Thank You Girl

Yesterday I held a door open for a little boy and his dad. 

We were in a service station off the M6 (told you I had a tiny bladder) and I found myself in that awkward situation where you try to assess how far away is too far away to hold the door open for a person without looking like an overbearing idiot.

My method of decision in these situations is usually quite simple, if not completely mental. I think to myself, in the length of time it would take for said person to get from their current location to the doorway, could I sing more than the first two lines of Brass in Pocket? If the answer is yes, then fuck it. Cut your losses and run. 

This was the case yesterday. I should have just walked on and never looked back. 

But I didn't. 

I got one look at the wee boy's cute little face and stalled. I waited just a fraction of a second too long and then had to hold the door open. By the time father and son reached the doorway, Chrissie Hynde would have used her arms and her legs (and her style and her sidestep) to bat me about the head for taking so bloody long to make my mind up.

So, there I was. A smile on my face, the Pretenders stuck in my head, and holding the door open for this angel-faced kid and his dad. I was standing there waiting for the shining praise I was about to receive... When the thundering gobshite strode right past me without even a second look. 

Then the black rage descended. 

Did this man realise how much mental turmoil I'd gone through just to decide if I should hold the door open for his ungrateful backside and his snottery wean? 

Clearly not, as I saw him later in WH Smiths buying the child a bag of fruit gums without a care in the world. I can only hope the packet was filled with the rank green flavour gums that nobody likes. 

As we continued our journey, I kept on thinking about the importance of saying thank you. Driving on the motorway was a perfect example. 

In the UK, I'd say 95% of drivers on the road are courteous. When you let someone in, there's usually a wave, maybe a quick push of the hazard lights, or (my favourite) that brilliant wee flick between both indicators. When I'm behind the wheel it tends to be a nervous combination of all three cos I'm neurotic and worry that the driver behind hasn't seen me thank him.

These minute responses all make us feel quite good about ourselves. We relish the little flash of pride.

However, we all know very well that firey spurt of anger we feel when a person doesn't signal their gratitude. Robbed of the right to gloat, our reaction is usually something along the lines of "aye, you're welcome, fud" and a quick flash of the vickies (low enough that the driver in front won't see, obviously). 

My favourite reaction to uncourteous drivers comes in the form of my step-dad. His method is to wave madly at the person as if he knows them, until they wave back. He'll then shout "no problem pal!" to no one in particular, and continue on his merry way. Comedy gold.  

Recently we were in the States, where driving is an entirely different experience. Nobody lets you in. Nobody says thank you. Everybody gets slap-happy with their horns. It's the stuff of nightmares. It is genuinely like a real-life version of Wacky Races where every other driver on the road is Dick Dastardly.  

But the only people who seem to care are the foreigners. Americans just go about their daily drive from A to B and never get worked up about the lack of gratitude. 

Why have we got such different attitudes? Why is it so rage-inducing when people can't just say "thank you"? Is it really that big a deal? I have no idea. 

But the one thing I do know is this - the next person who doesn't display some manners when I go out of my way to help them is going to get a high five. In the face. With a brick. 

You were warned. 

Talk Back Trembling Lips

Analytics on this page let me know how many views my new-fangled blog has had. Currently it's sitting at 102. That's over a hundred people to whom I am going to have to personally apologise. It's also 102 taunts that I can expect in the near future (actually, it's probably only about 80-something given the amount I received in the office today). 

My day today was permeated with various clever remarks such as "blog about that" / "ooh, careful she doesn't write a blog about you" / "your writing changed my life, please don't ever stop". The last line was actually uttered, but it was followed by a sentence including a few choice words like "arty farty" and "pain in the arse", so I'm beginning to think it may have been facetious. 

However, I'm sure that at least one of you (hi mum) will be pleased to hear that I'm going to power on and continue writing. Don't all celebrate at once.

This morning I was sitting in a waiting room (for an appointment which was typically running twenty minutes late), catching up on the news of the day, when I stumbled across this aggressively hilarious story in the Guardian. For those of you who can't be bothered clicking on the link, I'll sum it up for you in ten words. Harlem woman uses second hand lipstick, gets herpes and sues. Idiot. 

Fair enough, that was eleven, but the last word was clearly needed. 

This numpty went to a Rihanna concert in Brooklyn and let a stranger (albeit one dressed in a MAC uniform) apply used lipstick to her mouth. Unfortunately, but somewhat unsurprisingly, our poor heroine then contracted herpes, and is now suing MAC for infecting her with an incurable disease. 

The suit she's filed states: "(MAC) should have known ... it was unsanitary and exposing patrons to possible spread of disease."

True that. The representatives peddling make-up on the night should have been made aware of these issues and been given appropriate equipment. 

The report then goes on to say: "(MAC) didn't use a fresh or new lipstick tube, but rather one that had been used for other patrons."

At this point, surely, a wee bit of common sense might have kicked in? If you'd spotted this, wouldn't you have avoided the make-up tent like the plague? Would you use a strangers' toothbrush (even if they offered it) and then complain when you contracted an oral virus?

I just don't get it. Yes, the company should have followed the correct measures, but everyone has to play their own part when it comes to their well-being. 

It reminds me of that age-old saying my mum drilled into us as kids. "Don't talk to strangers. But if they offer you their lipstick, just make sure you remember to blot afterwards."

Finally, let's remind ourselves that she was, in fact, at a Rihanna concert and that's almost reason enough to enjoy a bit of schadenfreude. 

Anyway. DPC and I are driving down south tonight so the next blog is likely to be themed around the domestic we'll inevitably have in the car thanks to my peanut-sized bladder insisting on stopping every twenty minutes.

Take care, boys and girls, and don't use strangers' make-up. 

First Time I Met the Blues

This blog may well signal the beginning of my descent into madness and self-loathing. 

I have trouble sleeping. On an average night, I'll start to get tired around about 11pm - and so begins the process of going to bed. I get my jammies on, brush my teeth, I spend twenty minutes chasing the cats out from under the bed/the cupboard/the bottom drawer, I wash my face and get into bed. Then, as if by some cruel miracle, I find myself wide awake and completely incapable of nodding off to my happy place. I don't mean just awake. I mean like, two cups of coffee and a brisk walk kind of awake.

So I fill these hours between going to bed and finally falling into sweet sleep by reading blogs - both those of friends and strangers. I'd be lying if I didn't say I looked forward to this a wee bit. Some are heartfelt, some are cringey, some make me smile, and some make me laugh so much I begin to worry I've done myself a damage. There have been nights where I've found myself laughing so hard I wake up Dear Prince Charming (or DPC for lazy folk like me) and find myself on the receiving end of a grumpy scowl which would make you believe I'd eaten his last Rolo. 

Last night, I came up with a remedy to this problem - I would start blogging myself. This will put an end to my late-night giggle fests which DPC hates so much (cos it's just not cricket to laugh at yourself), and it also might help me get to sleep (because I know how bloody boring I actually am). 

The bad news for you poor unfortunate souls is you're on the receiving end of my ramblings, a fate comparable to being the unfortunate soul who has to tell Mariah Carey that your colour blindness prevented you from picking out the blue M&Ms. 

I don't have anything particularly wonderful to talk about, but I will try to stay away from simply telling you what I had for dinner each night - mostly because it might mortify me into actually reassessing my food intake and diet. 

I also solemnly promise never to 'review' movies or tv shows as this will only end up a public admission of just how much I love chick flicks. 

What I will talk about is entirely unknown, even to me at this stage. I'll no doubt spend a lot of time pondering what interesting and thought-provoking topics I will enlighten you on only to ultimately end up posting a picture of my cats with various hats on.

So there you have it. My blog. Read it at your peril.