You, Me and Pikachu

So, we need to talk about this new Pokémon Go craze. And not how amazing it is or how it is set to revolutionise the gaming industry - but how it is affecting relationships across the globe (in particular, mine).

Until a few weeks ago I was completely oblivious to what all the fuss was about. Now I find it a useful (and sometimes exasperating) tool in my relationship.

I downloaded the app out of curiosity, but mainly for my boyfriend who does not currently own a working phone and who used to be a PokéNerd back in the day (and, as it turns out, still is).

When I get the idea for this blog post, I am sat on Peckham Common whilst he has wandered off to "catch 'em all". I have periodically seen him walking from one side of the Common to the other with my phone screen glued to his face and families frantically trying to move their picnics from his path. Then he disappears.

And this is fine by me because:

a) I am exercising him without him even knowing it. He ate a foot-long sandwich 20 minutes prior to this and would otherwise be snoozing in the sunshine. But with the first few jingles of Pokémon Go ringing in his ears, he was off and clocking up steps for the pedometer with a can of beer in hand.

b) I can sit alone peacefully with a good book for as long as his adventures take him.

c) On Monday, I can look really cool in front of my colleagues who also play the game. By sending my boyfriend off in search of these fictitious characters I have racked up quite the PokéDeck without actually doing anything.

However, my use of the game (or, more specifically, my boyfriend's use of it)  has somewhat backfired on me on a number of occasions...

• I will often be summoned to go on PokéMissions at ungodly hours. I have occasionally found myself taking a stroll around the streets way past my bedtime in search of Pokémon.
• On one summery evening, I was showing off my leg press skills at an outdoor gym in the local park. Smugly asking my boyfriend how impressed he was, I looked up to find that he had ventured to the other side of the park in hot pursuit of a Pidgey and a group of teenagers in his place laughing at the girl who clearly does not exercise very often. 
• My phone has started sending me a lot of angry texts messages demanding to know how I am draining so much data. 
• On a recent date night, I am pretty sure my boyfriend was more excited by the ten Pokémon that we caught on the bus journey than the romantic meal that followed. However, I will admit that I also got caught up in this excitement and that our cries of "OH LOOK, A VENONAT!" gathered some very confused looks from our fellow bus passengers. 

To conclude, I think that Pokémon Go has provided us with some fun walkabouts (when I can muster the interest and afford the extra data). Failing that, it's great for when I want to get rid of him for half an hour...

Things that have helped me get over January Blues this week

Monday morning - the dreaded first day back at work after a nice long festive break. At first, things were going swimmingly. The sound of my alarm clock didn't want to make me jump out of the window, my flatmate made me coffee (a rarity, as both of them are usually still snoozing when I leave for work) and I was out of the door and at the station on time.

"All is dandy," I thought to myself standing on the platform.

I got on the train surrounded by people who, like me, would have preferred not to be office-bound but were dealing with it anyway. Well, most people were.

To my left I heard sniffing. I turned round to find a woman, head in hands, sobbing her heart out. When I asked her if she was okay she looked up at me and said "going back to work sucks" and went back to crying for the remainder of the journey.

What a way to keep morale up. I got off the train thinking that this woman had obviously foreseen my week and that it was going to be absolutely awful.

It turns out, my week hasn't been as bad as she thought. Here is a list of what has helped me fight the January Blues these past few days...

1. The guy who got stuck in the ticket barriers at the station.
Nothing cheers up a commuter more than watching a fellow commuter suffer. In this particular situation you have two options, you either stop what you're doing and take a picture or you grin sadistically behind him waving the Oyster card that could help set him free.

2. How much I've already failed at my New Year's resolutions.
These were to eat more healthily and do more exercise. Myself and my flatmate agreed to do this together. So when I got home to find him stood in his running gear my response should have been "YES. NEW YEAR, NEW LAURA". The words that actually came out of my mouth were more along the lines of "Off you go then, I'm going to sit on the sofa and eat chocolate".

3. John at the pub
John is a regular at the pub that we go to semi-regularly (and by that I mean weekly). This particular night I had just finished eating my dinner, leaving a small portion having been defeated by the vast amount of macaroni cheese on my plate. Cue John walking up behind me to tell me that I had to finish every last bite because "you need to put some weight on those ankles before your legs break". This was very caring of him I thought, until he finished his fatherly lecture with "you look like a hamster who's had too many nuts in her face". Nope, just boozy talk. My immature sense of humour could not cope with this last statement and I ended up choking on the remainder of my food,

4.The guy who then had to put up with me sending him pictures of hamsters eating nuts and not calling me mental for finding it so hilarious.
Don't worry, I know I'm a nutter (pun definitely intended).

5. Luke the Gecko.
In case you didn't know, he's my flatmate's pet. And whatever way you look at it, he's had the worst week out of all of us. He went to lizardy heaven. So, no matter how tough this week gets, at least I can be grateful that I haven't ended up in a Tupperware box on the balcony.

If you take anything away from this blog post (aside from the fact I was compared to a nut-crazed hamster) it would be to ensure that you make a moment of someone's day completely random and hilarious. If you don't feel up to the challenge, just resort to sitting on a train weeping that life sucks.

Lady to Ladette

Just over a month ago I moved in with two friends. One catch…they are both guys. I never for one second considered this to be a problem but, at the same time, the only men I have ever lived with before are my dad and my brother. I gathered that this was going to be an altogether different experience.

Thus far, I have been right. This is what I have learnt about living with guys (more specifically, living with Ant and Alan)...

If you ask for salad you will be ignored.
Two evenings in a row I asked the guys if they could buy salad ingredients for dinner. Instead, I was offered nachos, bacon, chocolate milk, beef burgers, brioche and enough cheese to blow my cholesterol levels through the roof.

They will influence you to do pointless, yet funny, things.
Since moving in I have entertained my flatmates by carrying out some very strange dares including (somehow) fitting my entire body into two pillow cases. Ashamedly, I was probably only drunk for half of these shenanigans and there is photographic evidence of all of them. So I expect there is a new blog on the horizon entitled “The Stupid Things Laura Does”.

 Film tastes will differ slightly.
“I don’t deal well with gore, Ant. Will I like this film?”
“Sure, I don’t remember it being that gory.”
“I also have a huge fear of clowns.”
“There’s definitely not a single clown in this film.”
Cue torture obsessed zombies, gushes of blood and one hellish and unexpected moment when a murderous clown burst onto the screen. Ladies, if you ever move in with guys please note that their definitions of “scary” and “gory” are more likely our definitions for “terrifying” and “so gory you’ll be seeing things through a red haze for weeks”.

They will tell you off.
We did have a joke that Ant and Alan were cohabiting and I was their adopted child. A joke that I forgot until I found myself being told of for not finishing my dinner or not washing up well enough. Now I’m wondering if they weren’t joking and were actually trying to tell me that they secretly adopted me. On the other hand, I do also get told off for not staying out late enough on a Friday night so I guess I got a relatively good deal.

They can fix stuff in highly innovative ways.
Seriously, I have been impressed. I got the zip stuck on my handbag today and ran to Ant for help. In a few minutes he had fixed it using just a lighter. Alan, on the other hand, did try to use superglue to fix the handle on his bedroom door and now it doesn’t shut. So I guess it depends on the day (or levels of sobriety) if you want a DIY miracle.

It doesn’t take guys long to get ready.
I have found myself doing my hair and make-up in record timing because the guys will suddenly announce that we are leaving right that minute and will stand at the front door yelling “WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING?!”. I have learnt that “applying mascara” or “choosing what shoes to wear” are not acceptable answers at this point, especially if they are hungry.

     

These are my observations so far and I expect that there will be many more to come. In any case, there aren’t going to be any dull moments living with these two! (Hi lads, I know you’re reading this. And no, Alan, of course I haven’t changed your name Staff Sgt. Max Fightmaster for anonymity purposes.) 

The dangers of getting lost in department stores

I had a slightly traumatic experience today. I got lost in Selfridges.

“What’s so traumatic about that?” you may ask. Well, at first nothing. I was happy to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights. Then at some point I stopped and realised I had no idea whereabouts I was or how to get out. At this point the panic started to rise because I knew that for however long I was stuck the more money I was likely to spend – and in somewhere like Selfridges that could get dangerous.

So I took a deep breath and found a map. But as I stood in a corner with my map I realised that it probably made me look like a bit of a tourist and I didn’t want to stand out. So I folded the map up again and hoped that if I wandered some more I would eventually find a magical door leading to Oxford Street.

This plan kind of worked and kind of didn’t…

I somehow ended up in the poshest department in the store…the jewellery department. And although I could see an exit in the distance, I could sense some smartly dressed sales people closing in on me.

I could have tried to blend in and pretended I was just browsing, hoping no one would ask questions as to why I was there but…

a)  I was alone. Everyone else was in couples looking at expensive gifts and there were no single men in sight for me to discreetly follow and pretend I was with them.

b)  I could have acted as though I was from an insanely rich family but I was carrying a rather large Primark carrier bag.

 c) This morning I had chosen not to wear any jewellery at all so probably looked like I needed have a crazy spending spree on accessories despite the fact I could probably only afford the sales assistant’s name tag.

The Tiffany’s employee got to me first, Miss Cartier backed off. As Mr Tiffany dragged me further into the shop I didn’t have the heart or the courage to tell him I probably shouldn’t be there.

Amidst trying to think of a way out plus also being distracted by the sparkling heaven around me I merely nodded along to his questions. Big mistake…I was now looking for a gift for my (presumably rich) long-term boyfriend to buy me after he’d finished browsing the menswear department.

“What’s the lucky man’s name?”

I told my brain to quickly think up a rich-sounding name.

 “Samuel”.

That would have to do.

“And what kind of gift are we looking for? A ring, perhaps?” hinted cheeky Mr Tiffanys.

“Oh no, no marriage proposals on the horizon just yet!” (Perhaps I was getting a little too into this story).

“Then maybe a bracelet,” he said glancing at the single hair tie I had on my wrist…

“Sure.”

“Would you like to try some on?” Cue the sensation of rising panic again. I was trapped.

Fifteen minutes later, I managed to break free towards the exit I had been eyeing up the whole time having made some very poor excuses. I didn’t have anything sparkly on my arm but I did have a list of shockingly priced suggestions to give to Samuel who (if real) would be waiting for me outside with a new selection of ties and credit card at the ready.  

One of those days...

I manage to get myself into a lot of unusual situations. Today, most of them happened at work…

For example, this afternoon I was busy juggling many different tasks when my colleague ran over to me declaring “Roland is dead!”

I stopped in my tracks, trying to remember if I’d ever met a Roland and fathom how serious the situation was. It turns out that Roland was the rat who had been trapped in our bins since the previous day. Pest control had worked their magic and he was now in ratty heaven.

I was not going to mourn Roland. He had given me the fright of my life when I was taking out the rubbish the day before and he looked disgusting. He wasn't like the one in the Disney film, let's put it that way. 

Another strange occurrence today involved the handyman that came in to fix our bathroom door. He was there for less than an hour during which I probably said about five sentences to him.

When demonstrating that he had fixed the door he suggested that I test it. This involved testing the lock. Locking myself and said handyman in the toilet, standing there for a few seconds and consequently agreeing that, yes, the door was indeed working, was possibly the most awkward situation of the day. Especially because one of the company directors was stood the other side of the door wondering what the hell was going on.

Having signed all the paperwork I thought I was done with that situation. Ten minutes later I get a mysterious phone call…

“Hi, is that Laura?”

“Yes, how can I help?”

“This might sound strange Laura but are you single?”

Now, being slightly confused at this question, I thought this unknown caller was carrying out some kind of survey where you replied either “married” or “single”. Boy did I regret my following answer.

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, good! Do you want to go for a drink sometime? It’s A by the way, I was in fixing the door a minute ago.”

Oh, God.

With the office being deadly quiet (possibly in mourning for Roland still) I was unsure of how to deal with this situation without everyone laughing at me. Previous to this phone call, my boss had stated that we would use handyman’s company again, so I was going to have to let him down gently in case he turned up again.

I had no choice but to pretend it was a sales call.

“I’m very sorry but we aren’t interested at this moment in time.”

“Oh…oh…erm…”

At this point I was feeling a bit sorry for him. I panicked…

“If I give you my email address you can send me over some details.”

“Ok yes! Thanks!”

“I will email you should we be interested.”

I haven’t emailed.

And now I need to find a boyfriend before the office needs more repairs so that I can claim I’m not single should the issue arise again.

Learning to be a (posh) Londoner

As a girl who was born and raised in a part of England that pushes the boundaries of normal social behaviour, the serene residential streets of North West London probably wasn't the first place people would suggest I move to. But it happened.

Luckily, Camden is just round the corner. There I can act like a total loon before heading back to civilisation.

Upon arrival in my new home I went for a wander to explore my surroundings. As I strolled down the road I overheard a young boy complaining about something his friend had just done,

“That is totally unethical.”

In my parts kids say “that’s out of order” or you’re simply told to f*** off. It was at this point I realised I probably had to adjust certain elements of my behaviour in order to fit in.

For example…

Celebrity sightings are the norm in this area. In fact it is the norm on my street. I have to take a few deep breaths before I go out the front door so that I don’t end up squealing in the faces of Daniel Craig or Russell Brand. I suppress the urge to get too excited and grin at them like an over-caffeinated Cheshire cat. I remind myself that I need to act like the rest of my neighbours and act completely nonchalant (i.e. a simple nod will suffice rather than a massive bear hug).

You definitely don’t go binge drinking. Not that I have done (yet), but if you have so much to drink that you end up singing S Club 7 all the way home and throwing up on someone’s doorstep it is guaranteed that no one will be laughing the next morning.

You need dogs or at least access to some canine pals. Walking my landlady’s dogs has escalated me into a whole new social realm. People actually stop you to recommend documentaries about “dog spirituality”. Back where I’m from that would probably earn you a punch in the face or a bite on the arse from a dog who is not really in touch with his spiritual side.

Everyone is a fitness fanatic. I often feel good about myself for going for a walk every day. But then I pass by dozens of cyclists, enough joggers to initiate some kind of running army and a questionable Latino offering Salsa lessons on a canal boat. This often causes some frantic research into local gyms…in the comfort of the local bakery, of course.

You pronounce a lot more letters of the alphabet. Enunciation is key if you want to get by. Also, excessive swearing is a no-no unless you’re an aging rock star.

There are no local fast food joints. The most you can hope for are vegan cupcakes or a pot of hummus.

However, as much as I joke, I can’t help but love every quirky minute I spend here. You never know, maybe this corner of London could teach this Medway girl a thing or two…

The story of some South London love-birds

Next month will be my grandparents Golden Wedding Anniversary. 50 years ago in Peckham, the town they grew up in, a slightly shy 15-year-old Sylvie finally agreed to meet a somewhat rebellious, cigarette-smoking 18-year old Jim (complete with ginger, Teddy Boy hair).  

“I thought he looked alright,” shrugs my Nan whenever she tells me the story, “but I wasn’t too sure.”

Maybe not love at first sight then. How did the first date go?

“Well, one of the first things he mentioned was that he hated it when girls bit their nails. That made me worry because that was my worst habit then.”

So, how did you get past that?

“Well, it was dark in the cinema so he couldn’t notice then. The rest of the time I just kept my gloves on.”

Good thinking, Nan.

The next day Sylvie bought nail paint that stops you from biting them and to this date she has had the most perfectly shaped nails of anyone I know.

What about you then, Grandad?

“Well, I dated a lot of women before your Nan but she had all their best qualities in one.”

Right.

A few years on, they were engaged. And one snowy day in March 1964 Sylvie and Jim enjoyed a small and simple ceremony followed by a quick drink and dance above a local pub. Then they got the bus home to their new flat in Catford.

So, there was my Nan, meeting the love of her life at 15 and married to him at 19. And here I am at 23 with no great success on the relationship front. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two about relationships off of my grandparents? These are the main lessons that I could distinguish…

Never lose the teenagers in you

My Nan and Grandad met when they were barely adults and they still hold hands and can always be found jiving together at parties. Admittedly, it is a little embarrassing when your Grandad announces, “Your Nan’s had passion fruit tonight, now I don’t stand a chance in bed” but it’s good to know their relationship is still youthful.

Revenge is all gravy

My Nan can be quite reserved and is one of the most caring people I know. So it shocked me to learn that when my Grandad jokingly declared at a dinner party that my Nan's coffee “tasted like gravy”, demure little Sylvie actually went and made him a mug of Bisto (milk and sugar included). I’m sure there are many morals to this story but I am laughing too hard to list them.

If you run out of things to say, just fall asleep

When watching a film with my grandparents a while ago, I started chatting away only to get replies in the form of snores. Apparently if your partner begins to bore you, subtlety is not of high importance.

Take a hike

Whenever my grandparents invite me on a “little walk” I am never quite prepared for the trek across Kent that follows. My Grandad even takes a pedometer just to demonstrate exactly why I can’t feel my feet when we finally return home. However, they’ve been walking and exploring many miles together for 50 years so it must have done some good.

In all honesty, it’s difficult to put your finger on exactly why a laddish Teddy Boy and a pretty but sensible young girl hit it off so well. At a young age they met and just clicked and 50 years down the line they’re still going strong and my family and I are lucky enough to share a part of their story.

Happy Golden Anniversary Sylvie and Jim ♥