I’ll show you wear to shove that iPhone


Dear ‘Eye Liner and iphone Hipster’ who cut in front of me,

Your tee shirt is too small. It does not say ‘indie’ – it says ‘I-don’t-know-when-to-use-hot-or- cold- wash.’ Maybe a little bourgeois skill wouldn’t go amiss….?

You’re ordering a fair trade coffee. Yes, I understand that you think you’re saving little African children, whose photos you collect on your wall like arty postcards. But you do realise that your pre-ripped jeans will have been produced by a little Chinese girl in a factory. The only difference is that it’s convenient to drink Fair Trade. It’s not convenient to stop wearing jeans.

May I also add, that by cutting in front of me, I am going to talk very loudly about the artistic brilliance of Britney. Then I’ll wait until you start to shudder convulsively before saying how I feel the lyrics of Katy Perry speak to me on an emotional level.

And , my dear hip one, you may have cut in the line, but I am laughing last. Because I’m a boring, middle class girl who paid attention in Chinese class, instead of being ‘hip’ and arranging my toenail clippings into a sculpture.

You think that the tattoo of a Chinese character on your arm is deep and ethnic. You probably think it says something profound like Love or Honour.

It says Vegetable.

Enjoy your coffee!




I’m sorry, you’ll have to repeat that….


I thought using unnecessarily complicated words, that invariable sound like tropical diseases, in order to impress people was a teenage phenomenon.Only young people could think sounding like an arsehole is desirable. But apparently not. This is a quote from an academic I’m reading for class this week.

“Reading seemingly transparent autobiographical texts for their nuanced and subtle strategies of spectacular performativity rather than treating them as evidence means allowing for the ways in which a feminist experience itself is imbedded in the social and political. “

Couldn’t they just say they think the author was an attention whore? Or perhaps that underscores the subtle juxtaposition of inter-textual narratives on the nature of purple broccoli.


Casual Sex? But what about your life insurance policy?


I was told I over think things. Which I don’t really agree with because I’d like to think that my behavioural patterns followed a impetuous line that didn’t reflect on my neurotic tendency in my personality, stemming from am incident in early childhood with  snail….

Maybe they were right.

It’s true. I do over think things. Sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s just plain weird. I am the master of bizarre conclusions from one comment you half implied last Wednesday.

But whenever the pressure is on, I crack. And all because I over think things. The best example is sex.

Oh I think that I can handle the pressure of seducing a stranger, having wild passionate sex, then moving on like a nymphomaniac bird in overpriced knickers. Except in reality when I got to clubs and dance with men (who whatever their age all seem to smell the same) something ticks over in my mind.

I’ll find someone vaguely attractive, they’ll ask me for a drink. I’ll say something I think is witty, they’ll laugh because they didn’t hear me and don’t care, and we’ll go and drink over priced paint stripper.

But by the time ask my name, I’ll already have  disagreed with them over where our children should go to school. I’m already angry at them for not understanding why my parents need to spend Christmas with us. And I’m livid that he ate all the chocolate biscuits but left the wrapper in the kitchen.

So I can never do casual sex. Because i’ll already have divorced him for irreconcilable differences,before he asks me what star sign I am.

But I should look on the bright side. I’ve discovered a  form of contraception that is 100% effective – over analysis!

Cancer? Baby? What?!


Today my favourite moments were:

I saw the dreadlocked, battle scarred, chain smoking communist that mans the Socialist Alternative stall on campus drinking Coke. Viva la revolucion!

Listening to a guy bitch about his friend “He’s just so horrible. He’s so negative. He never says anything nice about people.” Hmm. The irony seemed a little lost on him. Although this is a guy who would think irony is an adjective to describe red meat.

I was on the phone, when a friend of mine appeared and told me our friend had given birth. Unfortunately, at that moment the person on the phone told me their partner had died of cancer. My brain decided to answer both people at the same time. So out came a confused grunt. To which both people reacted with displeasure.

That was one of those moments so painfully awkward, that the only way you’ll ever be brave enough to remember them is by laughing at yourself.  


Here’s why I can’t take you home…


In typical middle class style, I like to pretend that I’m from the streets and well ‘ard. Yo. To cement my tough nut image, I like to listen to rap music and pretend I too am from the city that never sleeps. I’m from a village that sleeps at 9pm, or 10,30 if we’re feeling naughty bunnies.

So anyway, I’m currently into Kanye West’s Homecoming. (Which I know is old, but I’m not cool enough to know any hip and happening hip hop right now. So old Kanye is all I’ve got.) Anyway, listening to Homecoming, I always start think about coming home

Except that unlike Kanye, I have no city to come back to. No home with pebble dashed walls, a pond full of frogs and bushes cut into geometric patterns. And that sounds woefully dramatic, it’s not really. It’s when you’re 18, and you’re living in your third country, your home isn’t a house. It’s not a city, country or artfully minimalist Swedish inspired warehouse/space rocket cross loft space.

It’s the feeling you get when you’re around people who know you. I mean actually know you, as opposed to people who acknowledge your existence before continuing talking about themselves.

People who know that you get angry when you eat the wrong sort of museli. (NO. SODDING. COCONUT.) Or know that you like to sharpen your colouring pencils when bored. Or that you detest being interrupted when reading, writing or talking to oneself.

And being around people you know, and most importantly love, is what home is. Which is convenient because it means you can keep it with you – in your phone, computer and heads. Which is great when you have to fit everything else into 23kgs of baggage allowance.