of a recent phone call, over which we both took the Myers Briggs personality test – pretending we hadn’t taken it, like, 9232423 times before! 

I think, somewhere between The Hot Water Saga and Deadline Szn, personality quizzes became mine and Millie's drug. Actually, I 100% blame Millie for our addiction and I know she’ll hold her hands up and take full responsibility because her catchphrase pretty much is “…so I took this Buzzfeed quiz and…” At one point, we weren't sending each other actual texts. The 'Flat Chat' was literally just composited of links to different online personality tests. 

So, yeah, cheers Mills. "Thanks a lot [Millie], thanks a lot!!!!!" Because of you, I stay awake at night and debate over which potato side dish I am and what that says about my personality. And, indeed, everyone else's. Mills and I are very similar in the sense that we are invested in learning as much about individuals as humanly possible. We're both dangerously good at 'reading people' off the bat - not that we ever let that dictate our attitudes. Just intuition, innit. 

I guess I find it pretty fulfilling trying to crack people. It’s not just that I want to know if you’re the INFJ to my ENTP (yep, I share qualities with Mr Tom Hanx so, lol, I think we all know who the real winner is here!) I want to know "What percent Phoebe Buffay you are based on what you pick at the buffet!" I want to know "Which Love Islander you’d ‘categorically crack on’ with based on your morning routine." Looking back, I think we probably spent too much time taking quizzes and not enough time doing our dissertations (but, hey, "takes pressure to make a diamond", right Mills?)

I was struggling to sleep the other night so I went online to find out "What kind of dog breed I was based on my ideal winter weekend" (as if I didn’t know the answer would be a Golden Retriever.) But, as I was taking it, I was struck by a question that wasn’t part of the quiz: is my interest in personality tests simply a vehicle for my narcissism? Is the line between self-discovery and self-obsession that blurred? Do I really need the internet to tell me that I am a Golden Retriever when I only need to look at a funny Tik Tok of one falling in a pool to confirm that, it is, in fact, true.

Millie would say it’s a “Gemini Thing.” I think it’s down to curiosity. Brb, just gonna nip on Buzzfeed to explain the complex processes of human nature and personality differences.

Personality is a slippery, evolving concept that researchers have been trying to put their finger on for decades. I suppose it’s a relatively new field of psychology, when you think about it. I might be wrong, though. Please don’t hate me if I am; I’ve got no formal academic grounding in the subject, I just like reading around it!

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) is the OG personality assessment tool that truly changed the game. It was created by a mother-daughter duo with no formal grounding in psychology – yay, can relate. And whilst it is all sorts of problematic and by no means completely accurate, it’s used by Fortune 500 companies and the military as a means of organising their workforce. 

I guess our curiosity is underpinned by trying to find a balance between individuality and tribalism. That is, we want to be recognised for what makes us unique, but we also need to feel a sense of belonging to a larger ‘group’ of people who share similarities. Personality tests offer an opportunity to reflect on our individual character styles and tendencies, while also providing reassurance that we do, indeed, belong. 

So maybe it's an informal self-help guide? No, I think that's wrong. I think undertones of the self-help industry are rooted in the problematic (general sweeping statement, but that's another blog post entirely!) Maybe the word is self-awareness? If we see ourselves (aka our qualities) written down on paper, then it might serve to actualise the positive parts of ourselves we want to shine. I bloody love the word 'actualise.' In fact, I bloody love the idea behind it. Writing stuff down makes stuff happen, I'm telling you!

Ok, the quizzes may not be perfect — many of them are not based on anything more than imagination and opinion – except for the Fully Accurate and Science-Based, Data-Driven, ‘What Kind of Soup You Are’ quiz. But they fulfill our curiosity about ourselves and our loved ones. The human psyche is a complex web of multi-determined factors - biological, social, emotional, experiential. But these tests boil all that down into something simple: I am Carrot and Ginger soup, and that’s facts. 

These quizzes give us a lens through which to understand ourselves, and help us achieve a sense of belonging. They help anchor us in reality in the most creative and weirdest of ways. We can appreciate our similarities with others and smile at our differences, all whilst subconsciously enhancing our introspective sides.

So, no, we’re not narcissists for wanting a quiz to tell us if we’re Carrot and Ginger or Classic Tomato, if we’re more Monica than Rachel and if we’re cat or dog people. Rather, we’re just human. And perhaps that’s the most affirming news of all.

PS: I flick between ENFP and ENTP but I think that simply depends on how moral I'm feeling when taking the quiz. Most of the time, I'm the latter xoxo.

All the love (and find out what potato side dish/soup/dog breed you are!!!!

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What You'll Find When You're Kind

Sunday 16 August 2020

What You'll Find When You're Kind

I was having a really hard time early this year; well, from around November to January. Not a long period of time, but dense with worry and stress and intensity.

Most of my freelancing jobs had come to an end in the December/early January. I was scraping as much writing work as I could possibly get, doing shifts at the store I had worked in throughout university in the evenings, and then staying up most of the night finishing work, finding more work, and sleepless with the knowing that I was running low on money, energy and passion. I was on something of a deadline down here. Burnout is a bitch. I had been trying so hard. So hard. And it was all a mess. For something that had started out so promising and exciting, things were quickly spiralling out of my control and capabilities and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I don’t want to go into it all today; it’s not what this blog post is about. If I’m completely honest, it’s all a bit of a haze. I think I blacked out most of the winter 😊!

I did have one particular stand-out moment though, in that blur, and I think it’s a moment I’ll carry with me forever.

I was working a closing shift in the store towards the end of the week. It was during the post-Christmas period, in that little window we had before Corona came and wiped us out. Without going too much into it, I remember I had had a real tough day. At the time, I hadn’t told anybody much and kept things on the downlow (probably not wise when I think about it but hey ho) and I felt like I was about to self-implode. You know that feeling when you’re so exhausted that you feel like your brain is a cauldron bubbling with fire? Your whole body feels like it could just crumple in on itself like a piece of origami? Yep, me!

Thankfully, as per every Friday evening in late January/early February, the shop was pretty quiet. Time passes quick in retail when it’s busy but this one day, I was so grateful that the store was dead. It gave me time to think. I remember if I was alone in an area of the store, I used to walk laps of the room; I must have looked like a right twat, thinking back, but it would really calm me down. It was like I was being paid to meditate.

This one day, I remember I was talking with a friend who had come to give me an item we had in the stock room; she’d stayed out and was chatting with me for a bit. We were both stood in front of the entrance and an older customer who I had helped earlier approached us on his way out. He turned to me and thanked me for my help. He told me “you’re so kind.”

In that moment I thought I was gonna pass out with the sweetness. My situation at the time, particularly that day, hadn’t been so easy (putting it lightly) and the fact that somebody had complimented my kindness of all things made my heart burst with this immeasurable light. In the moment, I think I brushed it off with a simple “I get paid for it!” and a smile and a thank you and moved on, but inside I thought I was going to cry.

I think kindness is the bravest choice we can make. When everything around us is going to shit, when you feel like you’re being sucked up into this galactic black hole of intense worry and burnout, when everything feels out of control, if you can still choose to actively be kind to people, then you’re still reclaiming some sort of power. If you’re bringing light into darkness and calm into chaos, then you’re doing something right.

Ok, my earlier rambles in light of that last paragraph seem very dramatic. I think I must have grabbed him the correct size or said something nice to him; I can’t even remember. I doubt it was something extraordinarily big or kind or good or whatever. But in that moment, I just remember that my heart skipped a beat because some random stranger saw something good when all I could see was everything around me going wrong.

I know I used to get paid to ‘be kind’ and whatever, but outside the contextual bubble of the store, I think that kindness is very much purposeful. Kind people aren’t kind on accident! Kindness is a choice. A hard one at times; sometimes painful, sometimes tiring and trying, but rewarding beyond imagination.

Looking back on that time of my life, and any other times where I’ve had to cope with difficulties and challenges, it would have been so easy to be bitter and angry and to let all of my worry and frustration out on the world because I felt like the world had done me so wrong. There’s no denying it. I’m sure it’s the same for plenty of you too. Maybe it’s a control thing; the whole ‘riding the wave of life’ is so easy if you let your thoughts and your attitude be dictated by a situation.

But regardless of it all, I don’t think I could ever be mean to someone simply because the world has been mean to me.

I’m not saying internalising problems is the solution by any stretch, at all. Please don’t do that! But in my case, I found myself on the side of knowing the pain I was going through so intimately that I never, ever, ever wanted anyone in the entire world to feel it. So I would act accordingly. I still do 😊.

I’m not claiming to be perfect at it. I still find those Tik Toks of people falling over pretty funny and I don’t always make time to check in with someone I think has been pretty quiet. But I really, really, fucking try to. And I think we all should.

Kindness isn’t always fun. It sometimes leaves us taken advantage of and sour or beaten down or argued against or whatever. But if there is purpose behind kindness and if it is a choice, then we maintain some sort of active control and power. It’s about taking personal responsibility and capably taking ownership of ourselves in a situation that feels beyond our control. Kindness is just as much about ourselves as it is about serving others. And that is what stops us from catering to others’ wants. It stops us from becoming doormats and pushovers. Kindness works because we are deliberate. We are intentional.

Kindness walks hand-in-hand with resilience and they’re the most beautiful combination that will see anything and anyone through.

Sometimes, in the moment, it feels anything but. I doubt it is in human nature to just forgive and walk away. Sometimes we want to confront and to push and to defend and to argue but – and this is something I swear by – if you really are in the right, you don’t need to prove it. Watch situations and false conclusions and slander backfire in someone’s face with the silent but smug self-satisfaction that you were, indeed, right all along. The world has this weird way of striking a balance when the time is right. And when you’re on the better side of it, there’s nothing better.

Kindness is hardly a trait you practice for fun, but I don’t think there is anything better than seeing its effects. A stranger’s acknowledgement of it has never ever left me and I doubt it will anytime soon. It is the greatest compliment I could have ever received.

We choose kindness because the world needs balance; there’s enough shit going around already. We know what it’s like to feel suffocated by darkness. We like the challenge of seeing if we can light things up again.

During that time of my life, I had every reason to be angry. I had every reason to be sad and scared and confused. And it would have been so easy to just be a twat because of it. But recognising that, acknowledging the pain of your environment and your situation, and then not refracting that back out there is the vital first step to building resilience. I suppose it’s the whole mirroring effect innit? Your internal and your external link and you’ve somehow have to find the light in the dark because without it, you’re kind of at a loss.

So be nice. Be kind. Stick your finger up at the world and be good. Because it pays, I swear.

All the love xoxoxoxoxo

PS: Mr Hollister Stratford Customer Person, you’re also v kind and I doubt you’ll ever be able to comprehend how much your acknowledgement got me through that really tough time. I still think about it months later. Thank you 😊

PSS: I’ve just finished this and lightning just struck and it’s all of a sudden thundering down w rain. You might think it’s some sort of sign, I’m just thinking I’m gonna sleep really well tonight because of the background noise.

PPS - missing sunny summer days so here's a nice shot from way back when xoxo

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"Why am I Crying in the Club rn?" - Book Edition

"Why am I Crying in the Club rn?" - Book Edition

Helloooo lovelies. I’m here to say that Daisy Johnson is on full “x games mode” when it comes to her absolute masterpiece of a story. “The volume inside of this [book] is ASTRONOMICAL; it is way too loud in [it]” and I can quite easily declare that it is now my second favourite novel of all time. Pls read it. It’s only little (off the top of my head, it’s around 150 pages or so) but it is like literary quicksand.

Bruh I’m not even kidding when I say that I ordered this to collect from W H Smith’s, then went and bought the last copy on the shelf in Foyles the day it was released, and went to cancel my order from Smith’s because I had finished it by the time it had arrived. This is a Real One, I swear – which is why I’m telling you to go and read it on here.

I don’t think I’ve ever done Book Reviews on my blog before. I’m not really a Reviewer. I’m more of a Reader-and-Digester-then-Move-On(er?). I never normally read formal reviews myself either, mainly because I like to decide for myself if something is good or bad. Saying that, I think most novels have good points and bad points; I don’t think any book is entirely awful, (except for The Lovely Bones; that is a Bad Book).

However, I’m making the exception today for Daisy Johnson’s Sisters because, wow, reading that was a couple of hours of a raw, lyrical culture shift for me. What a book. Full on firecracker shit. Wow. I finished it last night and I took it out to the pub garden with me because there was no way I was letting it go so soon. My poor flatmate had to listen to me rant and rave and over-gesticulate my theories so much I almost poked a lovely staff member in the eye (sorry Matt!)

(President) Daisy Johnson enters liminal, watery territory with a profoundly moving tale of an eerie mother-daughter bond which cuts deep with a blade of grief. It’s as eerie as it is absorbing and pulls you in with its distant lyricism, giving off these mythical vibes with a 21^st century twist that grounds the impossible in a sensitive and steely reality.

The experience of reading Sisters is almost operatic but in the softest, most quiet and controlled of ways, as the family’s past, and the tragedy that is the book’s true narrative engine, are revealed in fragmentary, frightening glimpses. July and September are teenage sisters, as near to twins as two girls born 10 months apart can be. As we enter their tale, they are heading north – or so it appears – with their mother Sheela, driving from Oxford to Yorkshire, to a broken down house “beached up on the side of the North York Moors, only just out of the sea.” It’s called “Settle House” – probs the most Yorkshire name ever – and it’s anything but settling.

The toxicity of siblings deeply entangled in each other echoes across the pages of this absolute question mark (yep, no longer a book; it’s punctuation!) From September insisting that they celebrate both their birthdays on the day of her own birth to the truly disquieting intimacy of the pair (one?) sharing a phone, these girls are “isolated, uninterested, conjoined, young for their age, sometimes moved to great cruelty”.

I know that I joke a lot about me crying on here but, as a matter of fact, it’s actually really rare that it happens because I’m not a wimp, I’m hard af and mainly because I hate that burning knot you get in your chest and the stinging behind your eyes. I know crying is meant to be a healthy expression of emotion and shite but it’s hardly healthy how much of an ugly crier I am. When I say my eyes go ALIEN, I’m not kidding (when I quote “Whoa!”, Mills and Han know exactly what I’m talking about!) No one needs to see that mess – except poor “Whoa!” guy, apparently.

But this book got me. I closed it, sat it on the kitchen counter, and did one of those whimsical glances-out-the-window ft a Lauryn Conrad-inspired ‘mascara tear.’ It was all very dramatic. Could hear violins playing in the background and everything if you listened hard enough as the flood gates opened.

But seriously, I wouldn’t post a book recommendation on here unless it was worth it and, trust me when I say, the elision concealed by the “almost” that underpins this hardback manages to be both a force of attraction and repulsion. Might be a good time to suggest that if you’re triggered by the themes of mental illness, grief, the maternal or domestic/sexual abuse, give Sisters a miss.

Folktale terror meets the Iphone in the pages of Johnson’s third novel. I read it and couldn’t help but think that Sisters is the baby of Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier and Stephen King’s The Shining. The eternal terror of intimate disgust and the fragility of the mind washes up on the pages of Johnson’s tale about the Yorkshire coastline, with an unwillingness to fix on what “the problem is” – and the unspoken lack of explanation is probably what makes the story so capturing yet alarming. Not knowing is just as, if not more, horrifying than revelation, when you think about it.

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The Toilet Roll Archives (18): A Vision'Kerry' Prankster - Lol I Wish.

Monday 10 August 2020

The Toilet Roll Archives (18): A Vision'Kerry' Prankster - Lol I Wish.

Oh hello, I’m back to tell you what’s up because I am literally the biggest overgrown child in the world and I can no longer handle my own self-inflicted humiliation. Someone needs to chain my ankle to my bedpost. In case you couldn’t tell by now, I’m probably humanity’s biggest Work In Progress; I am the worst embarrassment in the whole entire world. Lol. It’s pretty much my personal brand at this point – alongside Linda McCartney sausages and falling down the stairs.

I didn’t think it could get much worse at 22 years old but, lol, here we are.

I went up to the Lakes this weekend and it was incredible. There were no people around whatsoever and I don’t think I left the sea for longer than to get a few hours’ sleep. It was beautifully warm (by Cumbrian standards, anyway) and I couldn’t have wished for a better getaway. I’ve been craving some sunshine and greenery for a long time now but, no matter how many times I click on the Ryanair website to book myself a quick weekend trip away, I can’t shake the overwhelming sense of guilt I feel at the thought of leaving the country on the account of my own selfishness and greed when people I know and love are still classed as ‘vulnerable’ and haven’t left the house for months on end. Moral compass aside, I hopped, mask-donned, onto a train and got the sun, the sand and the socially distant company I’d been craving for weeks. It was nice to get away from the muggy air and concrete landscape early Saturday morning, just for a little while.

Our story begins that very Saturday evening. I did a thing. Again. Cry.

It’s always carnage in a supermarket when at least two of my family members go in together because someone always ends up dropping stuff, someone ends up breaking an item that we end up having to purchase or someone always gets lost (Dad is somewhere down the wine aisle comparing price per millilitre). Not to mention we always forget something – sometimes a person, sometimes a purchase. Normally, this takes place in the likes of an Asda or a Sainsbury’s or something. We don’t have foncy supermarkets in Leigh (not since M and S recently opened!) Like, I knew Waitrose existed, but I hadn’t set foot in one until I turned 18 and moved down here for uni. I thought that was as “classy boujee ratchet” as it got when it came to supermarket, but Booths Silverdale is whole other kettle of fish. I’d never even heard of it until one of my friends got a job at the chain recently; there’s one at Salford Quays.  And it turned out there was also one up the road from the caravan we were staying in in Silverdale, so of course we were going to go and be nosy (ps not all it’s cracked out to be; money doesn’t always buy quality (if the soft apples were anything to go by! xoxo)

The matriarch herself wanders in, followed by myself, my brother and my sister. Sidenote – you know a supermarket is posh when someone working there hands you a trolley. It’s soon filled with the basic necessities we came in to grab.

We get to the till and, as per, we’ve forgotten something. Mam turns around to me and says “We need to go back and pick up some washing up liquid” – “we,” obviously meaning Kerr‘we’ because phonetics clearly directly correlate to elder sibling responsibilities. In our house, when “we” need to do something, it means Kerr ‘we’ needs to do it – even when I’m not there. Like the family favourite that I try to (but never will) be, I dash back to the aisle to pick some up.

I locate the washing up liquid at the bottom of the shelf and, as I bend down to reach some, I hear a pair of whispering voices bouncing through the gaps of colourful plastic stacked shoulder-to-shoulder on the shelf. One is a very deep voice; the other is pretty high pitched. Both are hurriedly whispering in excited tones, and they suddenly explode into giggles. I hear the word “Kerry.” And I just know, in that moment, that my brother and sister and trying to one up me and scare me as I come round the corner.

‘Lol, not this time, twats. I’ve got one up on you – as per, obvs, but I’ll let you think otherwise!’ I internally think. You might say 'visionary.' I say 'visionKerry.'

So, as any older sibling does in a not-too-busy supermarket that she’ll probably never need to enter into again, I hurtle towards the end of the aisle and jump around the corner. I launch myself at the two figures in the aisle. I shout “Boo!”

The young pair in front of me scream; the guy falls over in surprise. The gal leans back against the freezer in horror.

I don’t have time to laugh at my own quick wit and humour because, as I lock eyes with the girl, my stomach twists into knots and I feel like throwing up. These guys aren’t my siblings. I’ve gone and scared the wrong people. I’ve humiliated myself in front of two perfect strangers. One of them is giving me daggers; the other is slowly standing up after being scared to the floor.

Oh my fucking god, I hate myself. I actually h a t e myself. I cannae believe I’m 22 years old and pull stunts like this and think I’m capable of being a somewhat functioning member of society. Nah not about this one.

The worst part of the whole matter is that I tried to explain myself and convince this couple that I am not actually insane in the membrane (lol cute good effort Kerry xoxo) and that, in fact, I thought they were my siblings. They stared deadpan at me. When I saw their faces after a good 30 seconds of stumbling and rambling excuses, I just ran away because it felt like it was the best thing for me to do. Looking back, probs not. The whole ‘be confident and no one will question you’ motto I swear by simply shattered in that moment because I am clearly. Such. A. Dick. Brb catch me throwing myself into Lake Windemere with Fairy liquid weighing me down because there is no way I can resurface and face the light of day again. I can’t be FUCKING arsed.

I brought the washing up liquid back to the till, tears streaming down my masked face because I’m laughing so hard at my own self-inflicted embarrassment. I can’t get the words out at my quizzingly-staring family. The guy behind the till looks concerned too. I tell my family I’ll meet them outside – mainly because I’m terrified I’ll bump into the couple again.

In the car on the way back to the caravan, I narrate the whole story to them, Dad included. We’re falling apart in tears of laughter (Lily also accidentally clocks me across the face in the midst of her explosive laughter but we won’t go into that because I probs deserved it tbh). I planned to dig a whole on the beach and bury myself in it later that night but I feel like it’s probably a whole lot less deathly to come back to the flat down here (where I’m typing this out right now) and just never let myself outside again.

There’s probs a screenshot of my face on a poster in Booths Silverdale warning people to “Stay Away From This Woman.” No wonder the North doesn’t want me home; I don’t know how I’m still allowed to leave the house. Cry.

So, yeah, this is clearly becoming a bit of A Saga. Getting locked out, scaring random strangers half to death, crashing another family’s Eid. I'm just a walking, talking catastrophe. 2020’s like a crappy game of golf; I’m hitting the ball but I’m losing my club in the process 😊

Oh well livelaughlove and all that shite, I suppose.   

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The Toilet Roll Archives (17) - A Tik Tok Tale

Saturday 8 August 2020

The Toilet Roll Archives (17) - A Tik Tok Tale

Here we have a Lockdown Tik Tok Tale. It's mortifying - funny, don't get me wrong - but mortifying all the same. If you're over the age of 20, you'll probably think likewise.

But let's start off with a bit of context: the question of where Millienialism ends and Gen Z begins is something of a question mark for a cusper like me. Born in 1998, I’m pulling a Hannah Montana and claiming that I, like many of my fellow 1995-1999’ers, have something of the Best of Both Worlds. 

MySpace was a bit before my time and I have Snapchat on my phone but I don’t think I have ever logged in and the concept of ‘streaks’ means absolutely nothing to me. I’ve dabbed ironically, have never called anyone “bae” anything less than unironically, but you best believe that when I tweet verbs such as “stan” and “yaaas”, I fully back it with every ounce of my being. Periodt. 

For people like myself, who don't understand Gen Z tween heartthrobs like Jacob Sartorius (I literally had to ask my 15 year old cousin who this was!), but would throw themselves under a bus for Zac Efron any day of the fucking week (because Breaking Free was the anthem, not Bye, Bye, Bye (but we’ll still sing along, don’t worry!), the whole generational cusp thing doesn’t really work. We’ve surfed the technological transitional wave from Motorola Razrs to the Iphone which/what/why and, man, we’ve surfed hard because the past ten years or so have been something of a socio-economic tsunami for the likes of us Zillenials (?!).

Anyways, this isn’t going to be a proper long essay on the benefits and bonuses that come with not being able to fully place yourself in a specific generational bracket. This is merely just a bit of context for the story I’m about to tell you.

After a recent encounter I had with about 5 or 6 young Generation Z-ers, I can safely say I have never felt older. Seriously. And at 22, that’s not exactly normal. I mean, ok, I know that I’ve been stuck inside for the better part of six months and have probably aged a gazillion light years because of external circumstances beyond my control but I know that I’m still a baby in the grand scheme of things. Interesting to say the least. Storytime? Lessgoooo:

I was taking down some stuff to be recycled at the back of the block and I saw a group of lads on bikes hanging round the bins. This was during a time when lockdown was slowly and steadily lifting and we could begin seeing people outside at a socially acceptable distance and, fair play, these guys were all stood pretty far apart from one another. No shade.

I approach the bins and, as I begin to head closer and closer, I hear music playing from a phone. Of course, it happens to be the greatest Tik Tok song of all time because “chef's kiss, she's a treat (mwah), ooh, she so bougie, bougie, bon appetit, I’m a savage yeah…”

I realise pretty quickly these guys are making Tik Toks outside by the bins bcos dance check and ngl, I’m pretty excited for them because Tik Tok is life and anyone who says otherwise just doesn’t understand that “hips tik tok when I dance” and I won’t waste my time to “argue with these lazy bitches I just raised my price” because I (can pretend that I) am a “savage classy boujee and ratchet.” Need I continue?

Anyways, I’m approaching as a normal, chill, outwardly neutral human being but internally I’m screaming because A) What a T U N E omg and B) I’m hoping I’ll be able to sneak into the background of one of their videos and it’ll, hopefully, be the one to go viral and *boom* instant, effortless, environmentally-aware #reducereuserecycle Tik Tok fame. Easy.

Alas, that was not in the cards for me (obvs, Kerry, get a grip.) Because, as I approach the guys to get round to the bin, I hear one of the lads say

“Nah, wait, fam, wait; let the lady go first.”

Lady. Lady? L a d y. lAdYYYY. LaDy? llllaady? 

I’m a lady. Lady? Wait???? What!?!?!?!??!!?!

If you listen close enough, you can hear my heart shatter into a million pieces. I know that being a “lady” immediately correlates to Old. I hear “lady,” I think “Pension.” I hear “lady” and I think about the woman next door who I bought shopping for at the height of lockdown. I think about those weird coffee-breathed exam invigilators who would stare over your shoulder at that algebraic shit show of a paper down on your desk. I think about my grandparents who have nailed Whatsapp but have never quite got the hang of Zoom. When in the actual FUCK did I become The Lady!?

The “lady” aka too old for Tik Tok. I’ve become the “lady” who doesn’t know youth mentality or understand internet entertainment. I’m a grandma to the Gen Z-ers of today. I’m an old aged pensioner with no sense of humour. I’m A LADY? I’m old? lolololololololol.

First of all, I want to make it clear that I don’t make Tik Toks myself because I’m not about to go chasing waterfalls and I’m very much content sticking to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to. However, the rivers and lakes that I float in are very much the ‘keen observer’ waters (Twitter is literally just me RT other people’s words because they articulate it so much better than me in so few characters!) so you best believe I sit paralysed in whatever awkward position I opened the app in for, like, 30 minutes at a time; the stillness of a lizard in danger.

But, apparently, according to these C H I L D R E N I’m too old to understand Tik Tok because I’m 22 years old and that means I’m not “savage classy boujee ratchet” enough to appreciate the art that is Tik Tok - even if I do dedicate a good portion of my free time to a platform which showcases videos of puppies falling in puddles and people pranking their partners. But I’m also not Millenial because I’m not overly obsessed with Harry Potter, nor do I cry over “adulting” into an overly-full wine glass every Friday night.

Lol where do I go from here?

Of course, I'm playing on stereotypes here and I don't want to offend anyone. I obvs didn't take the comment that personally either, but it did take me aback for a hot second. When did I become The Lady? When the fuck did I become old? 

I've come to the conclusion that I'm just never going to win. I get ID'd buying a screwdriver and alcohol that isn't even for me, and then I'm referred to as The Lady. wtf im out nah no thanks.

So that’s it for me, then. All downhill from here on out. Decaf only. Ankles covered. Pension opened. I have a Karen-cut booked in at the salon too. Your 22 year old gal is no longer a gal. She's O L D. A Zillenial? Hand her a Zimmer.

The Lady!? Lol I'm still WAILING at how funny this is! Too young for a toolbox but too old to Tik Tok. Cba. 

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No, I'm Actually the Child of Bridget Jones and Chandler Bing - Part 2

Monday 3 August 2020

No, I'm Actually the Child of Bridget Jones and Chandler Bing - Part 2

Everyone’s favourite knobhead is back with another I Got Locked Out story. Yeah. You read that right.

For someone who tries her absolute hardest to appear somewhat ‘together’ at the best of times, I’m a bit of a shambolic mess. Isn’t there a saying about ‘never making the same mistake twice’ or something? Lol, cute xo . That individual clearly never met the crossbreed of Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones aka Kerry (Anne?*) Maxwell.

*can my parents, if they see this @ any point, pls try to remember what my first name actually is?!

It’s hardly as entertaining a story as last time. There were no strange men in white, windowless vans, no three trios of hummus for one person, no pubs in pyjamas. There were, however, some very kind and patient neighbours at hand. I also got to celebrate my first Eid, which was sick.

The story begins exactly – and I mean, exactly – like last time. I’ll clearly never learn.

My flatmate was upstairs playing some sort of computer game and I got it into my head to do a massive Spring Clean downstairs on a Friday night – I’m just really fun like that xoxo. Clearly delighted with the fact that I have downstairs to myself, I decide to host one of my infamous Cleaning Parties (@Ben u know how it is). Spot cream applied, favourite pyjama shorts on and biodegradable Dettol wipes in hand, I’m hinching my way across the flat to Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits. I’m truly living my hashtag authentic life.

I’ve just done a massive mop of the kitchen and living room floors. The back door is open to help speed up the drying process.

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SIDENOTE: I just looked back at my old post and I’m cringing at the fact that the above sentence is accidentally a DIRECT QUOTE. Lol. wHy Am I lIk3 dIs?

You can read it here and laugh at me some more if you want.

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I go out to the front door to empty the bucket into the outside drain and, yep, you can predict what happened next. Gust of wind. Slam. Lol. Good’un.

I roll my eyes and tell myself I’m an effin idiot. I go to text my flatmate to let him know what’s going on, hoping I’m not interrupting a pivotal, make-or-break gaming moment because I’m angry enough at myself and don’t want anyone else to be angry too. I reach my hand…into an empty pocket.

Shit.                                                                                                                     

Last time I was locked out with company (Wes I miss u), with a phone and no flatmate. This time, I’m locked out with no company, no phone and a flatmate wearing state-of-the-art, noise-cancelling gaming headphones.

Again, I repeat, shit.

I sigh. Gonna be a long night.

I begin the slow, ominous game of hammering my fist against the front door. I do it for a long time. I shout through the letterbox several times. No luck. I repeat the process again and again and again. Nothing.

I’d have been happy to continue to do this for far longer until I hear a group of guys on bikes laugh from the road below and, all of a sudden, I’m very aware that I look like the crazy ex girlfriend who’s been kicked out. Shouting through letterboxes and trying to kick in doors? Not a great look.  It’s all very Coronation Street.

Half-embarrassed, half-desperate for a wee, I do a dramatic slide-against-the wall-down-to-the-ground like I’m recreating some early 2000s music video and decide to ponder on what to do next. Clearly I’m not cut out for this Spring Cleaning bizz; my own home rejects me each time I try it.

So I sit and wait. I think to myself that he’ll come down for a drink or a cig at some point soon(ish and I’ll catch him then; he’ll open the door, we’ll laugh at my stupidity and we’ll both get back to our evening plans. I won’t have to wait long.

But I’m waiting and it feels long. And I need a wee really badly.

I’m grateful for the warmth of the evening as I sit on the floor outside my door; I tell myself it could be worse. I could be in soaking wet fluffy socks, size 12 work boots and in the company of a kind hearted builder who chokes on jalapenos (I love u Wes xo).

I’m watching the pink evening sky turn darker and darker. I become aware that there are more cars about than usual. It takes me a few moments to remember that it’s Eid.

I was speaking to the family down the end of the block earlier that day when taking some boxes down to be recycled. The eldest sibling – a daughter who’s around my age – was outside on the balcony with the youngest of the siblings. When I said hello, we got talking for a brief moment and the youngest daughter, bubbling with excitement, started telling me all about her outfit for later that afternoon.

I’ve never been one to be matey with neighbours simply because it freaks me out to have ‘friends’ too close to home. I’ve always been nice enough for them to take my Amazon parcels in when I’m not home, but I’m not about to babysit anyone’s kids for them. But this family at the end of the block have always been proper nice; I genuinely like them, and, no, not in the fake-tight-smile-neighbour-y kind of way. They’ve got four or five kids. Like I said, the eldest is around my age. The youngest daughter makes me laugh so much, though. I was walking up the block one day a few months ago and caught her belting out an Ed Sheeran song at the top of the stairs, living her best life, the echoes ringing out against the walls. She thought she was the shit. I stifled my giggles and told her she was “so good!” She can’t be more than six or seven years old.

I recall the earlier conversation I shared with the sisters down the end that morning and wonder how cheeky it would be to knock on and ask for some help. Surely the eldest will get it. I wonder if she’ll lend me her phone so I can ring my flatmate and get myself back into my flat for a much-needed wee.

I practice my ask in my head several times before I begin walking down the block, trying different ways so I don’t sound like such a knobhead. Well, I mean, I’ve locked myself out of the house (again) and I’m also now rehearsing conversations in my head. I think I’ll snatch up the Knobhead 2020 award.

Feeling remarkably shy and so, so, so stupid, I make my way to their front door and give a little knock. I can’t believe I’m about to disturb a family’s religious celebrations with a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, and the strong potency of my spot cream lingering in the air. I could piss myself – partly because my bladder is so full, I feel like it could explode and partly because I look like a colossal idiot. I feel like even more of one.

Amazingly, the eldest daughter opens the door, closely followed by her mother. Both look concerned.

“Erm, hey! Are you having a nice evening?” Seriously, Kerry? Really?

My question is welcomed with a smile and returned back at me.

“Erm. Sure. I’m ok.” Lol, lies.

“Actually, well, I’m a total idiot and…”

“You’ve locked yourself out?” The eldest daughter finishes off my sentence for me.

Wow. A couple of years round here and this is what I’m known for. Sick.

“Erm, yeah. Sort of. Well not sort of. I am.” Smooth, Kerry.

It all happens very quickly but I’m pulled into a loud and warm house and happily welcomed into the hallway, bustling with hot swarms of people. The mop and bucket are disposed of and replaced with a plate of food and the littlest daughter twirls around, showing off the outfit she had been so excited to wear.

I’m stood in the hallway, laughing with the eldest daughter at the entire situation. It’s only after a few minutes of food, laughter and good conversation that I remember I actually knocked on their door to ask if I could borrow a phone. She happily hands it over to me; my flatmate answers straight away and says he’ll get the door right now.

And before I can outstay my welcome I’m waving my goodbyes, thanking people for the food and for the phone, and skipping down the block. My flatmate greets me at the door with a classic “you’re a twat.” I nod. I can’t even deny it. I trip inside (classic) and sprint upstairs for the best wee of life. I head back downstairs to finish cleaning and then I hop off to bed because that’s how we move on wild Friday nights in lockdown-limbo (to the soothing sounds of gamer flatmates screaming about shooting through walls!)

The next day, I wake up and write a quick ‘thank you’ card and pop it through the door on my way out for the day. I’d digested some thoughts (as well as the delicious food) overnight and had come to the conclusion that I couldn’t be more grateful for the welcoming and friendliness shown to me on what was probably one of my Weirdest And Embarrassing Moments to date. Kind of happy I haven't bumped into them since. 30 mins of pure idiocy and I was shown nothing but kindness (albeit initial concern!)

My first Eid? Yeah, I crashed someone else’s in my pyjamas with a mop bucket. Nice. 

So yeah. If you needed any more confirmation that I am indeed the lovechild of Chandler Bing and Bridget Jones, then this is it. For someone who pretends she is somewhat ‘functioning’ and ‘capable’ I’m clearly just a Big Idiot. Safe to say I will never be hosting another one of my Cleaning Parties because I simply can’t be trusted to do anything.

Sorry flatmates. Alderney will just have to remain a permanent mess. xoxo

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