The next step?

“Call me as soon as you get to Kings Cross OK? Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine. Good luck with everything next week and call me after your first day. Arrgh I’m going to miss you so much! I can’t believe it’s all over already!”

That’s my housemate and best friend Sophie trying to console me at Leamington Spa train station. It’s a bright, early-summer morning in the midlands- June 2nd 2008 in fact. I’m leaving university today.

I’m loaded up with two crammed suitcases, my laptop and a bag of Tesco supplies, about to board the train to London, my new home. Soph and I are both hugging each other on the platform and crying uncontrollably, like a couple of, well, girls. I struggle to get all my stuff on the train (I simply NEEDED to take all those clothes) and find a window seat. The carriage begins to move, I blink back tears and wave to Soph who is still there, still crying, waving back.

The lump in my throat gags me as I try to fight it back down. I can’t believe it, university is over.

Those last precious weeks all happened so fast. Revision, more revision, final exams, that last (somewhat blurred) week of celebrating. I didn’t want to think about leaving, but reality soon slapped me in the face- my time as a student was swiftly coming to an end and there was nothing I could about it. The few days prior to departure were packed with soppy farewells- friends, acquaintances, tutors, even Ali, the owner of our local curry house was subjected to an emotional final visit, his late night curries were a salvation on a scale that he’ll never know.

I purposely neglected to consider my post-university life with much seriousness. I knew I had to make a career move of some sort, but what form this career would take was somewhat ubiquitous. My history degree, however wonderful, didn’t provide an obvious career path. My mundane existence in the month preceding exams was spent exclusively in the library (with the occasional trip to the library café, for an exciting change of scene). It provided enough scholarly distraction to ensure my complete ignorance of the looming future- well, the future past finals anyway. On reflection, it’s a good thing I was offered a job that April (thankfully the Credit Crunch hadn’t really took off yet) or I might have had to move back home to my parents’, and I certainly didn’t want to go back home now.

Not knowing what else to do with myself (and living in the dregs of my once-again-extended overdraft), I accepted the job and was scheduled to begin in June, the week after my last exam. So to London it was.

I know I sounded like a sap, but what I felt on that train was a mishmash of conflicting emotion. Fear and intense excitement both gnawed away at me. There was excitement of the unknown, a new challenge, new people, a new city. I feared it because I knew life was never going to be the same again.

What did I have to look forward to? My first grown-up job. Responsibility. Life without 10% off in TOPSHOP. The underground. Council tax. 9am- 6pm.

I had a lot to learn.

I’ve been living and working in London now for almost a year and I can safely say that my fears were wildly exaggerated. Life has completely changed, and I’ve learned that that’s not always a bad thing. This time last year I was a library-dwelling, nervous wreck revising for exams and now I’m making the first steps in my career, excited about what the future may hold.

Actually, when I think about it, the whole three years of university flew by at a blurring rate - and I don’t think it was because of the number of snakebite and blacks consumed.

That day at the station marked such a turning point that I was blissfully unaware of at the time. They say that your university years are the best three of your life. I just hope that they were the best three years of my life so far.

Bikini Blues...

Summer. It tends to hit us before we’ve had time to even realise it, doesn’t it? Seems like only yesterday I was happily munching through a box of After Eight, basking in the safe warm glow of the Christmas tree. Now it’s June and London seems to be almost tropical (well it’s not raining at least). I’m due a confrontation with my worst enemy, oh yes- the bikini.

Now, don’t get me wrong- I love summer (who doesn’t?) Us Brits spend months on end in soggy, sub-zero temperatures, so any hint of sunlight and as a nation we throw off our clothes and flock outdoors to get our annual dose of vitamin D. I love the long days, the pub garden, the chaps that take their shirts off- the thought of stepping in out into a public place with nothing to cover my dignity but a couple of pieces of polyester however is enough to make me want to emigrate to the North Pole (where I can live happily ever after in my black opaques and jeans).

As it happens, I’m moving to Sydney where it’s going to be hot- all year round. A bikini is somewhat an essential item. The time has come; I need to go swimwear shopping. I venture to Oxford street with my housemate in tow- set on finding the perfect beach attire. There is, however, something rather demoralising about the whole bikini-buying experience. Pulling on a selection of stretchy, multi-coloured lycra over your underwear is never a good look. Honestly, it’s enough to make any self-assured girl reach for the Dairy Milk.

Changing rooms are never a good place to get reacquainted with your post-winter bod. You’re faced with not only your front but also your behind in numerous no-so-strategically positioned mirrors. Why do shops do this? Just when I’ve gathered enough courage to finally face the changing room I end up facing myself from every conceivable angle possible. Hello backside, I haven’t seen you since last summer, how’s it going back there? Now, do you prefer the tie-up polkadot briefs or the black low-rise frilly shorts?

I trail around TOPSHOP, H&M and Zara trying on countless styles, colours and fits, my housemate slowly but surely losing patience with every one. Unsuccessfully deciding on any of them, I decide to buy three different bikinis and head home. I’m down fifty quid but pleased that the ordeal is over for yet another year and confident that none of the purchases will ever see the light of day.

Oh well, a tan is overrated anyway.

So we went speed dating...

Finding the perfect partner can be a laborious task.

Our grandparents had it easy. Simply meet the love of your life at your first dance aged sixteen and there you have it, a lifetime of married bliss awaits. Dating- or ‘courting’ to the older generation- was so much more romantic back then. Young lovers could be torn apart for months at a time by war and revolution, never knowing if they’ll see each other again. Dating was special, meaningful and well-intended. Fast forward to 2009 and Grandma and granddad wouldn’t know what hit them.

The London dating scene is a precarious jungle. Gone are the days when you could simply meet someone in a bar, ask for their number and then arrange a series of dinners, movies and other generic dating activities. The process has taken on new and exciting-if not terrifying- dimensions. Thanks to our little friend Mr. Internet, you can coordinate your entire romantic life online. In addition to the countless dating websites, you can also sign up for one of the many speed dating nights that are held daily in the capital and organised exclusively on the web.

Who said romance was dead?

Now, only in the hustle and bustle of the City could speed dating be so successful. Most of us don’t even have time to wait for a bus let alone endure the dating game. One date can take up an entire evening and if it turns out to be a disaster you’ve wasted you’re precious time and your even more precious pennies. Speed dating seems to be the logical solution to this dating dilemma. There’s the chance to meet up to thirty eligible (ahem- attractive, fun, professional and socially acceptable) partners all in the space of one evening- a mere four minutes per date. Sounds too good to be true...

So how does it work? Firstly, you register your details and choose the best time, age group and location available. The 21-30 group on this occasion was held at uber-posh Soho champagne bar Amuse Bouche. First problem- its not cheap. Expect to pay over twenty quid just to reserve your seat. Upon arrival, we were pleased to see that the place wasn’t decked out with awkwardly numbered tables for two but was a dimly-lit bar containing what looked like fifty or so normal people. After buying an extortionately-priced drink, the host introduced the evening and explained the rules. Pretty simple stuff, everyone was to wear a name tag with a number on it, the girls would sit in the same place and the men would rotate after each date. The end of each date was signalled by an unnecessarily-loud horn that would be blasted after four minutes was up.

It is surprisingly difficult to whip up a verbal frenzy in four minutes. Many - if not all - of the dates follow the identical conversational pattern “Is this your first time speed dating? What do you do? Did you come with friends?” Yawn. There will also be the odd character who will try to be unique by plonking themselves down and announcing things like “right let’s slow this show down” (insert fingers down throat now). Don’t have unrealistic expectations. Speed Dating can be a great way of meeting similar people in a short space of time but it’s not soul mate central.

So before the night kicks off, each hopeful is provided with a sheet where you can score your dates with a heartfelt ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or ‘Friend’. Now the fun really starts, the next day you input your scores online then you find out if you have any matches. Ta da. My friends and I were unlucky (or lucky- depending on personal preference) on this occasion. Darn. Fear not however- if, on the likely occasion you don’t get any matches you can come to your next evening free. This was a nice touch that seemed to make the twenty quid slightly more worth it.

Call me old fashioned, Speed dating is definitely something to try once, but that’s probably all. Great for a giggle with friends or at yourself - just don’t expect to meet your future spouse.

Speed dating websites worth a look:

We used: http://www.originaldating.com/

Other:

http://speeddatinginlondon.synthasite.com/

http://www.grapevinesocial.com/

http://www.speeddater.co.uk/

Boutique hotels at B&B prices

lastminute.com offer top boutique hotels for less during a week of bargains

Looking for somewhere sleek, stylish or unique to stay? For one week only until May 5th, savvy travellers will be able to stay at a range of top boutique hotels throughout the UK and worldwide, at prices far below their normal rates. Stay at the luxurious and modern Andaz Hotel by London’s Liverpool Street from just £127 per room or head west to the 4 star Fox Club in the heart of buzzing Mayfair from only £100 per room.

More relaxing breaks can be found at lastminute.com’s boutique hotels in the country including the stunning and sedate Cranthorne Hall Hotel in Yorkshire (from £110 per room) and the peaceful Broad House Hotel situated in the Norfolk Broads (from £89 per room).
Great deals outside of the UK include the stately Sheraton Imperial Kuala Lumpur Hotel from just £88 per room and the genuinely 5 star Ercilla Lopez de Haro in Bilbao, from just £86 per room.

To explore the full range of deals available during boutique hotels week visit www.lastminute.com

Making Ends Meet on eBay

I absolutely hate being skint.

I was skint throughout university but back then it was acceptable, encouraged in fact. If you weren’t living in the dregs of your overdraft you were clearly not living the life of a ‘proper’ student. If I had any money left in my account before the onset of the student loan I’d make sure I’d clear it out in time for the next instalment. As long as I wasn’t being harassed by Lloyds TSB it was fine- extend the student overdraft and spend away. Live life to the max, man.

Don’t get me wrong, I was never in credit, I was (and still am) relentlessly in my overdraft but to me (and my student naivety) that just meant a load of interest-free money.

I didn’t feel so bad about being poor at uni because my contemporaries were all in the same boat and there was always the distant prospect of a lucrative job offer at the end of it (yes, that was before the recession took off). I mean, I went to one of the top-five universities in the country- why on earth did I go if not to get a decent job?! On reflection, it was a bit of an error doing a history degree and not wanting to be a history teacher but surely there were LOADS of employers out there ready to take me on and offer me with a hefty salary? Well, turns out there was one wonderful company ready to give me a job, unfortunately the hefty salary would have to wait.

I guess being poor is a given being in your first job out of university, living in London and working in PR but nevertheless, it’s still pretty rubbish. Working the best part of ten hours a day (often twelve) and having literally no money can often encourage crippling resentment in even the least materialistic of people. A low point was at Christmas after leaving a party in Farringdon to get the bus (not tube- too costly these days) home. I realised my Oyster needed topping up so I trudged to the cash point, inserted my debit card and those much-feared words appeared on the screen:

‘The following transaction could not be authorised due to insufficient funds’.

"Insufficient funds". Crap. I have nothing. What the bloody HELL am I going to do now? I have no savings, no credit cards, I don’t even have enough change in my purse for a one-way bus fare. Defeated, I walked home, all the bloody way back to Bethnal Green on a grim Friday night. I spent the rest of the month scrounging off my housemates and living off tea, toast and biscuits from the office.

Since then I’ve taken thrifty to new extremes. I walk to and from work, I take advantage as much as I can out of work food and booze and I’ve started selling all my unwanted stuff on eBay. Admittedly, at first I was cynical about selling on auction sites (especially after getting ripped off the previous summer on Reading tickets that I bought and which never arrived. It still pains me now to think about it.) But what the hell- I was desperate.

Little did I know that my bedroom would soon become a potential goldmine. Slowly but surely, I began to list bits and bobs from around the flat. Since Christmas I’ve made nearly £800 simply selling unwanted dresses, shoes, accessories, dvds- literally anything will sell on eBay. I’ve even managed to make a profit on some things (who’d of thought that a £12 Primark dress could sell for £35? Crazy.)

eBay isn’t the antidote for an appallingly low salary or overdraft extension but it can at least help to make ends meet in these dark and uncertain times. Heck, maybe a degree in online auction profiteering would have served me better. Oh well, at least I can still afford my bus fare.

Make mine an ostrich burger please...

Conveniently located just two minutes from Tottenham Court Rd station, The Eagle Bar Diner is probably the most uncomplicated, easy-going American Diner-slash-cocktail bar you’ll find in W1. Renowned for its cholesterol-raising thickshakes and mighty gourmet burgers, it’s an ideal spot for a hearty dinner before a night out (actually, hearty is an understatement- these burgers are a gastric delight). The food is bloody good. From full-on U.S of A style breakfasts and BBQ ribs to ‘The Golden Hog’ (wild boar burger with caramelized apple), the Eagle Diner will not disappoint.

The waiting staff are charismatic and friendly (and dreamy I might add- damn those beautiful south-American/ Latino genes “of course I’ll have another Margharita Paolo, in fact, make it two- what time do you finish?”)

Lusting aside, the tall, tanned chaps offer an impeccable service.

Even more impressive is the extensive cocktail menu. I’ve never seen such a diverse offering of beverages. Designed by their very own mixologist (nice touch) you name it, they’ll make it. They’re not too badly priced either, with the ‘classics’ averaging the six- eight quid mark. There’s also a remarkable selection of U.S-imported beers and spirits if you’re not a cocktail fan (tip: avoid the lethal Wray and Nephews 63% vol South American rum if you want to make it to your next destination alive).

I wouldn’t recommend staying there all night however. My party and I had dinner there on Friday and although buzzing early on, the atmosphere began to wilt after 10.30pm when most people have finished up and are moving on to bars and what not. Nevertheless, if you’re looking for a place in central to have dinner and a couple of good drinks, The Eagle Bar is a pretty good choice.

East End Coffee

Where can you get a decent cuppa in east London? Here- Brick Lane Coffee, the recently established sister of coffee@bricklane just down the road. Ideal for those who love their coffee but loath Starbucks.

Plonked right at the top of Brick Lane (between the legendary bagel shops), Brick Lane Coffee is a much needed and welcomed addition to the Bethnal Green Rd- Shoreditch High Street area (east London, in my minor opinion is somewhat lacking modestly-priced franchised coffee outlets but there we go). You can tell instantly that the place is going to be a goodun from the simple chalkboard out front stating 'If we were in Soho we'd be busy'. Those jokers...

Inside you are greeted by the (terribly friendly) tattooed, Dr Martin- wearing staff. You probably didn't need me to tell you that the super-cool east-end hoxtonites flock here in droves. But that's because this coffee shop IS cool. The place is brimming over with super-charming finishing touches (it's safe to say that the next time you go to a generic Caffe Nero's you'll hark back nostalgically to your visit to Brick Lane Coffee). The stirrers and spoons are stored in boxes made out of Lego (because the owner got bored one afternoon) and the sugar sachets are stashed in a vintage colander (given to the owners when it opened from the charity shop opposite). The menu is a old chalkboard with the drinks (and jokes about the staff) scrawled across it. Worried about leaving Fido at home? Have no fear- they even have a big glass jar of free dog biscuits available 'for our furry friends'. AND, (there's more!) the odd DJ often swings by for a set at the weekends.

Now that is surely unheard of in the coffee shop world.

The furniture is an eclectic, mis-matched selection purchased from surrounding vintage shops. Dusty mahogany armchairs are positioned next to 1970's high-rise stools and old school chairs. The walls are splattered with black and white artwork from the locals. The lights are from Ikea. Aesthetically it shouldn't work, but it does.

There’s an impressive array of reasonably-priced beverages on offer (all fair-trade and organic, no less), from the humble ‘chav coffee’ (black, filtered) to the mighty ‘Dirty Sanchez’ (vanilla mocha with cream. One word: yum). Food-wise there's no surprises with the typical coffee-shop offerings of paninis and croissants. A black americano and a chocolate muffin set me back £3.50. So not bad.

The best thing about this place in my opinion was the diversity in clientele. Not just packed with Shoreditch-types, Brick Lane Coffee is frequented by all sorts. During my first visit last week I saw young mums with babies, scaffolders, an old lady with a zimmerframe, young city-types with laptops. The place is easy-going, different and most importantly- serves a great cup of coffee.

Get your caffeine fix there now.

Twitterphilliac – So that’s what you call it!

So four little years ago I reluctantly joined Facebook (“Meh…it’ll never take off”). I felt the peer pressure and what the hell- everyone else seemed to be joining the bloody thing.

That was in the days of yore when only the yanks and the British academic elite were allowed on (remember those days?!) A year or so later it was opened up to remaining universities, then companies, specific networks and eventually, everyone. A sense of scholastic snobbery overwhelmed me when I realised all those polys (ugh, Coventry University, the Warwick polytechnic counterpart) could join but hey- my friend list rapidly expanded and that’s all I cared about.

Slowly but surely, a whole new world emerged before me. That’s right folks, the world of ‘social networking’ (Hmm, what an interestingly faddy expression I then pondered). Little did I know back then as the naïve and hungover fresher that I was that this little development would revolutionise the way in which my generation lived their lives.

Sure, I’d been aware of sites like MySpace and Bebo and as a 19 year old I was naturally a fan of instant messenger but I was in no way prepared for the force that Facebook inflicted on our humble existence.

I’m now 22, graduated and working full- time. A grown up apparently. Heck- I even pay council tax. However, much to my dismay, I’ve realised that a colossal amount of my adult existence is coordinated online.

What’s the first thing I do when wake up in the morning? I turn on my laptop and go on Facebook. Yep, Even before I’ve gone to the loo.

I get into the office at 8.30am and whilst impatiently waiting for Outlook to load, I’m logging into facebook, Hotmail and Twitter simultaneously. It doesn't matter that I already checked these on my phone on the way in.

Throughout the working day I have Facebook minimised on my browser and check it at least every ten to fifteen minutes. I scan around the office and see my colleagues all doing the same thing, all of us not-so-discreetly trying to keep the action under wraps.

I drag myself home from a boozy night out and yep, you guessed it- I log on Facebook (the fact that I cannot coordinate brain and fingertips is not a problem).

I have to log on. No, I MUST log on.

My internet connection at home is notoriously unpredictable and vindictive. If I can’t get online for more that a couple of hours I begin experience fleeting moments of panic. What’s going on? What are people doing? Has anyone written on my wall? Have I been tagged in any unflattering photos from the night before that I need to get rid of? Longer than half a day without it and I find myself fighting the urge to smash my laptop to pieces with the nearest blunt object and report T-Mobile internet to BBC Watchdog. Not able to take anymore, I promptly head to the public library where the internet works god damn it!

I think I’ve got a problem. No, I’ve definitely got a problem. Sooner or later I won’t remember what my friends look and sound like (with a Facebook profile and Facebook chat- who needs real life)

I recently read some where that the clever people over at Vodafone HQ have coined the term Twitterphilliac (I know, sounds ridiculous, but hear me out).

1 result for: Twitterphiliac

Noun: Someone who is addicted to social networking and suffers from uncontrollable urges to update their status – e.g. Tweeting

Verb: To ‘Twitterbate’

They commissioned some research and found that 60% of Brits admit to being hooked on social networking, and a further 30% are so addicted that they need to access these sites (i.e. Facebook, Twitter, MySpace etc etc) literally ALL THE TIME.

That’s me. A Twitterphilliac. Oh dear, I’m screwed.

Yes, I'm a fashion victim

Forget couture and designer labels, its bargains that are in vogue.

Don’t believe me? Check out the front cover of every women’s (and men’s I might add) magazine. It’s slogans like ‘Credit crunch chic’, ‘profit shopping’, ‘recession-busting bargains’ that scream out to us from the shelves and ensure that the days of retail recklessness are well and truly over.

Thriftiness is oh- so Summer 2009, darling.

Pay more than fifty quid for a pair of heels nowadays and once-frivolous females recoil in horror. I hate to say it, but shopping for personal indulgence is history. Last week whilst browsing in Selfridges (yes, browsing) I watched a Chanel-clad woman with armfuls of Diane von Furstenberg dresses bustle up to the till and hand over her AMEX. Almost every female that passed arched their eyebrows and slapped a look of utter terror on their faces.

How could this woman be so utterly reckless in this financial climate?! Is she mental? Their expressions asked. No one shops so irresponsibly these days unless there’s a sale or a hefty supply of vouchers involved.

-So what’s new? We’re in a bloody recession. Just keep your head down and your Mastercard firmly in your purse. We’ll ride these dark times out together, without those Dior extreme gladiator sandals.

Mind you- It’s not just designer brands that have felt the crunch- the high street is also having a bit of a nightmare. TOPSHOP are shocked that Kate’s new collection hasn’t sold out yet. If opening a massive flagship store in NY (along with a hugely efficient PR machine behind it) doesn’t do the trick then I don’t know what will. Don’t get me wrong, I was one of the thousands of TOPSHOP devotees that promptly logged onto the website at 8 am to lust over the new collection. I wanted everything. I needed everything. Did I buy anything? Of course not.

Er…hello? No matter how much she wants to, the average 18-25 year old isn’t spending her hard- earned cash on floor length emerald chiffon dresses (I don’t care if it clings to all the right places and that Misha has just snapped one up- It’s costs over £200 quid and that, Sir Phillip Green, is my Oyster card allowance and council tax for the month). I’m more likely to be snapping up the cheaper equivalents in H&M or Primark thus saving my bus fare.

I’m a self-confessed shopaholic. Well I used to be anyway. I’m serious; all my superfluous income went on buying stuff. Whether I needed the item in question wasn’t a consideration. If I liked something, I’d find a reason to buy it. Couldn’t afford something? Don’t worry, that’s what my graduate credit card was for. I had no savings and boy, did that transpire into risky business.

Whilst at university I didn’t care. I had a maximum student loan and a part time job. Let me clarify, I’ve never been rich, or relied on my parents' credit cards, but I had surplus pennies to supplement my student existence. Buying clothes, shoes and other unnecessary objects became a weekly (if not daily) occurrence. I’d wear a dress once, wait for the novelty to wear off and then I’d find the dress at the bottom of my wardrobe six months later. A fashion-binger so to speak.

Now, I’m slowly learning the art of investing in fewer, key pieces and hunting down bargains. I’m getting pretty good, I’m even recycling my old wardrobe on eBay and making a packet. The days of plenty are well and truly behind me. Honest…