Note to My 15 Year Old Self

Anyone remember that scene in the movie 'Shallow Grave' where Ewan McGregor, Kerry Fox and Christopher Eccleston are interviewing for a new flatmate? Here's a brief snaphot of the questions they ask:

ALEX When you slaughter a goat and wrench its heart out with your bare
hands, do you then summon hellfire?

JULIET I mean, what are you actually doing here? What is the hidden
agenda?

DAVID Do a little freebase maybe, from time to time?

ALEX Or maybe just phone out for a pizza?

JULIET Look, it's a fairly straightforward question. You're either
divorced or you're not.

DAVID OK, I'm going to play you just a few seconds of this tape -- I'd
like you to name the song, the lead singer and the three hit
singles subsequently recorded by him with another band.

ALEX When you get up in the morning, how do you decide what shade of
black to wear?

JULIET Now, let me get this straight. This affair that you're not
having, is it not with a man or not with a woman?

I'd like to say I'm exaggerating when I say that my experience of flat-hunting isn't quite as hellish as this scene.

But actually, I think it's worse.

I have to move out of my flat in 4 weeks time. And hasn't she become picky since she moved to New Zealand! I remember living in a hostel in Darwin when I was 25 - sharing a small room with 3 others - and being thrilled when I managed to find a 1 bed flatshare with 3 others (2 of us slept in the bedroom, the other 2 shared a sofa bed. I started on the sofa and eventually graduated to the bedroom). It felt like Paradise having a bathroom and kitchen I wasn't sharing with 30 other twats from Cambridge.

Fast forward to 2015 and I have become the Goldilocks of flat-searching. The room isn't light enough... I don't want to share a bathroom... there's no garden.... there isn't a view of Rangitoto... and then there's the added complication of the people who already inhabit the flat. Every single flat I've liked and been back to visit has been subsequently nullified by the natives. There was the couple who thought I would not only love to live with them AND their 2 dogs AND their baby, but also wouldn't mind sharing their tiny living space with a Brazilian couple as well. Then there was The Dick. I briefly met The Dick on Monday when I went to see a lovely flat in Kohi. I got Dick-esque vibes from him then, which were unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately) confirmed when I saw the flat for a second time yesterday. The Dick is a head chef with Short Man Syndrome - which I'm sure you'll agree are 2 heinous personalities to combine. He managed to put me down 5 times in the 5 minutes I spent chatting to him, and mimicked me when I stumbled over my words. It brought back every unpleasant encounter I've had with head chefs during my 7 years of waitressing, and I'll be damned if I'm going to come home at night to hang out with every bastard who has ever retorted "well, she asked for it RARE. Stupid bitch."

(and breathe).

So, looks like I might end up living with Mr Anal who told me that he has a rule of "No showers after 9. We're not 23 any more!" I pretty much discounted that flat when he threw me out of the house after 20 minutes with "OK, don't want to move anyone along but..."

It's getting desperate people. I might need to leave the country. I've now realised exactly why I should have shacked up with someone in my 20s. Among the MANY reasons not be to single in your 30s (people who can't spell on Tinder, considering freezing my eggs, being the token single at dinner parties) here's the main reason: I CAN'T AFFORD TO LIVE ON MY OWN AND THE WORLD IS FULL OF FREAKS.

I should have just married Funny Bloke who sent me my one and only genuine Valentine's card when I was 15. He's a successful lawyer now (so I hear). And, presumably, still funny. I could be a housewife living in Solihull, having long lunches on Monday and an early G&T after pilates. And having a right laugh when he finally got back from the office.

Things I would tell my 15 year old Self #1: "Go on the date so you don't end up in New Zealand interviewing for flats with gay 22 year old boys who manage McDonalds in Manukau".

True story . That McDonalds manager's eyes lit up when I said I was a fitness instructor. "Free fitness classes?!" Yes, that will definitely cancel out the 5 complimentary Big Macs you're eating every day.

Anyway, I'm going back to see Mr Anal tomorrow afternoon, then I'm seeing Blokes That Sound Like They Might Be Quite Hot in Takapuna. Call the hotline now to register your vote. Please note that calls may cost your dignity, sense of humour, and considerably more than you expected to pay for sharing with 6 others in Avondale.

Pencil Me In

Living with a 25 year old boy is enlightening. He and his other 25 year old boy friends have conversations that go something like this "why didn't you come and talk to those French girls with me?", "because they were f&*%ing ugly", "no... one was hot..."

I've had a bit of a hiatus from the old blog. Partly because someone told me that they found my writing 'mortifying' (which sent me scuttling into the naughty corner to have a long hard think about my attitude. Too many mentions of the vajajay?); partly because I decided to come off Tinder and thus reduced my inspiration by roughly 85%; and (in no small part) due to sheer, unadulterated laziness. But inspiration is restored! My landlord has put our rent up by $250 per week, the cat and I have started a diet, and the UK X Factor has started again. Ergo - lots of things to bitch about and idiots on telly to mock. Happy days!

And I've decided that, if you find my writing mortifying, feel free to JUST NOT READ IT. Spend your Sunday reading something that won't offend your delicate disposition. I hear The Cat in the Hat is a worthwhile hour.

Onto more important things... this year's X Factor is proving worth its weight in comedy gold. It's the first year this has been broadcast on NZ TV - hence my (no doubt over-proportionate) joy. I've been dining off the hilarity of 2 fat girls named 'Bun 'n' Cheese' since 2008. In fact, if my sister is trying to cheer me up, all she needs to say is - in a forlorn tone of voice  - "Bye Bun 'n' Cheese", the girls' final words as they were given a unanimous "no" from the judges.

Anyway, this year it's not the contestants that are proving hilarious, but the judges. From Cheryl Fernandez-Tapas-Italy telling a bloke that his performance was "absolutely spellbounding" to Rita Ora saying "you just proved that you can't read a book by its cover"... Simon Cowell spends most of the time looking like he wished he'd asked for GCSE results before picking the panel. And everybody in New Zealand is baffled by the presence of Nick Grimshaw. Nobody here knows who he is, and explaining that he's that bloke off Radio 1 doesn't really explain what qualifies him to find the next Harry Styles.

So yes, the cat and I have decided to go on a diet. Well, obviously SHE didn't decide: the vet told me that Kitten Kathy is looking on the larger side and I needed to curb her appetite. And let's face it, Fitness Professional With Morbidly Obese Cat isn't really the look I'm going for. For my part, I started reading a book on living sugar free and realised that I'm probably eating about 10 times the recommended sugar intake per day... I read chapter 5 this morning 'get a breakfast routine' and promptly headed to the bakery for my chocolate almond danish. It's all going fantastically well. My best friend did once tell me that, whilst she has serious concerns about my developing Type II diabetes somewhere down the track, sugar is "a fundamental part of your personality. I'm not sure who you'd be without it". It's not unlike Samson and his hair. I might be captured by the Philistines and put to work grinding grain having had my eyes gouged out.

I better keep a look out for sneaky women called Delilah.

Let's talk about commitment-flakes. Call me old-fashioned, but I miss the days before mobile phones and the internet when you MADE A PLAN AND STUCK TO IT. The advent of technology has enabled many great advances for mankind, including the opportunity to change plans right up until the last minute. (Don't get me wrong: I am as guilty of flaking out and running late and changing plans as the next person. I reserve my hypocritical right to complain about it). It's not just that technology allows us to contact people to change plans, it's that it gives us so many more choices as to what we can do with our time. When my sister was leaving Barcelona in August, she was trying to make plans to see as many people as possible. A text message conversation went something like this:

FRIEND: I'd love to see you before you leave. Are you free Saturday night for dinner?
SISTER: yes sounds great!
FRIEND: OK I'll get back to you.
SISTER: You'll get back to me? Weren't you the one that suggested it?
FRIEND: Yes but I feel like you need confirmation, and I can't give that to you right now.

This is when somebody is LEAVING THE COUNTRY, POSSIBLY NEVER COMING BACK, and her friend can't commit to a simple Saturday night dinner. What is wrong with the world?!!

Speaking of commitment, I'm hoping to update my blog next weekend.

Unless I get a better offer.

Perhaps just pencil me in.

Rule Brittania

I have discovered 2 things that are absolutely essential to enabling me to write anything of substance. Without these 2 key ingredients my mind simply will not function and everything I write is, to put it delicately, shite. "What are these magic supplements?!" I hear you cry. "Are they Jameson's, marijuana, crystal meth? Do you start with Absinthe and finish by sniffing a Pritt Stick?" The answer, naturally, is a cup of Yorkshire tea and M&M's (the plain ones).

Now, admittedly, I wish I was a little more rock and roll than this. Part of me longs to be the kind of writer who goes on a 5 day bender which starts in my living room and ends with me looking like Jonathan Rhys Meyers with my fly undone and vodka splashed down my top, walking glassy eyed through the streets of London on a genteel Sunday morning. I do feel, however, that this kind of behaviour is somewhat frowned upon when you are working in the fitness industry. Somehow I'm not sure that my brilliant script on Mastery in Layer 2 would be as well received if it was submitted saturated in Tequila.

(Spoilsports).

A New Zealander recently remarked to me, "you British always say that you're skint. But you always manage to have money for beer and fags." Yes. This is part of our great British heritage. Lesson #1: know your priorities. In the words of 2 of our greats - Liam and Noel Gallagher - it's a crazy situation/ But all I need are cigarettes and alcohol... sometimes being in the land of the clean and healthy - New Zealand - you can forget what your roots are. I spent my entire Sunday this weekend watching back to back episodes of Cracker from 1993. The sight of Tesco's shopping bags, people smoking in pubs, council flats, the sheer misery on everyone's faces... I felt like I was right back home again. It was amazing.

Speaking of amazing, I've recently noticed that I've adjusted my vocabulary to being much more positive than it was when I lived in the UK. Instead of just replying "OK" now, my standard response is "great!", "perfect!"... "everything is awesome!" It's definitely a cultural difference. We Brits communicate by moaning; sharing our misery is how we bond. I recently remarked to a colleague that the question "how's it going?" in England would often elicit the standard response "oh, you know, same shit, different day". We don't view this as negative. It's just a flippant, amusing response. You know, like we say "living the dream". We don't actually MEAN we're living the dream. And if you do mean it, we think you're a wanker.

Lesson #2: the glass is half empty at all times. Even when it's half full, some bastard's probably gonna come and knock your drink over anyway. Tossers.

The longer I'm away from home, the more I start to feel like an alien in both worlds. In New Zealand, I'm the Brit who sounds like Posh Spice. As my friend delicately remarked to me recently, "you know, sometimes when you talk, all I hear is accent". At home, all the bars are changing names and people are getting pregnant and it all seems very far away. To them, your voice sounds weird. As the office princess told me, "I'm trying to work out what's going on with your accent. You sound American crossed with Australian. I feel like I'm talking to Alf Stewart". Not Kylie Minogue.... Alf Stewart.

This is the same girl who asks me every time we skype, "have you married an Aboriginal yet?"

One thing I'm not missing is the great British bureaucracy. I sent my UK passport back to Liverpool 6 weeks ago to be renewed. And they still have it. The problem, it seems, is that my US passport has my full name Sarah CATHERINE Shortt on it, but my UK one doesn't. So now they think I'm an imposter and have demanded not one but TWO copies of my birth certificate to prove that I am who I say I am. Apparently my original birth certificate wasn't proof enough - so I had to have it reissued by the registry office at a cost of $50. I don't know why I didn't put my middle name on my original UK passport. Perhaps I was tired. I was relating this story to the Physiotherapist along the lines of "those IDIOTS at the UK passport office..." and he interrupted me to say "I'm wondering who the idiot in this story is." Who knows if I'll ever get my British passport back. Then I'll just have my American one and I'll have to move to Iowa where they'll be even more positive than Aucklanders.

Bloody hell.

Adventures in Pussyland

So I would like to meet the idiot who came up with Facebook Messenger 'calling' service. WTF. For the uninitiated, FB messenger enables you to phone people that you are friends with on the site, even if you don't have their actual number. I know of at least 4 people - myself included - who have therefore accidentally called ex-boyfriends, ex-shags, random instructors in America.... I don't think I am exaggerating when I say that the biggest threat to Western civilization - after ISIS - is the phone 'enabler'. I would like to return to the days when you had to connect to an operator to contact someone. If we had to go through another person to reach our telecommunications destination, I think we can all agree that many embarrassing situations would be avoided. For example:

OPERATOR: TO WHOM TO YOU WISH TO PLACE A CALL?
21ST CENTURY CALLER: THAT BLOKE I HOOKED UP WITH LAST WEEK, THE ONE WHO VOMITED IN MY WASTEPAPER BASKET.
OPERATOR: (SLIGHT PAUSE) OK.... ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO CALL THIS PERSON?
21ST CENTURY CALLER: OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NO! SWEET JESUS THAT'S THE LAST THING ON EARTH I WANT. THANK YOU OPERATOR, FOR MAKING ME THINK TWICE.
OPERATOR: YOU'RE WELCOME. AN EMINENTLY SENSIBLE DECISION.

You see? I think Obama should move this up to the top of his presidential priorities. Alongside bringing video rental stores back. I can't be the only person who is mourning the loss of Blockbuster? Now I have to download Netflix. And I don't know how. WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH (cue dramatic wail).

Cause I know you're all wondering, what is the update with Vibrator-gate? It's here, it's still in the packaging.... principally because I bought a kitten and have realised that I can only contend with one pussy at a time. And that's despite the weekly questions from Mr Air New Zealand about my pocket rocket, preceded by him sidling up to me in the office going "BZZZZZZZZZZZZ..... how's it going?" I'll tell you how it's going: looking after Kathy Shortt II (AKA Kitten) is so stressful that I have realised that I can never have children. I feel guilty every day when I leave her to go to work. She's furious in the morning that I haven't let her sleep in my room. I had to give her oral medication this week that involved capturing her and prizing open her mouth to force the pill down - an experience that traumatized us both. Taking her to the vet is a military operation which requires the use of a broom to get her out from under my bed, pushing her into her little carry case, and enduring her heart-breaking cries for the entire 15 minute journey that it takes us to drive there. And at least I know she's not going to outlive me (I hope). How on earth do people breed, knowing that their offspring is going to be with them for the rest of their natural lives?

As an aside, when I told the Physiotherapist I was getting a kitten, his response was "well you shouldn't. You're an immigrant. You could leave the country at any given moment, and I'll be stuck with it." Er, right. Speaking of immigrants, I've decided that there are far too many English people living in my area. And yes, I realise that that's rich coming from me - but honestly, I can't go to my local supermarket without hearing a cut-glass accent saying, "No Jasper, put that down! Now where can we find the Rocket?" It's like being back in bloody Waitrose.

Also speaking of dating - we weren't, but I want to tell this story - my sister's friend went on a horrific online date in London last week. They met in the train station - he had texted her in advance to say, "I'm the fat, sweaty, bald bloke standing in front of Greggs". And fat, sweaty and bald he was indeed. They went for a few drinks, whereupon she discovered that he was 42, divorced, and from Planet Dullsville. Apparently his wife left him in the middle of the night - literally, she woke him up to tell that she had another man in her life: "I've found Jesus". He saw her 2 weeks later in Sainsbury's carpark with another bloke. (Presumably, Our Saviour likes their 3 for 2 on readymeals). After 3 drinks (yes, this girl stayed for THREE) she said to him,
"OK, I've gotta go, I've just had a call from Jesus."
"That's not funny."
"Right, sorry. OK, well, bye"
"Can I have a kiss?"
"No"
"Please?"
"No."
"PLEASE?!"
"No!"

How AMAZING is that story? I am going on a date on Monday and I can only hope that it is as disastrous as Fat Gregg's was.

So what happens when you get a whole load of instructors together and give them pizza? The Great Paleo Divide. At a post-workshop drinks session I witnessed a BODYATTACK instructor lose his s*&% when he went to get a piece of pizza. He stormed back to our group shouting, "THOSE PALEO MOTHERF*&^ERS HAVE TAKEN ALL THE TOPPING OFF AND LEFT THE BASE. OOOOH, I CAN'T EAT BREAD, I MIGHT DIE. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!" Well, yes. Rest assured, my American roots do not fail me: I eat the whole pizza and I always order dessert. Someone here has to.

OVERHEARD AT THE MILL

INSTRUCTOR TO ANOTHER INSTRUCTOR: You can't go wrong with "chest up, abs braced". If in doubt....

The Death of the Author

Is it OK to talk about vibrators in a blog? I mean, are we still going to be friends if I tell you that I recently read an entire online article entitled 'Vibrators: A Beginner's Guide'? If you have ever read The Death of the Author (although, quite frankly, why would you unless you are an eager English Literature undergraduate with elbow patches on your tweed?) then you will know the argument that, once the words are on the page, any meaning you - the reader - attribute to them is influenced by YOUR thoughts and tastes i.e. if you are going to interpret a piece about vibrators as offensive, then that's your own problem. And anyway, 50 Shades of Grey is playing at The Midlands Art Centre so I believe we can bring EVERYTHING to the table. All bets are off.

(Disclaimer over).

Let me take you back through the mists of time to June 2014: Tinder Initiation. I believe that's where the problems began. Fast forward 8 months and I have definitely NOT met the man of my dreams; however, I have encountered Man With Girlfriend, Man Who Passed Out and Muscle Man Who Threw Up In My Bin. I've been on three Tinder dates, all of which were"fine", "pleasant" and.... pretty tedious. I met Man Who Would Be Played By Jack Black In A Movie, who I inadvertently stood up for mini-golfing (who doesn't re-confirm on the day?) and I've had plenty of "romantic" messages online. My favourite so far has to be the guy who, when I didn't reply to a Happy New Year message he sent, wrote "hey you Butch, sorry I mean Bitch. I thought you were cool but I actually think you're a Bitch".... "actually I am pretty sure you are not cool".... "I have decided: you are definitely not a cool person". Ouch. Although nothing compares to my pretty red-headed friend who received a message saying, "You have beautiful hair. Can I piss on it?"

WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!!!

A friend of mine told me that I needed to get a vibrator. She herself had recently participated in a 'Vibrator Focus Group' (it's a thing), which required her to 'try out' (and, presumably, keep) a vibrator and provide feedback after 3 weeks. the vibrator in question was entitled 'Twist and Shout' and it didn't require batteries - you just plug it into your computer and you're off! (or, more accurately, on).

Anyway, it was a slow Friday night. I found myself eating cold pizza and watching Neighbours at 730pm (yes, in New Zealand, Neighbours is prime time Friday night viewing). So, to cheer myself up, I purchased a Ticket For One to see Neil Diamond in Auckland in October. (I would like to emphasise here that Neil Diamond was not the low point. Rock bottom was watching Neighbours by myself on a Friday night. I am a lifelong fan of ND, ever since I saw him at Birmingham's NEC in 1998, my first gig. Does Neil Diamond count as  'gig'? But I digress). THEN I found a kitten on Trademe, THEN I bought my first vibrator! The highs and lows of a tumultuous Auckland Friday night...

My friend has suggested that when I get my kitten, I should hold a "Meet My Pussy" party. But I feel that this is taking things a shade too far.

I think that's enough vagina-talk for one day. Let's talk about homesickness. I have discovered that being away from the familiar makes one do very strange things to feel at home. I now watch Coronation Street at least a few times a month, despite the fact that we are 2 years behind the storylines, and also despite the fact that I never watched it when I was in the UK (except when I worked on it; but that was more out of fear of a f*&^-up). I buy stacks of Cadbury's Creme Eggs, which I find sickly-sweet and never bought back home. I frequently listen to an Indian radio station in my car to remind me of getting taxi's around Birmingham (I'm not kidding) and I also pay an extortionate amount for Heinz Baked Beans.

Poms In Paradise never warned me about yearnings for Punjabi MC.

Can we also talk about the following Harold Bishop-related shocker, reported in The Daily Mail:

Could YOU endure sex education lessons from Harold Bishop? Former Neighbours star fronts new sex-ed series for teenagers

• Actor Ian Smith teaches young people how to put on a condom in new video
• The 76-year-old plays a grandfather in the series called 'Ask Grandad' 
• Video was produced after La Trobe University discovered just 59 per cent of teens in Australia reported using condoms when they last had sex
• Smith agreed to star in the video because he never received proper sex-ed 

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The man known to millions as Neighbours star Harold Bishop has landed himself a new role – teaching sex education.

Actor Ian Smith has been unveiled as the face of a new video series to support teachers delivering health and sexual wellness education in schools after La Trobe University discovered just 59 per cent of teens in Australia reported using condoms when they last had sex.

The 76-year-old plays a grandfather in the series called 'Ask Grandad', in which he teaches young people how to put on a condom.

So perhaps Neighbours should be post-watershed viewing after all.

OVERHEARD AT THE MILL

GRIT INSTRUCTOR: So I want you to Jack Off over the bench...