You can't shock a chippie. Fact

There comes a point in the night after which, drunk people should stay on the dance floor where they can't embarrass themselves becasue no one can hear them talk and their flails look like wild moves if only lit by a strobe. When they stray off it to get chips, that's when the trouble starts...

A few weekends ago I was at a fundraising party for a charity in Kenya (my own fundraising party, in fact) and all the guests were tasked with completing certain missions before the night was up in order to earn points. Some missions were easy and earned few points (hug a bouncer), others were more more challenging and so earned lots of points (turn a team of 5 people upside down in any way you like). On my way home with a few fellow party-survivors I  was very happy (not least because it wasn't my home I was going to but a friend's, thereby ensuring that the social spectacular would last another day). Much mischief had been achieved, much wine had been drunk and much funding had been raised. To make matters even better it was snowing and none of us were sober enough to feel the cold. Win, win.
You might think at this point that we were on the pinnacle of drunken satisfaction, but no, as we skipped through the snowflakes we came across a chip shop, still open at 3am. Marvellous! And once inside, with my sufficiently greasy order placed, I realised that there were still one more challenge that could be completed. Hurah! This in fact was a much more exciting pursuit than food, which I soon forgot about. It was imperative that I exercise the opportunity to take of an item of underwear and wave it in the air (thereby earning 5 more points for my team). Actually, better still, everyone ought to join in, that would be more appropriate. One female friend was keen but the other required a bit of cajoling. The boys weren't invited to join in - we needed them to hold our jackets and be the photographer. Bras were waved vigorously in the air. What a triumph! As the scene unfolded the man behind the chip shop counter tried in vain to attract our attention to tell us our food was ready (not that we were at all interested. Let's face it, it's not every night you get to wave your bra about, but it's fairly commonplace to eat cheesy chips) he was not remotely sympathetic and seemed slightly irritated that we were taking so long to leave the premises. The fact that we were in the middle of something more important clearly didn't register. It must be the case that the staff of late night take-aways have seen it all before. Customers enthralled in the tasks of being eccentric can in no way surprise them. They see the most idiotic of human antics, probably quite regularly.

Some might say, it was out of pure respect, we didn't waste his time but ran out into the night, chips in one hand underwear in the other.

Let's review book clubs

Forget book reviews. I think book clubs should be reviewed. My office book club has terrible taste (and actually has now given up reading altogether). Firstly we read 'the man in the tall castle' which has a fascinating premise but is written so badly that my school-day English teachers would weep. The club couldn't understand what was going on with the plot and largely gave up. Amazon are now turning it into a film. That'll be interesting. The next one (the purple hibiscus) the group found to be 'gritty' and 'touching' but I found it boring. When I eventually got to chose a book it was 'Scoop' by Evelyn Waugh. Amazing. Best book I've read in a really long time. It had me laughing all the way through. It was like Oscar Wilde had a grandson (named E.Waugh) who was also into writing (I realise that for practical reasons Wilde probably didn't have a grandson). No one else liked Scoop. No one even read it, they couldn't get past the first few chapters.

Scoop had actually been a second choice. I had wanted to selecting 'Closing Time', which is the follow up to Catch 22, my all time favourite book. Unfortunately for me the club collectively hates Catch 22, so the sequel was off the cards.

I can't help but feel that there's a niche for a kind of OkCupid for book clubs. In this way I can find a bunch that like books that are generally recognised to be good and they can recruit someone in my place who enjoys slow moving grit.

Some sort of learning at the British Museum

I recently went to the British museum for the first time ever. What a great place! When you arrive you know it's special. It's in the type of building that has droves of tourists outside taking selfies in front of it. I have no idea if the architecture is as significant as it looks because what's inside is even more distracting. The British Museum basically houses everything we Brits ever stole from another country as we expanded our empire throughout the world.

Did I make full use of this fantastic resource and learn extensively about all the relics of rich culture around the globe? No. Well, maybe sort of.

During the course of that museum visit, I came to develop a theory that one's experience of an exhibit depends entirely on who you go with. I just so happened to be there with  Jess (who you may remember from the aqua aerobics class). We are two highly energetic and distractable souls, so happy to see each other that we couldn't stop talking long enough to read any of the placards in the building. In this way we educated each other about everything we saw. I told her all I knew about Roman coinage and she taught me about the Rosetta stone. Neither of us knew much about mummies so we swept through the Egypt section and speculated briefly. Sometimes if something was particularly  interesting, we would read half the placard, usually out loud in order to share the information with the other (and stop them from talking!) When you look at a sign and a particular word jumps out, that's how you know you've found the half worth reading. If you're wrong, you'll never know. Sometimes we stood in front of the sign, intending to read it, but couldn't get to a suitable point to pause our conversation and so just generally got in the way.

One of my favourite stories was the Elgin marbles (a great game - I suggest you ask a member of museum staff how to play). Apparently Greece want them back but we keep telling them that the marbles are too delicate to move and so for many years now we've been bound to keep them in the British museum. Our lies were then totally blown open when we took the marbles on a tour of Russia. That's awkward! But our blushes were spared as the Greeks then accidentally blew up the Parthenon (an old building storing old Greek treasures and, apparently, gunpowder) so now we tell them that they are too irresponsible to have their marbles back and we'll be keeping them safe in the British museum for the foreseeable future. At least, that is my recollection of Jess' version of events and with a story like that who cares for an alternative?!

The Elgin Marbles. To be honest, they're already broken.

Loving what we're seeing. Don't know what it is.

It's the type of architecture that tourists take selfies with.

I can tolerate anything except intolerace

Before letting me lose in Kenya, there is a certain amount of pre departure training that must be done. We had some sessions looking at cross-cultural understanding, not judging people by their appearance and considering issues from other people's point of view (amongst others). Although fun I can't say I had any revelations. After studying a human geography degree it would be somewhat disappointing if I still had a lot to learn on the subject of respecting individual or collective differences (or so I thought).

That evening I found myself sat with 2 other volunteers in the bar, (a male and female) and we ended up talking about feminism. Nancy was a black feminist (sic) and Luke wanted to know what feminism was (I always like it when people ask this as I generally find that people who are anti tend not to know what it is that they're opposing. I was in for a surprise). After I'd explained, he thought for a moment:

"Yeah, but it's a woman's role to prepare the home isn't it? I mean, a man doesn't do that" 

I was surprised to hear that. Young people in the 21st century tend not to come out with anything so antiquated and offensive.

"Don't you think that in a modern relationship men and women can share responsibilities?" I tried to get him to reconsider. I shouldn't have bothered

"Yeah, well the husband can tell the wife what to do and he can oversee it can't he? But he can't do it for her"

Good god the man was digging his hole faster than an autonomous mechanical digger.

Nancy, the black feminist across the table, wasn't much help.

"There are certain things women just can't do. I mean men can't breast feed." I wondered what this had to do with housework and whose side she was on. Certainly she didn't strike me as the most convicted of feminists. But then she reverted to the other extreme, "I hate men. All men. They are Satan." If I thought I couldn't be any more shocked I was wrong.

Luke joined in, "I hate men too. Especially black men" (WTF, he is a black man!) and as if to misalign himself further to the patriarchal corner he added "I don't trust women either." I wanted to hold my head in my hands (but I didn't, that would have been rude). I can't handle this much unjustified hatred! I did try to throw him a life raft. Surely no one intends to come across this badly (Nancy I felt was well informed and beyond help - Luke may be just confused).

"You've just said that you don't like men and you don't  trust  women, so you've ruled out everyone. Are you perhaps trying to  say that you have to decide who you like  on a case by case basis?"

I knew it was a long shot but I so wanted it to be true. 

It wasn't. 

Of course it wasn't.

At that point another girl sat down with us. Thanks goodness! A distraction! I'm not open minded enough to tolerate this obnoxious boarder-line-incoherent prejudice. I admit it! I'll discriminate against discriminators. It takes someone more accommodating than me to put up with it. I give up. Let me talk about the weather...

At last! Proof that I've got better at drinking

A few weekends ago I ended up going to a 2-day training course in London with a load of 18 year-olds and a handful of fresh uni grads. It was funny going out drinking with that lot. I was the oldest, but not by a long way. This has only served to highlight to me how much you change from 18 to 25. It's like a social experiment. If you put us in a bar with the express and repeatedly reiterated message of 'do not get drunk' there is general confusion. The poor lambs don't know what to do.

"Shots! Yes, let's do shots! Oh I bought water"
"There's a minimum spend of £10 so I got 3 gin and tonics. Do you want one?"
"\Surely you're not going to drink alcohol?!"

I decided to order independently of this melee. Never has 1 pint of cider seemed so bold or so complicated. It's funny to think I might have matured since I was 18. It's nice to have some proof at last!

Every Londoner should know about The Euston Tap

This post is not a narrative for once, but instead I have to write and report a fantastic new discovery, which I feel I should have learnt about within my first week in London. I can't believe it's taken me nearly 18 months to find the Euston Tap and I now feel obliged to spread the word! One very serious blog post coming up...The Tap impressed me for several reasons. Firstly it seems to be built inside a monument reminiscent or marble arch in style. Secondly it serves pints for under £4 (which is a big deal in London) and thirdly the graffiti in the toilets is so amusing that I must have been in there for a good 10 minutes just reading it. As you would imagine, the place is full of hipsters who are quite friendly (they have to be, it's cosy) and also very beardy.

So if you haven't already been, here's another bar for your London bucket list.

Some sort of Victorian gatehouse.
Don't be put off by my crummy photography

There is nothing better than a good friend

I've often joked (or at least I like to claim I'm joking) that I'm not sure what relationships are for. I see boyfriends as a bit of an inconvenience. I mean, they do things like share their flu, require you to meet their extended family twice removed and eat sensible meals at a sensible time (no more emergency cornflakes at 10pm). I could go on. I won't. You might start to think I'm not kidding.

Last week I went to the cosy little pub in my parent's village with a good friend. Drinking nothing more potent than diet coke I laughed until my sides hurt. We prattled on until we were the last people in the pub and the staff were waiting to go home (probably wondering why they were being paid to wait on 2 individuals who clearly only intended to part with a pitiful amount of coinage in order to fuel their evening). By the time we bumbled out I was quite high on endorphins (which was lucky as it proofed me against the heavy rain) and my cheerfulness carried over into the following day. I swear, if any guy can make me laugh this much, I'll put aside everything I wrote in that first paragraph. He can have a second date regardless of all other flaws*.

* Unless he doesn't want one, in which case, I'll have escaped this rash promise with my freedom and flu-free status in tact.