Stories of Growing up and Romantic Misadventures

I have always been a firm believer in Peter Pan’s mantra: “If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!”

While I doubt I shall ever feel too old or dignified to climb (or fall out of) a tree, there are certain things about growing up which I dread – the responsibilities, the expectations, the ever-present reminder that time is running out for you and your loved ones.

How nice it would be to stay this age forever – old enough to move away from home, young and helpless enough to be welcomed back to the nest when need be. Old enough to be trusted to make the right choices, young enough to make the wrong ones now and again.

But we all know things won’t stay the same, we know that the whole ‘I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up’ thing won’t stay cute forever, that our grace period for romantic misadventures will only last so long and really, we’re thankful for it – who wants to stay in shared digs and low-paid employment forever? I have a childish, bouncing up and down in one spot shouting “When I grow up I’m living alone” Macauley Culkin moment at least once a month. To stay 23 forever and exist in a constant stream of nights out and hangovers, how would our bodies, or our parents, stand it?

I turn 24 in the New Year, and with the first echoes of a quarter-life crisis ringing in my ears, I’ve been weighing things up – all the things I’ve achieved, but mostly, all the things I have yet to do. Pass my driving test. Travel. Find a career path can stick to.

All the grown up things my friends have been doing recently seem completely alien to me – getting a mortgage, getting engaged, having a baby, buying a bed… I can’t imagine ever being financially stable or responsible enough to own a home or devote my life to another person, never mind investing in a divan. The prospect of these adventures seems a world away.

But at least, where romantic misadventures are concerned, I feel I have come of age. I have been helplessly, blindly in love and fallen back out of it again; felt the sudden, blunt thud of hitting the ground, and realising, actually, you are strong enough to get back on your own two feet and carry on. I’ve played the games, tried on things that don’t necessarily suit me, made the same mistake more than once, I’ve run away from feeling and stayed where there was none, I’ve indulged in no strings attached, only to find myself tangled up in ribbons, tried to struggle free only to find the knots tighter round my skin. I have no regrets, but I’ve learnt a few lessons.

Wilde told us ‘Wisdom comes with age’ but mostly it comes with misadventure and I have at least learnt to take that wisdom into account when misadventure comes a-knocking. Being grown up has nothing to do with receipts of purchase or contracts binding, being grown up is entirely a matter of the heart. The most grown up I have ever felt was on the rare occasion when my head has managed to steer my heart clear of harm even when it most wants the thrill of the chance.

It’s the same old story – you know that Champagne gives you a sore head the next morning, but you never turn it down when it’s offered. You can say no to that exciting little glass of bubbles and reassure yourself that you will wake up headache free, but there’s still the niggling little wonder ‘Oh, what harm can it do?’ My brain has finally learned how to answer loud enough so that my heart will listen “It will do a great deal of bloody harm! It will feel like your little brain is being passed through a sieve and then repeatedly attacked with a potato masher while Alvin and the Chipmunks sing a never-ending chorus of ‘It’s a Small World After All’. That is exactly how it will feel.”  While we might risk this punishment for our heads when someone pops a champagne cork, it is a much greater deterrent when it comes to matters of the heart.*

So perhaps I may not be grown up or financially stable enough to invest in life’s important things, bed frames, family homes or lasting relationships, but at least I have learned how to tell the difference between a relationship that will last, and one which will simply give me a sore head in the morning.

(*Disclaimer: I have never learnt how to turn down a glass of champagne.)

David Cameron’s Naughty Step

Ladies and gentlemen, you may want to take a seat for this. It may shock and surprise you but I can assure you, it’s in the Guardian this morning, so it must be true.

A groundbreaking report due to be published this Monday has confirmed that “tougher prison sentences reduce crime” and “levels of police activity and staffing – have a direct impact on criminal activity”. Can you hear the countrywide vast intake of breath as an entire nation utters the same three words: “no fucking shit.”

So this latest report in the series of pointless social research provides more evidence to confirm something else we already bloody knew. Of course greater punishment will discourage further offending and ‘DUH’ if there are more police on the beat they are going to prevent crime or at least bring more criminals to justice – its basic maths. A small child could have written this report in crayon on the living room wall.

In fact, a small child probably has the answer to all Mr Cameron’s problems at the minute.

When children reach that enviable stage of knowledge when they know the difference between right and wrong, understand that wrong-doing is punished, right rewarded and repeatedly throwing your plastic spoon from your highchair is in fact not funny – at that point, children are the centre of all universal knowledge. They have learned the basic underlying foundations of society, mostly from Ceebeebies and the Disney Channel, but they care not a jot how the whole thing is implemented outside of their own playschool.

This small child could explain it to old Dave – it’s simple, someone gets sick, they go to hospital, doctor and nurse make them better. They understand that if many people get sick and need to go to hospital, you might need more hospitals, more doctors, more nurses.

The tot could also inform Cameron how the ‘time out step’ is meant to work – you bite your little brother, you get five minutes on the naughty step and you sit there for five minutes and think about what you’ve done – not two and half minutes playing Grand Theft Auto on a Playstation 3 – the full five minutes, focusing on the crime. Chances are you probably won’t go biting your little brother again – you might throw something at him instead.

They also understand basic policing – a parent may be able to keep three or four children in check and in one piece, but at a birthday party when there might be up to ten or fifteen kids running riot – the parents bring in reinforcements.

And kids at that age – they know exactly what they are going to be when they grow up. They want to be princess, so when they’re old enough, they’ll start wearing a tiara and go to the castle, or they want to be a fireman, so when they grow up they’ll get a big truck and go work at the fire station – it’s simple. See Dave, simple!

Unfortunately, like all ideas of innocence, they are complicated by the question of money.

Although having watched well educated, experienced bankers fuck it up over the past few years, it probably couldn’t hurt to put a small child in charge for a while.

But Cameron will undoubtedly ignore the small child’s very useful advice, at least until he needs to be re-elected, then they’ll do well for a photo opportunity. He will continue to release criminals after half serving half their sentence because it saves him a jolly amount. He will cut police numbers and later wonder where the bloody hell the Bobbies were when his car got nicked! And he will continue to bustle about in number ten with his plans to make my generation not only jobless, but homeless to boot.

Thatcher stole our milk – but Dave’s determined to steal any future we might have had.

In Karma I Trust

Recently, after a long series of unfortunate events, I put my faith in the fair but firm hands of Karma.

I have never been one for self-pity – what’s the point after all? Self-pity is ineffective, attention-seeking and thoroughly irritating to everyone else. Self-pity is for victims.

With such an unforgiving attitude you can imagine how surprised I was to suddenly find myself wallowing in it. Here was I, playing the Femme Fatale, indulging in the very sentiment that I condemned in others. How had I allowed myself to become a ‘victim’?

Yes, I had been hard done by, but it is nothing compared to some of the hardships others have faced over the ages. I have Rosie the Riveter on my bedroom wall, and yet here I was lying down in the dirt to lament my suffering. Who was I to play the victim when I do vengeful so much better?

So up I got, and with a montage of Christina Aguilera songs and scenes from Kill Bill playing in the background I began to plan my rise from the ashes. After all, if there is one thing that women do well, its spite.

I had kept my silence, I had played by the rules and I had been cheated, betrayed and left to clean up a mess that wasn’t mine. Over the years, women have articulated the rage and grievance I felt with eloquent, ground-breaking speeches of power and strength, but the words that came to my mind were those my mother had uttered on more than one occasion: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers.”

So I went to war.

And in this type of battle it is always reassuring to know that Karma is on your side. If I fail Karma will kick ass on my behalf in the long run.

I’m prepared to sit it out.

I have faith in Karma.

With such unrelenting faith in the powers that be, it’s a strange thing to suddenly be on the receiving end of Karma’s ass-kicking.

On Friday morning I found myself hands and knees on Hope Street after manoeuvring to avoid a man in a wheelchair and losing my footing in a pool of someone’s vomit. With black and blue knees, and a little blood split I limped on with a severe sense of injustice. I was on the way to an exam, if going arse over tits in someone else’s boke wasn’t a bad omen, what was?

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the following day I found myself sitting opposite two middle-aged gay men who had enjoyed more than one afternoon tipple. Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem, but after a less than satisfying lunch, the slice of apple crumble perched on my bruised knees was much more than dessert. It was to be the redeeming element of an otherwise disappointing meal. A culinary treat in an otherwise shitty week.

Amid the colourful chatter of Fatty and Crazy (our two flamboyant companions) about failed auditions for Cats and music careers that never quite lifted off the ground, Fatty – plump, drunk, thinning on top – let out a God-almighty sneeze that exploded across the table and onto me, my friend, and devastatingly, my cake. This may not have been the nail in the coffin were it not for Crazy – long mane of hair, layers of clashing patterns, necktie –who piped in that Fatty was probably “riddled” with all sorts after bed hopping his way through the seventies.

Needless to say my appetite was no more.

My slice of hope had been shat on.

And the victim in me cried out – what had I done to deserve this?

Bruised knees and an unprovoked attack on my immune system – I appeared to be the official target for the involuntary bodily fluids of Liverpool’s drunks.

Was this pay-back for the great contribution I had made, as a pushy barmaid, to the sobriety of the city? Was Karma serving justice for the occasions when I too had expelled an evening’s alcohol consumption on a street corner… actually no, it couldn’t be because I have always demonstrated the restraint and respect to only throw up where it can be appropriately flushed away… or on myself, but even then the responsibility of cleaning it up falls almost entirely on me.

And the sneeze?

Have I unknowingly inflicted my own ill health on others with a disregard for tissues? I have spent the last few weeks interrupting morning classes with regular, loud sneezes, but never have I directed them at anyone’s confectionery delights. That’s just cruel.

I can’t imagine what I have done to fall out of favour with the powers that be, but I’d like to believe my friend Alex’s theory that enduring the bad luck now means I will reap the good luck when the exam results are announced.

Time will tell.

Here I thought my days of being on the receiving end of a drunk’s bull shit were over. But apparently not…

However I shall trust that Karma knows what it’s doing, and whatever it is that I am serving penance for with the weekend’s misfortunes, I will see the benefits of it in the long run.

Don’t let me down Karma!