Charity begins in East Renfrewshire

I have a new hobby. Unfortunately it’s not bungee jumping or anything exciting like that. Quite the opposite, in fact. My new favourite, incredibly unexciting, thing to do is browse the charity shops on Clarkston high street. There are five charity shops (of varying degrees of decentness) and I am astounded by a) the things that people give away (prime example: a Peep Show boxset! Why wouldn’t anyone want that) and b) the things that people actually think other people would want (example: a used Primark bra!)

Over the years it has become more acceptable to buy goods second hand, from a used book we want to read from Amazon, or a cheeky vintage gem from eBay. However, there is still a taboo that stems from actually stepping foot into a charity shop. A few weeks ago, I went for a wee wander down Byres Road with my Mum, Gran and Sister, and had to practically drag them in to one. But when they actually had a look around, they couldn’t believe how brilliant it was. My Gran actually said that she wouldn’t have known it was a charity shop if I hadn’t pointed it out to her. So why is it that we’re embarrassed to buy perfectly decent, but pre-loved (that bra certainly was) things?

Perhaps it’s our perception that’s all wrong. For me, charity shops used to have connotations of smelly tweed jumpers and dead peoples’ ornaments, and maybe that was the case for my Gran’s generation, when you lived by the mantra of ‘waste not, want not’ and would probably only donate something to charity if it was falling apart. These days, however, we buy too much, too often and therefore it’s not surprising to find things in the charity bins that still have the labels on. My friend who volunteers in one actually found a Burberry coat floating around! Certain towns and cities have now been nicknamed ‘charity cities’ because the likes of Oxfam and the Red Cross stand in the graves of the Woolworths and the Mothercares.

The media portray this as a bad thing, but while so many high street chains are failing, the charity sector is booming and we should accept and embrace that. So next time you’re looking for an outfit for a night out the weekend before payday, take the charity shop challenge and see if you can find a gem whilst donating to a worthy cause. My next challenge is to convert my fiancé, a self confessed clothes snob, who turns his nose up at anything non-Ralph Lauren…wish me luck...

The Cult of Celebrity

I moved to a new computer at work today and discovered that my new homepage was set to MSN UK. I spent a few minutes browsing the various news stories that popped up and was intrigued to find that the majority of the articles related to celebrities. Now I love a good bit of celebrity gossip as much as the next person (hello Daily Mail!) but what I couldn’t comprehend, is why Kate Middleton doing her food shopping was news….or so I thought…

…that was until I started flicking through the pictures. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself wondering what was in her trolley, were there security guards hiding behind the Coco Pops, does she read Cosmo, does she too have an appreciation for Haribo? And on reflection, I feel a bit disgusted with myself. Here we have a new mum. A young woman, just like me (but with unimaginable wealth, stunningly good looks and amazing hair.) Okay, so she’s nothing like me but she is a human being and surely a human being should have the right to buy Tampons without making the headlines?

The thing is, I understand why the photographers take these pictures. The demand is there. People want an insight into the life of celebrity. What I don’t understand is why. Why, in a week when we’re verging on a war with Syria, do I automatically click on the picture of Michael Buble’s new baby before the interview with the Prime Minister discussing the lack of public support for military action in Damascus? I don’t really have an answer.

Perhaps the ‘real news’ is too brutal. There’s so much sadness in the world. I do watch the news every night and it never makes me smile. Even the possibly pregnant panda this week didn’t bring a smile to my face because she just looked so grumpy and depressed. Give her an extra stick of bamboo and get the camera out her face! But seeing Mile Cyrus make a tit of herself. Well, that did make me sneer just a little. It’s escapism. A distraction from the mundane and the miserable. And who can blame me for wanting to distract myself from that?

I liked it when the news ended with interesting lifestyle pieces. And in an attempt to find something similar, I simply googled ‘happy news’ and found this site: http://www.happynews.com/ The first story I read was about a man who proposed to his girlfriend on a custom made pair of shoes that said ‘Marry me.’ Isn’t that lovely? I need more happy news like that in my life. Maybe then, I wouldn’t bother reading about TV’s most ridiculous teeth.

Now I’m off to see if I can find a video of Lindsey Lohan’s interview with Oprah…

How not to be a woman

The last time I checked, I was a woman. The hips don’t lie. But a typical woman? That I am not. Okay so I have the usual mood swings, insecurities and fashion faux pas that we women all have, however, unlike most of us, I believe I am missing two vital genes. I call these the B genes – bride and baby.

Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I love my fiancé to distraction. I genuinely can’t wait to marry him and call him my husband. But actually being a bride? That doesn’t really excite me at all.

Most women I know have been planning their wedding day since they could talk. They dream about the big white wedding, the fairy tale dress, the four tier cake, the five day hen do and so it goes on. But all I really want is for us to stand on a beach, say our vows as quickly as possible, preferably without me making an arse of myself, get drunk and then get on with married life (which is why the two of us are buggering off to the Carribean.)

I’ve looked at one bridal magazine since I got engaged and I can honestly say I was bored after five minutes. ‘Five easy ways to impress with a chocolate wedding cake in the shape of a swan,’ ‘Turn your hand to collage for an extra twist of romance,’ ‘The seven signs your table plan is trying to take over your life.’ These are actual articles from the uniquely titled ‘Wedding’ magazine. No thanks!

I’m going to try on a wedding dress on Saturday for the first time. I’ve seen one dress I like and I’m pretty sure that on Saturday I’m going to put it on, look in the mirror and say, ‘aye alright, I’ll buy it.’ There will be no tears, no drama, and no horde of bridesmaids. Just me my Mother and probably a camera phone. Then we’re going for a chippy. The fact that I’m more excited about the chippy than the dress is probably evidence enough that my bride gene got lost somewhere along the way.

Once we’re Married, I know the next thing I’m going to have to contend with is the constant nagging about when I’m going to pop out a sprog. And the truth is, I don’t know if I ever want one. That’s right, I’m missing the baby gene too. I know it’s not natural for a woman to say that she doesn’t want children and I’m not saying never but the feelings just aren’t there yet. I’ve never been broody. I’m not even entirely sure what broodiness is. Broodiness is probably the same sort of alien concept to me as PMS is to a man.

My best friend gave birth to a beautiful baby girl two months ago and while I love spending time with her and having a wee cuddle, I look at her and I have no idea what to say or do. When I hold her I’m not thinking ‘aww I want one,’ I’m just thinking ‘don’t drop her, don’t drop her, Claire will kill you, don’t drop her.’

While I completely understand the desire to give birth to a little bundle of joy, I’m just not the type of woman that coos at every passing newborn. I like my life too much as it is. Plus if my boobs get any bigger I might fall over.

 

 

 

 

Nothing in life is certain but death, taxes and hangovers.

I realised something important this morning: I am old.  I may have just offended anyone over the age of 26 and while it’s true that I’m not exactly decrepit just yet, the point is, I feel old. For the first time in many moons, I went out on the town twice in two days. And boy I felt rough for it.

When I was 21, partying every weekend was pretty much a regular occurrence. It wasn’t only acceptable to tan a bottle of cheap Iceland vino on an empty stomach before heading to a bar to consume copious amounts of Cosmopolitans, it was practically encouraged. These days, after half a bottle of Prosecco (the fact that I drink Prosecco now as opposed to ‘Cheeky V’ surely in itself makes me old?) I’m ready for my bed. To be fair, I do have an extremely comfy bed and a couple of weeks ago, I even bought a mattress protector, providing bonus comfort for my ‘past one’s prime’ derriere, but that's besides the point.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed my foray into hard core drinking on Friday night. The mind was willing! I even initiated a trip to a dodgy pub for a spot of karaoke. And afterwards I indulged in normal post boozing behaviour (that being buying a takeaway and complaining that my fish tasted like chips, only discovering later that I had in fact eaten, just chips!) But the body, oh the body was weak.

I awoke at 8am on Saturday morning with a mouth as dry as an Arab’s sandal and a stomach as dodgy as a midnight walk through Govanhill. Hangovers like this (yes, it’s still here 36 hours later) just didn’t happen to me five years ago, which therefore leads me to the conclusion that I must be an old git.

On Saturday afternoon I met a group of friends for a boozy afternoon tea. Out of the seven of us, only two were wearing heels (and I think those two wished they weren’t after about 20 minutes.) Our poor neglected bunion infested feet can no longer cope with the pain of the beautiful high heeled shoe. Which saddens me (and probably my fiancé, who wonders why I still need to fill one of our wardrobes with thirty pairs of shoes I will likely never wear again) and surely proves that I am no longer a spring chicken.

As I trundle along towards the big 3 0, I wonder how the hell I’ll cope when I’m in my sixties. If I can’t be arsed making the effort to wear heels now, will I bother with my hair in thirty years’ time? Will I still read Cosmopolitan and worship Mulberry? I’m not sure about any of that. But I what I definitely am sure about, is that I’ll never ever, as long as live, go out on the piss two days in a row. Because I’m old now. And life’s too short for hangovers.

 

Music is ... A higher revelation than all Wisdom & Philosophy...

...said Beethoven. I love music and I’m not one of those music snobs either – I love the odd cheesy tune! But what I cannot stand is ridiculous lyrics. Here are a few of my favourites.

 

“I could probably make it out of any situation that you try to put me in to. If I swim with the piranhas guaranteed that I’mma probably have a fish dinner. “– Jessie J, Wild

 

WHAT!! First of all, since when was ‘I’mma’ a word? Secondly, how is this guy going to avoid getting eaten by piranhas and how can he possibly have a fish dinner without brown sauce? Madness.

 

 

“A gentleman is so 1995, so hard for a girl to find. A real husband is so 1999, so hard for a girl to find. ” – The Saturdays, Gentlemen

 

Did something happen in 1995 that I’m not privy to? Hmm let me think…Bridget Jones’ Diary was published…Middlesborough FC moved into their new stadium…The Queen Mother had a hip replacement….nope, nothing to do with gentlemen whatsoever. Nonsense. Furthermore, the Saturday girls spend three minutes singing about how much they want to find a gentlemen and then exclaim ‘I need a Kanye. He’s not a gentleman but I’d have him anyway.’ So basically the moral of the song is completely redundant. Shame on you girls.

 

 

“Are we human, or are we dancers.” The Killers, Human

 

Why Dancers? Why not actors, or scientists or dinner ladies? Google ‘what is ‘Human’ about and you’ll get some cracking answers from die hard Brendan fans trying to give some justification to this piece of garbage. One fan claims ‘Brandon Flowers, the lead-singer of The Killers, has said that the song is a mild-political statement inspired by a quote by journalist Hunter S. Thompson that "America is rasing a generation of dancers”. I think the song is generally about today's generation losing their morals, prioritising irresponsibly and conforming.’ Well obviously. Why didn’t I think of that?  

 

I'm sure Beethoven's turning in his grave.

 

 

Funny Fail?

 

Anyone who’s ever started a new job will know how much there is to adjust to. New systems to learn, new software to get to grips with, new groans from the stomach because it thinks it should continue to be fed at 12:30pm and not 1pm and most importantly, new people to get to know.

 

 

I’m the first to admit that I’m a bit socially awkward and don’t find making new friends that easy. My nervousness often results in me saying the wrong things and the difficult thing about not knowing your new colleagues from Adam, is that you have no idea what their tolerance for filth is. I find this to be a huge problem!

 

Sense of humour is a funny old bugger, isn’t it? Where does it come from? What makes one person squeal in delight at a Frankie Boyle joke about paedophilia and another person get up and walk out the gig? (Why anyone with less than a vulgar sense of humour would buy tickets to a Frankie Boyle gig is another matter entirely. Maybe they got confused and though they were going to a Frankie Valli concert.) My point is, trying to be charming and funny but not offensive is actually quite difficult.

 

As I was browsing Facebook this morning, I noticed quite a few posts about a ‘quiz night gone wrong’ at Radio in Ashton Lane this week. I won’t repeat exactly what was said but basically the quizmaster made a joke about rape and then when someone complained, announced that he would endeavour to  make the quiz ‘less rapey’ next week. Now I’m not saying that rape jokes are okay (mainly because if I did I would probably get rape threats myself from random psychos, but then again, my surname’s not Perez and this isn’t Twitter, so maybe not.) BUT a quizmaster’s job is to make the quiz entertaining. You have to accept that some banter, which may or may not verge on inappropriate, is going to take place. And if you don’t like it then you can just leave and go to another one of the many other drinking establishments that Glasgow has to offer.

 

You can’t really do that in an office though. But having once told a dead baby joke in front of a whole bar for free beer, I doubt I’m going to have any problems.