The history of the dumped coffee table.

Nicola found the coffee table in the local recycling bin on a Saturday night.
It's a beautiful bit of furniture. Ornate and elaborate in design carved from thick, extremely good quality wood. Nicola knew it would be expensive, she had an eye for these things. So she did what any self-respecting Phd student would do. She got her dad to pick it up and take it home.
It looked just perfect next to the book shelf with her twenties style retro lamp (purchased four years ago from TKMaxx for only £24.99) sat atop it. Her materialistic sister and flatmate loved it as well. It appealed to her faux bohemian sensibilities.
Not once did Nicola ask herself why someone would throw such a lovely piece of furniture away. Not once did she wonder where the coffee table had come from. She was too busy relishing her damn good luck that she had found it.
Just four days prior, a couple stood in their flat, either side of the coffee table. And they were screaming at each other. This wasn't some little lovers tiff, they were ready to destroy each other, rip each other to shreds. You see Jack (that's the boyfriend) had discovered that Amy (the girlfriend) had slept with his best friend. But she insisted that she only did it because she knew that Jack had slept with every woman from Mile End to Earls Court and back again. Yep, he was a busy man on that District Line.
Amy also found Jack's best mate bloody attractive but that's by the by, she was too consumed with hatred and revenge for her philandering, womanising arsehole of a soon to be ex-boyfriend.
His face was also contorted with rage. He couldn't believe the little slut had just blamed him for her betrayal, that she had slapped him round the face.
As Nicola had calmly cooked her boyfriend and her sister seafood spaghetti and apple crumble, Jack had smacked Amy so hard that she had flown head first towards to coffee table, cracked her skull open and died as her blood seeped into the carpet and her soul into the table. The table was very special to Amy, it had been a gift from her late and very wealthy grandmother.
Panicked, Jack had wrapped up Amy's body in bin bags and, in the middle of the night, crept down to Regent's Canal and chucked her into the water. He had used Vanish stain remover to sort out the carpet and reported Amy missing to the police. For just four short seconds, Jack thought he had got away with manslaughter.
But the coffee table had other ideas. For four days the table haunted him. Whispering at him with her voice. Filling his mind with grotesque images, plaguing him with guilt for cheating on her and killing her. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Amy, covered in blood and crawling out of the table. Of course, when he looked over, there was nothing there. He barely slept, his dreams were filled with torment.
By day four it had got too much. In a fit of rage, which tempered on borderline insanity, he picked up the coffee table and flung it in the local recycling bin before joining Amy in the canal.
Just four minutes later, unsuspecting of the tables dark and trecherous past, Nicola put out the weekly recycling and was delighted to make her discovery.

The Tale of the Wonky Poster.

Once upon a time there was a poster named Amelie.
Amelie was wonky. She sat on the far wall, pretty much the first thing everyone saw when they entered the large, white living room. She could have been beautiful, with her green background, red dress, dark hair and big eyes. If it weren't for that damn wonk, she could have been the most beautiful poster in all of Flat 7, 52 Globe Road, perhaps beyond.
All the other posters in the living room were perfectly perpendicular, not to mention practically perfect in every way. The twin Banksy posters were perfectly aligned in look, thought and feel. The jazz singer and her contemporaries stood perfectly straight and elegant.
Being surrounded by such perfection must have been bloody depressing. Amelie felt like the fat, ugly sibling, not perfect in any way. This was of course, Amelie being a touch overdramatic, she was only imperfect by an approximately 27 degree angle, but hey, just you try to reason with neurotic, teenage shiny paper, it's like talking to a wall...
Amelie was desperate to straighten out. Every time someone entered the living room they stared at her with mild irritation upon their faces. She heard comments, how annoying she was because of her wonkyness. If she hadn't been so shy and retiring she might have got angry and accused them all of bullying her. But Amelie was so mild mannered she just took the nasty, prejudiced anti-wonky comments to heart and drooped further down the wall.
For some bizarre reason, her two owners loved her wonky disposition. Whenever she heard comments from guests about how she 'just needed to be straightened out and then this room would be perfect' (I mean seriously guests, how hurtful, what must those words have done to poor Amelie's self-esteem?!) her owners spouted that it gave her and the room character, how they celebrated her difference, and because of her wonk she was 'special' and 'unique.'
Amelie cringed when she heard her owners say these things. "Why can't the lazy buggers just get up on a chair and straighten me out?" she thought to herself.
Then, everything changed. One Saturday night in early November, her owners held a gathering. The comments about her wonkyness were coming thick and fast. This particular group of guests found her wonkyness particularly offensive. Amelie desperately tried to pull up, to make herself appear as straight as possible. But nothing worked, the more she pulled, the more irritated the group got. Eventually, they all left. Her hideous wonkyness forced them out of the living room and down to the local pub. They couldn't take her anymore it seemed.
Miserable and lonely, Amelie dozed off to sleep.
Then, in the middle of the night she was woken by a rough pulling. Opening her eyes she discovered a beautiful maiden with tumbling brown hair removing her from the wall.
"I can't handle this poster anymore," the maiden muttered, "I know Shell will be pissed off, but I have to straighten it out."
STRAIGHTEN IT OUT! Oh wonder and joy! Amelie was on top of the world. Finally, she would join the world of perfection. No more comments and mutterings anymore, no more stares of mild irritation. Amelie was going to be just like everyone else!
Amelie couldn't sleep anymore that night from sheer excitement. She couldn't wait for daylight when she could announce herself to the world as a 'perfect poster.' Part of the perfection gang.
But daybreak did not bring her the adulation she craved and hoped for. In fact, the look of utter disappointment on her owners faces made her feel mild shame.
But it was the response of the guests that upset her most. None of them admired her for her straight beauty. In fact, they didn't seem to notice her at all. They were indifferent to her, it was like she was invisible.
It was then that the jazz singer poster rather bitchily said something (in poster language, it's not something us humans can hear) that made her new found joy crash to smithereens: "I'm glad they straightened you out. All your character meant that you always got the attention. Our owners always loved you more, we were all ignored because compared to you we were straight and boring."
And that's when Amelie realised, being the same as everyone else is all well and good but there is nothing special or unique about aligned perfection.

By request: Cheeky the grumpy kitchen monkey.

I wish it could be said that Cheeky is a happy soul.
Unfortunately his name couldn't be more of a juxtaposition to his temperament. Cheeky is grumpy, difficult and always complaining about his balconette home above the kitchen cooker. First it's too hot, then it's too cold, and then it's not enough temperature of any kind at all. Good lord, Cheeky is not a happy monkey.
Many have blamed his stature, or rather lack of it, for the giant chip on his shoulder. It's a tough life for a chap suffering from short monkey syndrome. Or perhaps it's a monkey lady from his past, a romantic disappointment that has caused him such pain and turned him into a life hating grump. Maybe she ran off with a towering and much more handsome monkey. Maybe that's why people irritate Cheeky so.
Like those chavvy Essex girls that insist on cooking in his kitchen. Do they have to be so loud? Do they have to squeal so?  And most of the time, they certainly don't understand the delicate science that is cooking. What do they think they are doing, shoving vegetables into a frying pan with a pre-made pesto sauce from Lidl? Or eating eggs and baked beans for dinner? They consider that food?! And this 'sauce factory' they create every fortnight, that they freeze and then defrost at a later date to sip out of a bowl with bread or mix with cheap twirly pasta. It's an abomination as far as Cheeky is concerned. A destruction of all that is good in the culinary world. As well as being a grumpy bugger, Cheeky is somewhat of a food snob.
But to be fair to the girls, sometimes they do pull some classy meals out of the bag and then, well then,  Cheeky is in seventh heaven.
In quieter times, when the girls are skint and living off the aforementioned sauce factory Cheeky dreams of those days, the grilled mango and halloumi salad, roasted whole chickens stuffed with an entire lemon and herbs, beef lasagne made entirely from scratch (even the bechamel sauce!), chicken and cream puff pie, giant chocolate whoopie pie cakes with marshmellow filling, banana cake and Cheeky's absolute favourite, peanut butter cookies. Oh, how his lips tremble with hunger, he salivates as the smells waft up from the cooker and make him delirious with pleasure.
It really is the most tragic thing that Cheeky's lips are nothing more than a piece of string across his furry face and he will never get to taste the foods he covets.
Suddenly, it's not such a mystery why Cheeky the kitchen monkey is so grumpy.

A bit of Microfiction: The buddha clan on my windowsill.

"We must assemble in random formation!' screams General Pewter Buddha. His importance bourne from his weight. Pewter is heavier than wood and plastic and all the other buddha's on the windowsill know this.
"How can you have a random formation?" mutters one of the triplets. The triplet buddhas are identical but for their colouring. One is brown, one silver and the other is brown and gold.
But he is merely being facetious, a rebellious desire to back chat to the rather pompous General Pewter. They all know why their assembly is random. It is to please the artistic temperaments of the brunette and ginger goddesses.
The goddesses are giant and rather odd beings, just the other day one of them seemed to be knotting herself into odd positions in front of the television, all for the sake of fitness. The other one stares at a small computer screen for hours, muttering mathematic equations and burning long smelly sticks from the chest of holy buddha - so called because of the hole in his chest. It is a sad fate for him, but one he must bear for the greater good of the clan.
For it is at the whim of these two goddesses that the buddha clan survives. If the two goddesses wish, they can remove the entire clan, throw them into the dark sack of evil next to the fridge. But for now the goddesses are merciful, leaving the clan to live in peace. And this is all thanks to King Pink Buddha. He knows the brunette goddess well and has served her for many years. At one time, she housed him on the skin of a goat to reward him for his devotion and service. He has promised that one day they shall all be on the goat skin - even keyring buddhas, which are the lowest of the low. They fear the dark sack of evil more than anyone.
King Pink Buddha is flanked by two of the slenderest, most serene and beautiful buddhas in existance, these two guards are originals from the holy land - Thailand. They whisper sweet fables, of a giant gold buddha lying in the ground. It must be a lovely life for King Pink Buddha to listen to them day after day.
But recently, even the King is nervous. There has been talk of a new King Buddha to take over the clan. The ginger goddess has spoken of a 'disco buddha' to usurp him. This King shimmers and shines in the light, he is covered in beautiful mirrors of joy. King Pink Buddha is frantic and feels betrayed after all his years of loyal service for brunette goddess. He misses the days when he had brunette goddess to himself on the goat skin.
Now he lays in wait for ginger goddess to make her decision. It is agony. Worse than when the goddesses watch that programme The X factor and you're waiting to see who will leave the competition. He gives General Pewter more power to boss the others around and hopes she will remain appeased. But he doesn't know what more he can do to save himself.

Discretion. Where's the line?

I struggle with discretion.
This may be due to my former job as a journalist, or as the newsdesk used to jokingly call ourselves, a professional gossip. And even now, working as a PR my entire life pretty much revolves around giving people information that I would like them to broadcast to the nation.
So it seems, I just don't know where to stop. I'm very open with colleagues if I'm dating someone, I admit I can be very open with my friends about my sexual preferences, I'm just a very open, honest person, I'll tell anyone anything if they want to know, give me alcohol and I'll tell people anything even if they don't want to know.
And on some levels, I think it may work for me. People often confide in me because I have been so open with them, it signals trust I guess doesn't it? I find it very easy to make friends because I am so open with who and what I am and how I am feeling.
And I would far rather be friendly and open than closed, snobby and unable to trust.
If someone does tell me something in confidence, I do, on the most part, keep my gob shut. I admit, I may tell my sister... but she is much better at discretion than me and knows when to stop talking.
Similarly I'm careful about bitching. A sorry lesson learnt from years of teenage angst. I have to really trust someone before I am open with my dislike for or upset over a colleague or somebody in a circle of friends and often I will ask them to keep my comments private.  I admit sometimes, if it is a mutual friend or colleague, I should think more about the situation I am putting them in and that I may be making them feel uncomfortable just by knowing this information.
Similarly, I sometimes worry, do my revelations make people feel uncomfortable? When is it alright to tell people about that crazy one night stand or drunken shenanigan? How close a friend do they have to be?
I especially worry about co workers, how much do you give away there? (N.B. I know enough not to tell co workers about crazy one night stands.) Where is the line between appropriate and chatty and over sharing? 
Also, I will never be able to pull off mysterious. I so envy those people who have an aura of mystery about them. Who play their cards close to their chests, who you never quite know what they are thinking. It's sexy and intriguing. Everyone knows what I'm thinking because I happily blurt it out. Not so sexy and intriguing.
It has to be said that social media was the final nail in the coffin for discretion. If a woman can tweet about her miscarriage and Belle Du Jour can blog about her sex life, what chance do I have with keeping my gob shut?
Shockingly, it only very recently occured to me  - while reading about how Kimberly of Girls Aloud has only ever had two lovers - a persons sex life isn't anyone's business but their own! It's meant to be private! I know, such is the loss of discretion in the modern world that it took me until I was 26 to realise that my sex life belonged to me alone, I didn't have to tell the world about it and also, if people asked, I didn't actually have to answer them honestly.  If a new boyfriend asks about my past, I don't technically have to tell him anything that doesn't relate to sexual health and contraception. I can just reply something vague like: 'A couple of long-term boyfriends and a smattering of flings.' Rather than giving him dates, times and scores out of ten. 
As someone who isn't particularly discretion savvy, I have decided to hunt out advice. What is the correct way to behave? How much information should I give out to the world, does my openness make people feel uncomfortable or gossip about me in a way I wouldn't like? It's certainly something I am to be more careful with in future. I just hope this doesn't make me less fun!

Girls just love clothes! Well, no, I really do...

Last night, I read an article on The F Word moaning about shopping. The author of this article hates shopping. She bemoans the enormous gendering of clothing and in some cases, she does have a point, why are socks gendered? I had never contemplated this before. That is indeed stupid. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I need pink socks, although all my running socks are pink... anyway, I digress.
Her comments about women who are forced into terrible conditions to make the clothes in our throw away culture is similarly concerning. They are issues I am very concerned about and am researching ways to shop ethically. 
And if this lady doesn't like shopping, then fair enough, not everyone has to find it a pleasurable experience.
However, I do. I find shopping a massively wonderful pleasurable experience. It really does give me great joy in life, pretty shoes make me smile.
Does this make me less of a feminist? Does the fact that I like dressing up in clothes that make me feel attractive make me shallow, vapid and a sorry excuse for an educated woman?
Admittedly, my little shopping issue has caused me some financial woe (on a small scale). But no one has forced me into this financial woe, I got into it (and then out of it) all on my own, I just like buying new shiny things too much. I see fashion as a form of art and indeed decorate my little flat with it.
Is enjoying clothing and flaunting your figure sexist? By happily conforming to gender stereotypes are you undoing all the good work of feminists from previous years? Even if you're not an airhead wag (although I wouldn't say some of them are so airhead) but have yourself a very fulfilling career, do what you feel is good, important and enjoyable work and support yourself?
Even if it's 100 per cent for your own enjoyment, you don't dress for men but for yourself entirely? If wearing a pair of killer heels and a nice skirt really does make you feel more confident in a meeting?
Am I just brainwashed? Am I just conforming to this because it's expected of me? Should I not shave my legs or get my hair done or wear a bra? Should I fling my underwear on that mythical bonfire that only existed in the minds of male journalists who tried to demonise feminism?
I have had men in my life ridicule me for my enjoyment of clothes... surely this is just another form of marginalisation? Another way of saying women's interests are not important or significant.
Fashion has given me great bonding experiences with other women in my life. One of my closest friends first approached me because she liked my dress. My mum and I go shopping before every birthday and christmas and it's more than her buying me presents, this way I actually get to spend valuable time with her.
Perhaps I am lucky but I actually don't find 'tight' clothing or high heels particularly uncomfortable and if a pair of shoes are proving uncomfortable, I stop wearing them. Despite appearances, I'm no slave.
It's not like I believe stripping to be empowering or anything (I have read a magazine article arguing that, the mind boggles) but I do feel I use clothes as a form of armour against the world. 
Perhaps liking clothes and shopping doesn't fit the feminist archetype, but you know what, I ain't apologising. I want equality for men and women and I want it while wearing a pretty dress that I can't really afford, simple as that.

Fuck dating guides.

This is to ladies out there who have read 'He's Just Not That Into You' or Zoe Strimpel's recent dating guide: 'What the Hell is he thinking'?
Although there is sound advice in both - I particularly enjoyed the whole, don't take any rubbish stance of 'He's just not that into you' - there is something very unfeminist about both books.
'He's just not that into you' is rather negative as it still suggests there is something wrong with the women. It's basically saying, any man who doesn't treat you wonderfully doesn't like you and thus, you are kind of rubbish aren't you. Perhaps a title such as 'He's just not good enough for you' would have been more sufficient.
Also, it's too cut and dry, even for a very black and white soul such as me. It doesn't take into account shyness. I've known men who have liked me but haven't asked me out because they are shy or think I am out of their league. When in fact, I was sitting there thinking 'I wish they would ask me out.'
Similarly, after reading the book, I was scared to make any move on a man, even a subtle one. When in fact, without those subtle hints that it's ok to ask the girl out, he's just going to be thinking 'oh, she doesn't like me, she'll just reject me.' Not all men are the world conquoring heroes the book suggests they are, some of them get shy, intimidated or frightened of rejection. Life is far more complicated than this book makes out.
With 'What the hell is he thinking' (I've already had a previous rant about this book after reading an article about it in The Times Style magazine.) Well,  I tried to read it, I tried to read it twice and then I just got annoyed. You know what, I DON'T CARE WHAT HE IS THINKING. I've spent far far far far far too much of my life trying to work out what a man is thinking and trying to predict what he might do next.   
And you know what, I have my own life thanks, my own thoughts, my own feelings and the prospect of spending my precious time reading a book of what is essentially a bunch of male bloody excuses as to why they can't be decent didn't exactly fill me with fucking joy.
Also, it would be bloody nice if for once in a blue bloody moon, a man sat with his mates going 'I wonder what she is thinking.' Because for a start, it would suggest that they actually give a damn about me.
If I feel good about how the relationship is going, I will to continue seeing the chap. If I don't feel right about it, I'm offsky. In the words of the Meercats: Simples. I'm sure if the bloke is really that into me, he'll be trying to win me back.
My new rule with the whole dating thing? Fuck dating guides, fuck analysing his every move with my mates, I'm just going to follow my instincts and find what's right for me.