Boomerangs, Beaters And Moodles

Ever since April, morning showers have become a whole different experience. One sunny Oxford day towards the end of that fair month, a friend secretly purchased something for me that I had been admiring in a charity shop. What was the item? An amazing shower radio in the guise of a penguin whose two fins act as the volume and tuning dials and whose tie can be skewed to change from AM to FM and vice versa.

Back in a previous Leeds' life when I had a steady job, fixed-abode and a vague sense of security, I had a fish shower radio that helped me feel marginally more alive in the mornings by pumping out cheesy tunes of old courtesy of the cheery folk at Magic. You see, even back then, I had moved on from Radio One, preferring the Magical blend of 80s tunes with new music and friendly DJs. My new shower buddy's first run was actually hours after I was presented with it - not in a shower but inside a gazebo as we lay around in star shapes apres barbecue. Listening to an unidentified radio station, I found myself enthused by new artists again who maybe weren't the most current releases but were certainly unfamiliar to me. Hours later, several artists' names were scrawled on old receipts in my wallet. And what was the station? I should be ashamed to admit this but anyone who read my turning 30 entry will know I am well beyond shame... the station was Radio Two.

Since that illuminating day, the penguin showers with me every morning, channeling Chris Evans' voice into the cubicle. Evans' show is no match for Magic mornings of old and some of the features are clearly aimed at my seniors but the penguin's selective nature and my rushed mornings mean that for the moment, failing to find a better option, Evans' voice is the first I hear every weekday. I am particularly happy with the random nuggets of information I occasionally acquire from the show. On Friday, I was informed the average person reads about 10,000 words a day - a figure I have since tried to confirm elsewhere but have been unable to.

From the 10,000 plus words I have read in a twenty-four hour period, I have learnt some new vocabulary and as I love words, I thought I'd share these with you. Re-reading notes I made for a film review, I came across “Moodle”. “Moodle” is one of my favourite types of word creation – a blend, combining “Man” and “Poodle” to describe the kind of guys girls think are cute and like to just take out for a walk, rather than date.

The next day but still just within my 24 hour time-frame, browsing a Liverpool charity shop, a friend came across a cracking book - one so appallingly bad, I had to purchase. And the title? The A-Z Of Being Single – a tongue-in-cheek self-help book for men written by comedian, Jeff Green. Trying to predict "Z's" entry, we flicked through the book and found Green's opening advice – something we could have never guessed and was both so surreal and awful, it was enough to convince me to part with 60p:

“Zealousness (Over-)

Be careful not to show excessive interest in your new partner's life, especially during the early days of the relationship. Remember, you're a bloke; you're not supposed to be that keen. There is a thin line between healthy attention and downright creepiness. You will raise her suspicions and possibly drive her away forever if you look deep into her eyes and say in a sincere voice things like:

• Please tell me about your cat's operation again...

• I wish I could have your periods for you.”

Cruising towards the beach, money parted with and book in hand, I enthusiastically opened up at “A” and started to skim through, stopping at particularly ludicrous entries to share my dismay with my companions. All of us coupled up, we were amused to discover we have already nearly reached Green's fifth stage in his “Seven Stages Of A Relationship”:

Stage 1 - Holding hands

Stage 2 – Pet names

Stage 3 – Flatulent familiarity

Stage 4 – B & Q

Stage 5 – Matching tracksuits

Stage 6- Twin Beds

Stage 7- Death

I hope the last three stages are a long way off, although I guess The boy and I are kind of going through a temporary version of Stage Six, in that we are currently living in separate cities so most definitely sleeping in different beds.

The two nuggets of information that less personally affected me and satisfied my love of words were the definitions of “Beater” and “Boomerangs”. According to Green, Beaters are: “A socially unskilled friend who comes along with you on the pull for the sole purpose of driving any available women into your range”. He goes on to formulate a hypothetical situation, illustrating how men can use this friend by pretending not to know them, agreeing with the disgusted women trying to escape the “Beater” and offering to save these damsels with his company or suggestions of a new venue to accompany them to. Green implies that a “Boomerang” is another socially inadequate person who “as adults actually chooses to live with their parents”.

All that amazing information in a mere 24 hours! And my top three, rather bizarrely, are all belittling negative categories for types of men. I look forward to the next day's worth of reading material, I have time to reflect on. I am yet to finish my delightful new purchase and something tells me, it might not be the last time you hear about it.

The Cruelty Of Strangers

I’m sweating in the oppressive heat of the underground on my way from Angel to Kensington Olympia. I’m on the first leg of my journey on the Northern line on the way to Kings Cross and I have just sat down. Almost immediately, I have the misfortune to hear the guy wearing sunglasses sitting beside me loudly say: “Gays should be put in line and shot. They’re disgusting”. This remark is said without any shame in the kind of voice intended to be heard by all around, inviting controversy. His friend opposite heartily agrees before the original imbecile goes on to theorise: “Being born gay is bollocks – come on, do you see two year old boys trying to make out?” I struggle to ignore the temptation to respond to this ludicrous line of argument and manage by internalising my rant.

This is the fourth thing I have heard or witnessed in one day to shake my faith in humanity and genuinely shock, surprise or disgust me. Earlier in the day I encountered a child arguably more unfortunately named than God’s Promise. Who names their son Endurance? Calling the register, I struggled to stifle a smirk, immediately thinking of condoms and later of the Japanese game show. Towards the end of the same lesson, I stopped another student from walking out of the class. When asked where they were going, they cockily informed me they needed to fart and could they please leave the room. A few hours on and another child I have expressly told to stay put abandons ship. I go to challenge him but a learning support assistant stops me and calls me over to tell me she has given him permission because he needs to "break wind" and this isn’t something I want to witness. I don’t remember fellow students ever pre-empting such an event while I was at school or recall ever encountering this request in the five years that I was teaching in Leeds. I’m sure the accepted approach was to hope for a “silent but violent” variety and cause class uproar while strongly denying any involvement – there was none of this unabashed pre-admittance and this class avoidance technique was unheard of.

Leaving Victoria train station early one Sunday night slightly bleary eyed I saw what appeared to be a man hosing down the pavement. As he got nearer to me, I narrowly missed the projectile stream of urine. The sight of men peeing against a wall is fairly commonplace but not a man walking in broad day light seemingly sober towards a crowded train station with his flaccid dick out, weeing as he moves. I was horrified and things seemed to have reached an all time low. If I had been in India this everyday sight would have been no more shocking than seeing a woman squat in the street or someone pooing in the slums and beyond. Obviously things deemed unacceptable in one culture are the norm in another – in the UK abandoned dog turd incurs a fine, whereas horses seem to live by a whole different set of rules but if we were in Hungary you wouldn’t bat an eyelid if a horse trotted past wearing a giant diaper.

Being called fat in India is often intended as a compliment, suggesting wealth and good health. The Nigerian guy in Malaysia who told me I was a “big girl” had intended to woo me, rather than mortify me. If someone in England was to call you “fat” or a “big girl” defences would go up and they would be judged as rude. Yet, in the last month and a half, two rather distressing encounters have occurred. Browsing the sales rack in Primark, I was flabbergasted when a woman looked at me and told me “You’ll never fit that over your bump.” Completely startled and far too polite to retaliate, my face flushed and my internal monologue began. This woman was the kind who in age had retained a trim figure and had obviously enjoyed the sun bed throughout her life. She clearly persisted in buying clothes far too tarty or young for her age and was pawing a skimpy tight-fitting mini dress as she gave me this uncalled for and frankly unnecessary advice. It was only weeks later telling the story to my sister, that we formulated the perfect come back – I am aware I do not have the figure of a model but at least my skin fits me.

Having survived such pleasant commentary from an aged skank, I should have been prepared for my next shock. Talking to a hotel receptionist in Bristol, a rather rotund fellow guest listening in unasked decided to share his opinions about our destination and then proceeded to ask me: “Do you have a bump?” Initially oblivious of his meaning, I looked to me knees thinking that perhaps I had unknowingly knocked them. As I began to look back up, the penny dropped and that same characteristic rosiness returned. Once again too stunned to speak and too polite to retort, it wasn’t until days later we decided I should have asked him if he was hungry.

A few days ago on the radio, I listened to stats claiming most people worry about giving up a seat on a bus or train for a seemingly pregnant woman for fear of getting it wrong and causing offence. Since my travels, I am fully aware I need to get back in shape but pregnant! It is just my luck to have met the few individuals who manage to fall outside these statistics. A steady build-up of these disturbing encounters has left me severely doubting humanity. I am in serious need of a door holder, bag carrier or “bless you” to remind me such individuals are thankfully in the minority.

Another Chapter Begins

In tribute to Old Maid's Day today, a celebration of thirty - the age when you're officially an Old Maid, panic often sets in and people start to evaluate their lives

"But you're only 12," the bubbly Canadian at the bar next to me affectionately said. I was forced to admit that I had in fact turned 30 some time ago. Something that I had been dreading for months and as the fateful date drew nearer, grew to care less about.

In my teens 30 had seemed ancient - the end of life, the end of the road. Eighteen felt old with only 12 years until I would be deemed officially dead; a concept explored in the 1970s film, Logan’s Run, that depicted a society where people are killed off at 30 or forced to become fugitives on society’s outer fringes.

Less extreme views in our society see 30 as representing the outer-most boundary of youth, the border between young and middle-aged. Now, realising, I am no longer considered young and I am an adult, a woman, not a girl, is a hard thing to accept. I have to ask myself why this milestone age carries such stigma, expectation and anxiety.

The number itself means very little; it is the way others perceive us and the landmark events that individuals are expected to have achieved by this age that are more significant. Thirty is a socially imposed milestone, unlike 18 or 21, that are significant because of their legal implications. Thirty is a marker by which humans can measure each other both physically, in terms of ageing body conditions and in terms of life achievements. With our huge capacity for learning, people grow and develop over time and judge each other by how far we have done so. To feel as if nothing much has changed implies failure.

Men have a tendency to measure their success by their careers and personal relationships and are often more concerned with the affect of ageing on their joints, with many athletes and footballers out of the game after 30. Women however, fear losing their looks and getting wrinkles, reflecting at 30 on the status of their social standing and ability to form a long-lasting meaningful relationship.

Feeling, somehow cheated, I experienced no magical transformation as the bewitching hour drew near and the clock struck midnight. I wondered what the big deal was. Historically, according to 19th century belief systems, women have more to worry about, becoming 'old maids' or 'spinsters' at 30 if they have not followed traditional life paths. The word 'spinster' by modern standards has positive connotations of a woman who spins wool, thereby living independently from the male species, off her own wages.

Wool spinners were often single women and in medieval times when the fear of witchcraft was very real, likened to witches, as something out of the ordinary and therefore threatening. This sinister association disappeared in the Elizabethan era and 'spinsters' became women of traditional 'marrying age' without children who wouldn't or couldn't marry. Today, the term is viewed as derogatory, suggesting those it describes are wrinkled bitter old women. The rather twee title 'Old Maid' is commonly used to describe unmarried women without children, past the age a woman's biological clock is traditionally thought to be active. The fear of becoming a crazed baby-obsessed single woman is still very real for many.

With the fast pace of life, developments in gender expectations, the erosion of the family unit and longer life expectancy, fear of becoming an 'old maid' should be something of the past with women celebrating their freedom and independence on days like today - Old Maid's Day (June 4th). In 2007 the Office for National Statistics found that the average age for first marriages increased to 31.9 years for males and 29.8 for females and the majority of the population were cohabiting.

There has also been a huge swing in favour of delaying parenthood until the thirties and beyond. In 2006 the Baby Medical Advisory Board claimed that 48 per cent of women having their first child were over 30. Statistics collected by NationMaster showed the average age for first time mothers was 29.1.

In modern society, the pressures to have made something of yourself, lived a little, be a home owner and have a successful career are more predominant. Although with house prices increasing over the years and the current recession, the time it takes to amass sufficient savings means that homeowners are now increasingly in their thirties, rather than twenties. According to the GE Money Home Lending and Customer Research Organisation, the age of first time buyers in the UK has increased from 27 to 34 in the last 30 years, with only a third of buyers buying with a spouse, unlike in the 1970s when 80 per cent purchased with a partner.

These statistics suggest it is perfectly acceptable to be single, childless and without your own home, yet 30 still seems to be that age we dread. Humans have a habit of breaking up significant chunks of time into decades- the ‘noughties’. the 60s, golden wedding anniversaries... As a child I was told, the older you are, the faster time escapes you. This is one thing that certainly rings true for me - I can’t remember being ‘bored’ since the age of 13. In the grand scheme of things, 10 years is pretty insignificant; in the life of the solar system a decade is only enough time for the earth to travel around the sun 10 times.

A loophole around this human tendency to look to the future, plan and dream is coping more with the details of each day as it comes, something increasingly easy to do as the pace of life speeds up. One reason, I stopped fearing 30 was a pre-acceptance of the age. My ‘turning’ had alarmed me for so long before the big day, I was already starting to view myself as 30. By the time it was my birthday, I was so busy and stressed, I almost couldn’t be bothered to celebrate it.

After ‘d day’, I wasn’t a dramatically altered person but had to tick a different box on forms and unintentionally started to assess what I really value in life, what my energy should be invested in, who my friends really are and how I have changed over the years. I realised that the biggest difference in who I am now is my attitude to others - no one is ugly. I try to see the positive in whatever life may throw at me; I care less about what others think about me and I am, perhaps more self-assured.

The way others view me, has changed to some extent. To be taken seriously, I feel I have to dress like an adult, and express my personality less through clothes and accessories. At 30, it is inappropriate for me to behave in the same way as I did as a student. For the first time in my life, after my 30th Birthday, my mother, who is not very keen on children, actually started suggesting I ought to consider my body clock and I found myself surrounded by friends discussing mortgages and children.

Turning 30 wasn’t all bad. It was an excuse to have a huge party and rely on friends making a special effort. One of my friends made up for the 21st she never had, while another proved being 30 didn’t necessarily mean that you had to be sensible, having to redecorate after her 30th. Unlike for men, who reach their sexual peak in their early 20s, 30 is something to celebrate for women as the age their sexual peak begins, hitting it somewhere between 30-40.

Am I happy with who I am at 30 and do I fit the social model? Until recently, I was a student again; I am still without a house, job or children and back to a long-distance eight-year relationship so should be despairing, but the reality is, I feel I have achieved something over the years. I have experienced world travel, have a profession and will soon be embarking on another. TV sitcoms like Friends, Sex and the City, Coupling and Seinfeld help make it cool to be 30.

The saying goes, ‘You are as old as you look or feel’ and according to supermarket staff who regularly ID me and my friendly Canadian, I’m not 30. So as modern women, let’s empower ourselves to free ourselves from the pressures and expectations of being 30 by starting a new chapter in our lives rather than ending an era.

Now you’re 30, you’ll:

• Leave clubs before the end to "beat the rush".

• Get more excited about having a roast on a Sunday than going clubbing.

• Prefer Later with Jools Holland to MTV.

• Start referring to those older than you as “Only...”

• Stop throwing out worn clothes because they could be useful for doing DIY, house work or gardening in.

• Listen to Radio 2, instead of Radio 1.

• Take a greater interest in the world around you and the news.

• Stop laughing at those innovations catalogue that fall out of newspapers and start seeing the benefit of a plastic figure for the car to deter would-be thieves.

• Think IKEA and self-assembled furniture aren’t a bad way to spend your Sunday.

• Start to understand the benefits of a pension scheme.

• Have to begin supporting your parents, financially and emotionally.

• Stop tutting at immobile elderly people taking too long to get on or off the bus and start tutting at loud swearing youths instead.

• Start saying things like, “I remember when the top ten was good...”

• Start to feel the cold and lose your ‘beer jacket’.

• Have a well stocked fridge and enough milk and bread.

Battle Of The Pen Pushers

I'm sitting in the darkness, pen in hand distracted by the person sitting next to me. I should be focusing on the film I'm due to review but I am preoccupied by the gentle sound of the pen gliding across the page. I've never been in a cinema before and seen another person making notes while watching and I'm mesmerised by the novelty. Cinema note-taking has become second nature to me.

I've always been a fast writer and able to write without looking at the page – whether I do or not in fact makes little difference to the appearance of my characteristic messy scrawl – indecipherable boy's spider writing. I've always comforted myself with the belief that illegible writing is supposedly a sign of intelligence.

At school I took pride in my writing being like a sort of code to crack but as I got older it posed a problem in the exam hall. Somehow my English teacher managed to get me extra time to make my letter formations clearer linking my appalling handwriting to my equally terrible eyesight. I've always been a bit of a perfectionist, often obsessively thorough but this has never really extended to presentation – something I have never had much talent for, at least not without the aid of a computer.

Reviewing films I like to have detailed notes of quirky character traits, stand-out sequences/camera shots/scenes, poignant/ridiculous/humorous/terrible lines and of initial reactions I may forget later. The first time I took a pad into the cinema it felt like a way of justifying my presence – the paper pardoned my lack of companion. Now biros and paper have become essential film-watching equipment like binoculars at the opera. I feel naked without my pen and a slight panicky sensation as I worry I'll forget some detail I'll deem vital later. Sure, I've written reviews without notes and will if necessary but the perfectionist inside me laps up the sight of the reassuring pile of scrawl snaking across the back of now redundant print-outs.

I'm unable to start a book without reading all the blurb, any review excerpts included and any background notes about the author or novel first. For this same reason, walking around galleries and museums with me can be an infuriating experience and a friend recently pointed out why I don't cook. I've always said I can't be bothered cooking and would rather spend my time doing something else but when I did cook for friends a few weeks ago, this same obsessively thorough compulsion came out to play again as I meticulously chopped up the herbs - no wonder I have no time to prepare everything from scratch!

Unable to resist the temptation of glancing over at the pen-pusher next to me, I'd unintentionally pitted myself against him – every time he wrote, if I wasn't writing too, I couldn't help but wonder what I had missed. As the credits started and the room got brighter, I froze in my chair. Although, I enjoyed the film (and thoroughly), it's not this appreciation that holds me in my place but the inexplicable urge to speak to this possibly equal-minded fellow reviewer. Seeing a likeness in someone that is so rare prompts the desire for communication but I can't see our conversation going beyond:

So you take notes too.

Yes.

So instead of possibly making a fool of myself, I linger, exit the building, indecisively pace outside for a few minutes and walk away, wondering if he is as obsessively thorough as I am and whether he sees it as a blessing or curse?

The Trouble With Russell

“A leopard can’t change it spots” but this Leo’s opinions and tastes seem to be able to inexplicably and suddenly change. I haven’t been to the cinema in over a week now. Normal for some but entirely exceptional for me. Since moving to London, re-training and starting my painful and currently unfruitful job search, one thing has kept me busy and sane – my beloved cinema visits. However much I may slate Cineworld in Wood Green, I can’t deny the hours of distraction and vast amount of saved money Cineworld’s monthly pass has provided me with. When you have little money and a limited and random array of London based friends, life isn’t lived in the social fast lane. Since last September when I signed my Cineworld contract, I have seen approximately two to three films every week but this last week nothing.

Russell Crowe falls into my category of unfathomable dislikes alongside Hugh Grant, Mcdonald’s, Beck, The Levellers and Radiohead. I can’t quite pinpoint where or when my aversion to these people or things began. For some bizarre reason for a few years when I was about fourteen, I decided Hugh Grant was cool. I have no idea why but this misguided appreciation was there until I abruptly decided one day that he was an appalling actor and no longer wanted to watch anything linked to him. Lucky for Hugh, this phase passed and I’m now open to his films again.

Beck, The Levellers and Radiohead were all bands I used to love – I remember bobbing away to Beck at V97. Now I find The Levellers and Beck highly irritating while Radiohead just depress me. Mcdonald’s was a treat as a child, something I would beg for, normally spilling strawberry milkshakes all over myself but for the last decade I can’t go near the place. I am no activist – the Mcdonald’s smell alone is enough to put me off and make me feel mildly nauseas.

Of course as you grow older your tastes are supposed to change and your opinions “broaden” but I can’t help but question when and how some of these changes came about. As a child I loved fake transfer tattoos and clearly remember carefully placing a giant black skull along the length of my sister’s neck – as someone who detests tattoos, describing them as “common”, mum wasn’t best pleased. Now, I have no desire for any form of tattoo while my sister has three – relievingly none are giant skull tattoos or cover her entire neck!

One aspect of my life that has remained consistent is my attitude towards my friends. As children, it is common to fall in and out with people and bicker and as an adult, it is easy to lose touch. I remember only three Russell Crowe moments involving “friends”, all of which I can at least justify. I recall one friend coming to stay at my parent’s house for a weekend – the first time I had ever spent such a long period of time with him. By the end of the weekend his sycophantic ways had charmed my mother but failed to impress me. After Big G asked him to stay longer and join us for dinner, I burst into uncontrollable tears. Not a tearful or particularly emotional person, his slimy moves, snide competitive remarks and attempts at ingratiating himself had driven me beyond my limit to a point where I could no longer tolerate another minute with him.

My year of travelling has caused observable changes – I am no longer so interested in clothes/shoe shopping and don’t view wearing the same outfit two days running as a crime. I am still a hoarder but I’m more open to some de-cluttering – if I don’t like a book why keep I, eh? Unlike with Russell Crowe, I can pinpoint the reason of all of these changes.

Poor old Russell Crowe is somebody I have just started disliking. I’ve read through his back-catalogue but still can’t pinpoint the moment or film release that made me so against him. I was never a huge fan but wouldn’t actively avoid a film merely because he is in it – something I now find myself doing.

Having seen everything I particularly wanted to see, this last week I was left with the choice of Miley Cyprus’ first big feature role in The Last Song (widely panned but need I even tell you this?) or yet another Robin Hood film. A fan of Cate Blanchett, I’d have given Robin Hood a go if it wasn’t for Crowe’s involvement. Just watching trailers makes me sink into my chair. I’m not sure if all this is the result of press coverage presenting Crowe in a negative light, his choice of films having no appeal to me whatsoever or some other undiscovered cause – the more I reflect, the more I start to think Mel Gibson should be included in my earlier list. I know I’m not the only person who feels this way about both these actors so perhaps some of you guys can help me out? Whatever the cause, I blame Russell Crowe for this week’s film famine.

Reunited With An Old Enemy

I’m not one for pastel colours but I like my sports mixed. Bastardised blended “sports” are the way forward. Aside from swimming, forget straightforward aerobics, running, tennis, circuit training…and think fusing two “disciplines”. This month has been a month of vouchers again so my body has been subjected to a sudden excessive burst of exercise.

On several occasions, I self-consciously sneaked up to the reception desk at "Ironmonger Row Baths" and swiped copies of the gym group’s free magazine in order to utilise the back cover vouchers to the max. Nearly three weeks later and my fitness frenzy is unfortunately coming to an end as the date on the remaining vouchers has nearly expired.

Last time I put my body through a sudden bout of intensive exercise, I sampled aqua aerobics, pilates and Iyengar yoga. This time, I decided to try out some of the bizarre combination activities like reggae aerobics (as it sounds), street dance (incorporates hip hop and funk dance moves set to R & B and hip hop from the 70s, 90s and present day), boxercise (a mixture of boxing, as the name suggests, with circuit training and aerobics moves) and soca aerobics (nothing to do with football as I had at first suspected but moves set to Calypso music fused with elements of soul).

While I enjoyed all four activities, boxercise flew by the fastest; street dance wasn’t as terrifying as I has imagined and had me silently chuckling to myself; reggae aerobics left me aching for days afterwards and soca aerobics was the most fun but turned me into a glistening beetroot. All four highlighted my appalling lack of coordination and reminded me of my contempt for that well known aerobic dance move “the grapevine”.

I had a phase during my A’levels where Jane Fonda and the cabbage soup diet ruled my life. Prancing around the front room on a daily basis, despite doing the same work-out repeatedly, I could never quite grasp the footwork of “the grapevine” or understand its purpose – doing the move just felt like I was parading around looking stupid rather than actually sweating it out.

For years now, I have managed to avoid being reunited with the dreaded “grapevine” until this recent attack of voucher madness. It fascinates me that in every class “the grapevine” seems to be this legendary move that needs no introduction or explaining. I mean, where the hell did it come from and why the name?

In true Leo style I decided to do a little research and unsurprisingly found very little – after all everyone knows what it is so why write about it? One website tracing dance steps through the ages, amusingly ascribed the move to my ex-work-out hero, Jane (http://nymag.com/shopping/features/27746). Good old Wikipedia, describes it as “the name of a dance figure, which may look different in various ballroom, club, and folk dances, but shares a common appearance: it includes side steps and steps across the support foot” and is used in the Foxtrot, Polka, Electric Slide and Hustle, suggesting it has much older routes in the dance hall rather than the gym. Various links did at least explain that its purpose is more to link moves and keep limbs moving than produce an instant burn. As for the name, I can only assume the shape of the move has some resemblance to the intertwining of grape vines.

For those who haven’t experienced the joys of “grapevine”, http://www.ehow.com/how_2082672_do-grapevine-aerobic-move.html teaches you how and stomps on my already deflated ego misleadingly describing it as a “moderately easy” move “easily mastered in a few sessions”. Apparently “once you get the hang of the grapevine it can become very addictive.” Not an addiction I’ve ever suffered from!

My Twenty To Ten

Shopping in Morrisons this evening reminded me of club nights, especially cheesy student ones. I recall that end of the night crazed desperate look of the most wasted who have suddenly realised the time and are seeking an unsuspecting victim to prey on – someone oblivious to the time and who doesn't realise what any last minute advances actually signify. I am not sure if I ever carried out a “panic pull” or was on the receiving end of one but I certainly recall wearing high prescription beer goggles at times (perhaps cider/spirit goggles is more appropriate) and may well have been a “10 at 2 and a 2 at 10” myself.

Having already been into Morrisons once tonight, I couldn't resist popping in on my way past walking to the tube station – you see, like those drooling sickos scanning the dance floor from the side or pretending to strut their stuff while checking out the left-overs with their peripheral vision, I wanted to win my pre-closing prize – my “twenty to ten”.

For some reason, I didn't discover the benefits of super late shopping until the combination of travelling on a tight budget and no longer having to fit a million things into my day meant I found myself in an Australian supermarket late one night and came away with a bag of extremely cheap reduced goods. Always the bargain hunter, while away I convinced myself that certain foods were cheaper in the UK and much to my horror, on returning discovered either my perceptions had been warped, my memories faded or the “recession” had actually struck us pretty badly. Doing my weekly shop, I can now no longer afford most fresh meats or vegetables and often shop in three different supermarkets, getting the cheapest items from each.

I am not often in Morrisons as late as tonight's visit and was thoroughly amused by the antics at the cooked meat counter. At 9.20 the man behind the counter got his sticker gun out and started to bag up and label any remaining food, placing it on top of the counter in an attempt to entice customers – an unnecessary act. I look but I'm unimpressed so retreat to the magazine aisle and from here can hear two women loudly asking when he's going to reduce the whole chickens still unsold. I listen to him tell them that the shop doesn't shut until 10, explaining that any final reductions won't occur until immediately before closing. The women walk away loudly planning their return once they have finished the rest of their shop. Still browsing through magazines, I hear a whole array of voices all querying the same thing.

Officially all out of time wasters and realising the time, I decide to go over for one final look. Around the counter stand five shoppers and two are loudly arguing with the man in charge, trying to persuade him to drop the price of chickens. As I approach what was beginning to sound like an auction descends into hostility. One of the men swears at the chicken keeper and storms off noisily, leaving the rest of us in wide-eyed disbelief, listening to the complaints of the wounded worker.

My desired meaty treat has dropped in price but not enough for my liking – starting at £3, it's down to £1.99 but I've seen it for £1 before so know to hold my ground. I make a mental agreement with myself to wait no longer than a further five minutes. In the meantime I witness more shoppers pacing in front of the counter, eyeing up chickens and trying to cut a deal but Morrisons have trained this stubborn member of staff well and he knows how to milk the full price until the bitter end, convincingly telling these newbies it's the supervisors job to decide clearance reductions and that said supervisor may decide not to significantly drop the price anyway. As he spouts out this nonsense, he has the price gun in his hand and just as they turn away shaking their heads, he fires at my target. Having just put the onus onto the supervisor, he has cut my price to just over £1. I grab the goods, remembering my personal promise and take one final look at the seven remaining whole chickens and group standing around hungrily eyeing them up. Victory is mine.

Back at home, I open up the sealed bag and discover my very own “10 at 2 and 2 at 10” in now cold food form and increasingly disappointing over a much shorter time period. Still, it's the hunt that's more enjoyable than the prey, right?