Gen X - The Way We Were

 

The year was 1993.  D Ream brought out a song called "Things Can Only Get Better".  We all sung it.  We all loved it.  We all believed that things would absolutely get better.  Life was good. There was no reason it would not continue getting better.

Reader, how wrong we were.

Gen X is infamous for saying that the 90s (and early 2000s) were better.  Not just better, looking back, perfect.

You know the saying, "You don't know how lucky you had it?"  That is Gen X.

Everything was better.  Hope, dreams, aspirations; these were all things that seemed possible and attainable.  Our music was full of hope and joy and love.  Listening to music made you feel lifted.  Happy.  Like you were unstoppable.

We talked to each other, not just through our phones.  We danced all night and into the next morning without a phone or camera in sight.  We worked hard and we played hard.  We lived.

We were allowed to roam as children and were actually allowed to be children and play.  Not living our life through Ipads, phones and social media.

Whether our school lives were good or bad, we could come home and that was our sanctuary.  Our safe place.  Now children still come home, but they cannot escape social media, or the bullies.  There is no safe space from the online world.

We were free.  Actually free.  Life was on the up.  Do you remember everyone always used to say "It's a free country!" (That might just be a UK thing).  But it actually was.

Anything was possible.  And we believed it.

Now, you cannot escape social media.  

We have had the mess that was Covid, locking people away for years in what we now realise was a experiment by the ruling powers to see how far they could push us.  

The US has school shootings, practically every other week.  

We have had a terrorist bomb a concert and kill young girls, but were told not to look back in anger.

We have had the Epstein files released, with victims doxed, perpetrators at the highest levels of society, but without one prosecution.  

We have had hundreds of thousands of girls raped and tortured for decades, but we let more and more of the same kind of perpetrators into our country, while telling us that we are racists for objecting.

Music is no longer inspirational or uplifting.  Half the music in the charts are remixes of 90s dance music.  The rest talks about guns, violences, whores and sex.  It isn't music to make us happy.

In the 1990s we thought "what next?" because life was good and we wanted to see where life would take us.  In 2026 we now say "oh god, what next?"  Because there is ALWAYS something around the corner and these days, it is never good.

So other generations, don't judge Gen X.  We had what was a perfect decade or so of life.  And we lost it.  We feel sorry for you because you will never experience it and we feel sorry for ourselves because we had it, and never will again.

The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 9: A Familiar Face

Story Prompt - Your character witnessed her father's murder when she was 5 years old, and now, at work, she wonders why her co-worker looks familiar.

Photo by Juan Ordonez on Unsplash

 I remember the day like it was yesterday.  

Every Sunday, my dad and I would take a ten-minute walk to the local shop to get a newspaper for him, and a packet of cherry lips sweets for me.  It was a tradition, every Sunday, no matter the weather.

On the day in question, we went out much later than usual.  Dad had been in the garage for most of the day and had lost track of the time.  It was winter and the nights were setting in early.  He came into the house at 3.20pm apologising and telling me to get my coat and winter boots on.  I remember Mum say that she didn't want us to go.  Getting too dark, she had said.  You don't know who is out there.

Dad was a big man and scoffed at the thought.  He said "Come on love, have you seen the size of me? No one would dare!"  Dad was a tall man, with broad shoulders that he used to carry me on.  I  used to think that my dad was a superhero.  Unstoppable.  

By the time we were ready to leave the house, it was dark outside and the snow had become thick on the ground.  But with my dad, I felt completely safe.  I miss that feeling, because since that day, I have never felt truly safe again.

After leaving home and a few minutes of trudging through the snow later, we entered an alleyway which led to the main street.  There was a man entering at the other side.  It was unusual to see people in the alleyway, which was more of a snicket between two rows of houses.  I looked up at the man approaching, and saw something glistening appear in his hand as he removed it from his pocket.  His face reminded me a bit of a weasel.  

I heard my Dad loudly say "You!" in a surprised tone of what I now realise was recognition and then, a cry.  The other man barely stopped in his momentum, carrying on up the alleyway as my dad fell to the floor.

I did not understand at first.  Why my dad had fallen over.  Why the man did not stop.  Why there was red liquid starting to cover the white snow around my dad.  Why he was not moving.

I do not remember any more about that day.  Or many days of my childhood since then.  My dad died on the ground of the alleyway that day and a part of me died with him.  The police investigated, but the murderer was never found.  We knew found out why.  

Twenty years on, I still think about that day.  How could I not?  People tell me that they are happy that it happened when I was so young.  That I must not really remember my dad and what happened.  But I do remember and the memory of the blood seeping into the snow and his dead eyes, shock still registering on his face staring up at me from the ground will never leave me.

I still live with my mum.  Except now we live two towns over from our previous home.  We could not stay there. 

I was always a happy child, friendly and trusting; but after the incident I changed.  These days I am quiet, reserved.  I tend to keep to myself.  As a rule, I don't trust people.  Because a person killed my dad and I don’t know who it was or why they did it.

I started working at the bank five years ago as a junior.  Now I am a banking clerk, studying alongside and slowly, making my way up.  I am known to be a hard worker.  But not that friendly.  But I am reliable and get the job done and that is all my bosses care about.

The reason I tell you my story today is because of yesterday morning.  I went into work as usual and was told that there was a new accounts manager.  Tom Allen they said he was called.  I thought nothing of it.  Accounts managers tended to come and go.  I suspected that he would be no different.

We met in the break room at 10.15 when I was making my coffee.  “Lucy! Come and meet our new recruit”.  I went over to the manager who was sat with an older looking man who sat opposite.  “Lucy, meet Tom, our new accounting manager”.  I turned to look at him, a practiced small smile on my face and my hand outstretching to shake hands but then, I froze.  Everything stopped.  I think time may have even stopped for a second.

It was him.  I was sure of it.  That weasel face.  It was him.

I managed to recover and hide my shock, although I retracted my hand.  “Hi, I’m Lucy.  Sorry, I think I zoned out for a second there!  Welcome to the bank".  Surely, I was mistaken.  After all, it would be impossible.  Yet, I looked into his eyes, those weasel eyes and saw something there.  Recognition.  He recognised me too.

He stared at me, a little too long, as I had done.  “No problem Lucy, it is a Monday after all.  Not a heavy weekend I hope, hahaha!”  He smiled up at me, but the smile did not reach the eyes.  His eyes were searching mine.

Greetings done, I went back to the coffee machine to get my coffee.   I could feel his gaze burning into me as I left the room.  The manager would ignore my awkwardness.  They knew I didn’t socialise or chat. 

By the evening when I got home, I had managed to convince myself that he was not him.  That he was not my father’s killer.  He was just another weasel faced man who looked familiar.  There was no way I could recognise him after twenty years.  Right?

Then we come to today.  I had managed to avoid Tom all day.  Although I knew that another meeting was inevitable.  Yesterday had all been in my head.  Of course it had.  My colleagues knew that I was strange, but damn, I needed to get a grip!

But then, 5.00pm rolls around.  I started to gather my things and my handbag when I heard someone come up behind me.  Close.  Too close.  “Lucy!”.  It was him.  Fuck.

“The manager tells me that you get the train home.  Not safe for a girl like you.  How about I offer you a lift?”  I look up at him.  He is smiling, but his eyes were pointed.  Staring, as if right into my soul.  Stop it, Lucy.  He is just being friendly.

“No, I am ok Tom, I enjoy the train, but thank you for the offer”.  I get up and put my coat on.

No, he says.  “I insist.  It is dark outside.  Too many alleys between here and the station.  You don’t know who you might run into”.

The world stopped right there.  My heart felt like it was beating out of my chest.  It was him.  And he knew.  He knew that I knew.

Fight or flight.  Fight or flight.  I couldn’t fight.  He would say I had attacked him.  What could I say?  He killed my dad?  On what grounds? He looks like him?  He mentioned alleyways?  No.  I had to be clever.

I looked right back at the him.  With the steel in my heart that had started to form all those years ago.

“Oh don’t worry Tom.  I can take care of myself.  Believe me.  Night though.  Have a good evening”.

I walked, not ran out of the building.  I was calm.  For the first time in what seemed like, what was, forever.

I knew three things. 

The first, that that man, Tom Allen, had murdered my father.  I did not know why.  And I could never prove it. 

The second, I knew that he could kill me.  That he was willing to do so.  But I was not that little girl anymore.  And the piece of me that he stolen that day was my heart.  I felt nothing.  I had not felt emotions in years.

I have always been the quiet girl.  Unassuming.  Pleasant but not friendly.  Under the radar.  But, I had started karate when I was ten.  I was a black belt by fifteen.  From there to present day, I studied Krav Maga.  My current instructor calls me the lethal ninja girl.  

I knew that I wanted to be able to protect myself.  I wanted to be strong.  So much stronger than I looked.  I wanted to be ready.  For the day, if it ever appeared, when I came face to face with a monster.  The monster.

The third thing I knew was that I was going to kill him.  

Going to the Spa Alone is not Heroic

 At least once a year I like to treat myself by booking into our local spa.  

I booked the full day at the spa with coffee and chocolate croissants to start, lounging by the pool and steaming up in the sauna for the morning,  followed by a two course lunch with wine, an afternoon facial and the remainder of the afternoon on a sun lounger, swimming and a frozen mango margarita with my Kindle for the rest of the day.

Sounds perfect doesn't it? It was.

The only irritation in the whole day however was the reaction of some people to my being alone.

I booked the day specifically for myself.  I wanted relaxation, some pampering, some time to myself.  I absolutely loved it.  I have (happily) reached a point in my life where I can go out in public alone with worry or thinking people are looking at me (although apparently some were!)

Spending a day alone doing lovely things was exactly what I needed.  I catered to myself, did what I wanted and I had the perfect day.

Yet twice I was chatting to people and was told that I was brave for being on my own, and that they couldn't do it, but wished that they could.  

But I wasn't being brave, I was enjoying myself.

I think one of the wonderful things about reaching your forties is that you no longer care what people think.  I had a day to pamper myself, I had my kindle to read to entertain myself, I was happy.  I thought nothing of being on my own in the spa, in fact I had arranged for it to be that way.  It was a treat to have some complete time to myself.

The first person who asked me if I was on my own told me I was "brave" and that they couldn't do it.  Fine.  Whatever.  The second however irritated me.  They did not seem to think that it was possible that I could have chosen to be on my own.  "Did your friends not want to come".  "What about your partner".  "Could you not have rearranged it so you had someone with you?"  The idea of my being on my own seemed to slightly shock them.  

I didn't ask them.  I did not ask him either.  No.  I wanted to go on my own!!

When I got home though I started to think.  Could I, would I have gone to the spa alone before?  And the answer is, probably not before I turned 40.  I would have been too self conscious before then.  That is one of the good things about reaching your 40s.  You no longer care what people think.

Yet of the two people who commented on my being alone that day, both looked of a similar age to me.

That is when it occurred to me that the coasting part of my life is done.  The waiting to become who I am.  This is me.  Now.  All of me.

And that me loves a spa day alone, by the pool, sipping a cocktail.  A day of self care and absolute indulgence.  What could be better than that?

From Puberty to Pregnancy to Menopause: The Brutal Truth They Don’t Tell You About Being a Woman

OK.  I am just going to say it.  Being born a woman is bloody awful.  Men, feel free to write your own for your sex.

First, the good years.  You are born, you become a little girl.  You are loved, you are safe.  You get to play with dolls and play.  You make friends when you go to primary school.  All is good and happy in the world.

Then.  Puberty hits.  

For some of us, it hits early.  Breasts start growing (at ten in my case).  What does that mean?  Well firstly, your childhood is over.  Each and every one of us remembers the time when grown men started looking at us and talking to us in ways that we could not understand.  For me, again, ten years old.  Because: breasts.

I still remember a family member saying "Oh you will have all the boys after you now!" I did not want that.  I was a child.  I did not understand it.

Then the hormones start.  You have no clue who you are yet, your body is changing in ways you are not ready for.  You realise that the world is not the safe place you thought it was and that you actually do need protecting.  That safe world you lived in no longer exists.

Plus of course, periods.  Every single month.  For decades.  If you are lucky, you get regular periods.  If not, you get fibroids (me again), endometriosis.  Pain, pain and more pain.  But of course you are a woman so the pain you describe to doctors and consultants is mostly ignored, until finally, years later, sometime actually listens and you get a diagnosis.

Don't want to get pregnant?  Let me introduce to IUDs!!!  Wonderful little things that apparently you do not need pain relief/anesthetic for (plot twist, you really, really do).  Getting one in remains the worse pain that I have ever felt.

Do want to get pregnant?  Get ready for nine months of throwing up, your body changing until you don't recognise it, hair falling out, gestational diabetes, pain and more pain.  Plus of course, going into labour!  Oh the joys!

But of course, even our bodies know that women are screwed so it pumps us full of hormones so we forget just how awful the whole thing was.

Then you have the mother years.  That have not changed since the beginning of bloody time.  We are expected to know all about the child and how to care for it instinctively, from birth plus do majority of childcare, household chores, cooking, laundry, usually also while working because "woman".

Then.  We reach our mid forties.  Sweet sanctuary!!  Our periods stop when we hit menopause.  Let's have a party, we are free!!!! 

But no.  That would be too easy.

Instead, we get the equivalent of the second fucking coming of puberty.  Tears, rage, tears, rage, on repeat.  Plus hot sweats and wondering who you are even are anymore.  Again.

So at this point, what do we have to look forward to next?  Death.  That's it.  Woman's life is over.

Wonderful.  Thanks almighty creator.

As you may be able to tell, I am starting the throws of menopause and I am pissed off.

When Every Hobby Becomes a Side Hustle (And Why That's a Problem)

 There was a time when hobbies were wonderfully pointless.

You baked because you enjoyed baking. You knitted because it kept your hands busy. You painted terrible landscapes that would never leave your spare room. You wrote stories that nobody else would ever read (not projecting at all......).

And that was enough.

Somewhere along the way, though, we decided that simply enjoying something wasn't enough. Every hobby became a business opportunity waiting to happen.

Like baking? Start selling cakes.  Good at photography? Open an Instagram account and charge for shoots.  Enjoy reading? Become a book influencer.  Good at organising? Become a professional decluttering expert.

It feels as though we've reached a point where every pastime is immediately followed by the question, "But how can you make money from it?"

I'm not against people turning their passions into careers. In fact, I admire those who have managed to do it successfully. If you genuinely love what you do and people are willing to pay for it, that's fantastic.

What bothers me is the expectation that you should.  Not everything has to earn its keep.

We've become so obsessed with productivity that we struggle to justify doing anything purely because it makes us happy. If we're spending two hours knitting, someone will inevitably suggest opening an Etsy shop. If we're learning the guitar, someone will ask when we're playing paid gigs. If we enjoy writing, people assume we're trying to become bestselling authors.

Sometimes we're just... writing.

Social media hasn't helped.

Scroll through any platform for long enough and you'll be told that your weekends are wasted if you're not building multiple income streams. Every spare evening apparently needs to be monetised. Every interest should become content. Every talent should become a business.

It's exhausting.

The irony is that turning a hobby into work often changes your relationship with it completely.

When money enters the equation, deadlines follow.  Clients have opinions.  Algorithms demand consistency.

Suddenly the thing that once helped you unwind becomes another item on your to-do list and the joy quietly slips out the back door.

That's not failure. It's simply the reality that work is still work, even when it starts as a passion.  

There's also an odd guilt that creeps in if you're not trying to make your hobbies profitable.  You almost feel as though you're wasting your potential.

"You could sell those."  "You should start a YouTube channel." "You'd make loads doing that."

Maybe.

But maybe I'd rather just enjoy it.

We don't question people who watch television for three hours on a Sunday afternoon, yet we seem uncomfortable with someone spending the same amount of time making pottery that never gets sold.

One is accepted as relaxing.  The other somehow requires a business plan.  There's something quietly rebellious about having a hobby that exists for nobody else.

No audience.  No followers.  No subscribers.  No customers.  Just you.

Not everything needs to be measured by income or productivity. Some things are valuable simply because they make life a little richer.

The same goes for learning something new. We don't have to become experts. We don't need to be the best in the room. We don't need certificates or sponsorship deals or thousands of likes.

We can be gloriously average at something and still enjoy every minute of it.

In fact, there's a certain freedom in being bad at something.  No pressure.  No expectations.  Just progress for the sake of progress.  Maybe that's something we've forgotten.

Life isn't meant to be one endless performance review.

We're allowed to spend time on things that don't improve our CV, grow our bank balance or impress strangers on the internet.

Sometimes the return on investment is simply feeling calmer, happier or more creative than we did yesterday.

That should be enough.  Sometimes it's perfectly okay for something to exist simply because it brings you joy.

In a world that wants to monetise every minute of your free time, protecting a hobby just for yourself might be one of the most valuable things you can do.

Why Self-Care Deserves A Line In Your Budget

 Budgeting in one form or another is always going to be part of my life.  I will never be rich, but if I was, budgeting would still be there.  That is how you stay rich.  If you want to read more about the budgeting tips that I use, you can check out the pages on my blog.

Today I wanted to talk about self-care, and how important it is to include in your budget.

When you think of creating a budget, you think about the bills that go in and out.  How you can manage them, how you can reduce them; what needs to be there and what doesn't.  For me, self-care absolutely needs to be there.

As you may have gathered from my older clothing blogging posts, I love dressing up and wearing makeup.  I like to have my hair looking nice, I usually have some form of makeup on and I wear a dress, every single day.  The way that I present myself to the world is part of my self-care.  It makes me happy.

Things that I typically do for my beauty self-care are having my roots done every eight weeks, along with having my eyebrows tinted and waxed.  I have also added in having a pedicure to that eight week cycle.  

I also try to go for a spa day twice a year, including a facial.  I book in for the full day, take my kindle, go alone and honestly it is so wonderfully indulgent.  Taking the whole day to relax, reading, clearing my pores and my mind in the steam room and having a facial just puts the cherry on the cake.

I also try to buy at least one book a month.  Losing myself in a story and taking that time to myself is important for my self-care.   My partner has a huge book collection of things that I would not normally read, but would like to; so I try to read one from the book shelf and buy something on Kindle more in my sphere every month.

All this adds up of course.  This is part of the reason that I budget so carefully in all areas.  These things I do for myself are important to me and for me.  Doing my budgeting has made it possible to do those things.

You can be clever about the beauty side of self care too.  I always ask for face or eye masks for stocking fillers at Christmas.  My in-laws buy me vouchers for Christmas and birthdays for the spa, meaning there is much less to pay when I book.

I also try to buy products in bulk, utilising 3 for 1, or even better 3 for 2 offers in shops such as Boots, as well as making use of the advantage card.  

One major help is that I use Topcashback for many online purchases throughout the year.  I always buy my insurance (home, car, pet) through them and other purchases where I can, which again offsets the amount of money that I spend on self-care.  This can result in a few hundred pounds by the end of the year.

Taking time for yourself is important and also does not have to cost a thing.  I try to take some time for myself every day.  This could be reading my book, putting on a face mask, or writing here.  I try to list at least one thing every day that makes me happy and that I am grateful for.

Self-care also means that sometimes, you are going to have a bad day.  Learnt from Tuesdays with Morrie, I allow myself a period of time to let myself feel that way, let it all out and then I feel that I can move on.  Bottling up sadness is not healthy.  Even if it is simply just a bad day at work.

Self-care may not be at the top of your budget list, but it absolutely needs to be there.

When Courage Feels Too Big: Breaking Bravery Down Into Simple Steps

“Bravery is the ability to look fear and hurt in the face and say move aside, you are in the way.” – Melissa Tumino 

I used to think that being brave meant taking a giant leap.  Believing in yourself enough to do something completely out of your comfort zone.  Facing a fear head on.

The truth is that bravery can start with a tiny step.  Sometimes looking at the end goal or the whole picture of what you want to achieve can be intimidating.  Too easy to put off.  I will try another day.  That turns into another week, another year.

When I decided that I wanted to change my life, I had spent years procrastinating.  I had a life in my mind that I wanted to have, things that I wanted to accomplish, but they loomed so large that my fear stopped me from moving forward.

What helped me in the end was breaking down my goal into small steps.  Each step I took, however small, was onward motion.  This helped to carry me forward to the next step.  Then the next.  Suddenly, the goal that I wanted to achieve was over half way to being achieved and I had the success of the steps I had taken behind me to encourage me on and help to negate my fear.

I will tell you about one such goal, which sounds so small now, but was huge at the time.

I had been invited to a press day for a fashion brand in London.  Hundreds of miles away from where I lived.  There would be press there, competition winners, the designer himself.   It involved getting to London, staying over, finding the venue, chatting with people I did not know.  Navigating London.  Getting home.

When I was first invited, all of that seemed impossible to me.  I was terrified.  But I wanted to, so very much.

So I broke it down into tiny pieces.  The ad agency booked my train tickets and hotel stay so I didn’t need to worry about that.  But everything else was planned to the last detail.

How to get to the train station.  How long the train ride would be.  I found a map showing where I would get off.  Then got precise directions of how to get to the tube station I needed.  Times.  Pictures.  Then from the tube station, I printed out walking directions to my hotel.  How long it should take.  Relevant landmarks/shops so I knew I was on the right track.

I found out which other bloggers were going to the event and started chatting with two of them so that I would know at least someone.  I chose four different outfits so I had choice when the inevitable "I can't wear that" moment came.  I figured out all the times of when I need to leave the hotel, how I would get back.

I did not think about the big picture of what I was doing for the whole time.  I focused completely on succeeding with each step with a check box in my mind.  

It was only when I got to Euston and went through the barrier to the train home that I actually allowed myself to breath.  But I had done it.  Accomplished every single step, no matter how small.  I was changed as a result.

I have taken many steps since that day.  Some big. Some small.  But all are progress.  I am so very different to the scared and anxious girl that I was.  This is because of the steps I have taken.

So next time you want to do something but think you cannot, break it down into small pieces.  Next time you are scared to do something, take tiny steps towards it.  Before you know it, that thing that scared you so will have been done and you will no longer be scared.

I try to push myself every day and try to remember the progress that I have made, looking back at all the steps that I took to get to this place.

“Believe in yourself. You are braver than you think, more talented than you know, and capable of more than you imagine”  Roy T Bennett

Paid, Pacified and Going Nowhere - The Problem with Universal Basic Income

Universal Basic Income is something that we have been hearing about off and on for the past few years in the UK. In 2020 170 MPs and peers advocated for lobby for a Universal Basic Income to be brought into effect countrywide.

Poverty is nothing new to the UK, or the world.  Millions of Britons face fuel poverty with the ever increasing energy prices.  In 2022, 1047 people died as a result of living in a cold, damp home.  According to data from the House of Commons, 18% of Britons were in absolute poverty after housing costs in 2023/24.  This figure is on the rise.

In June 2023 it was announced that a Universal Basic Income trial was to take place over a two year period by think tank The Autonomy Institute.  Thirty people from the areas Jarrow and North East England and Finchley in North London would given £1600 a month (£1200 after tax) for two years, with no conditions attached; whether they were in work or not.  The results of this trial have not yet been released but the proposal details can be found here.

The trial is to see what effect this money will have on people’s physical and mental health. Whether that extra money can have an impact on the quality of life, see how that money is used and how people's lives changed as a result.

I believe that a Universal Basic Income (hereafter called UBI) is a terrible idea.  If I have learned anything about the way this country is going, moreover how it is being run, I know that UBI will not start, but will end as another element of control.

UBI sounds great in principle, reducing poverty, improve wellbeing and boost income security; but in reality, how would UBI play out?

Although the study as mentioned above is giving participants £1600 per month before tax, in all likelihood, a nationwide UBI would be something more like £400 per month.  This would come at a cost of £200 billion annually, more than the cost of the NHS.

Where would that money come from?  Tax payers.  Some of the same people who would also receive the money.  Higher income tax, VAT, National Insurance.  They would effectively be giving with one hand and taking from the other.

But also, how would UBI be placed in relation to other benefits?  Would Job Seeker's Allowance disappear?  Housing benefits would likely still have to be in play.  It would have to be.  Unless housing was completely reformed, and that is something we should not wish to contemplate.  I have visions of the tower blocks of the 1980s returning.

There is no benefit really to anyone receiving UBI.  The workers would be taxed more.  The people who do not work will receive less benefits and become poorer.  The workers will not be able to sustain funding UBI.

What I do know is that UBI will never be for the good of the people.  At first, it will seem marvelous.  More money!  But then, drip by drip, control of how that money will be spent will come to pass.  Eventually that money will not be money at all, but vouchers.  Then control of how you spend the vouchers.  No petrol for you, you drove 20 miles last month.  No red meat for you or double the cost, think of the environment.

What we know about the government, no matter who is in power, is that they have a game plan that has nothing to do with benefitting the people.  But don't look at the man behind the curtain.  Look, free money!  

Nothing in this life is free.

We live in a world where children no longer want to be astronauts or surgeons, they want to be streamers.  A world where a horrifying number of young girls are turning to Only Fans.  A world where AI will be replacing more and more workers.  A world where people converse online but say nothing to each other's faces.

All this is part of a plan.  What plan, I do not know.  But I know one thing, if the Government could convince a country to sing "Don't Look Back In Anger" after the bombing at the M.E.N, they are capable of anything.

Tips For The Holiday Packing Checklist

I have been fortunate enough to have had a number of holidays in my life and there is one thing that I have learned from all of them.   You need to pack for the holiday you are going to have, the real one.  Not the one in your head.

If you are anything like me, your ideal amount of time packing is 20-30 minutes.  Throw some things into a suitcase and done.  However, the problem with doing that is that you have not planned.  Which inevitably means, overpacking.

The devil is in the details (or the weight limit on your suitcase in this case).  I therefore use a few tips to stop overpacking and keep the weight under the limit.

Wear It, Don't Pack It

Shoes are always the thing that weights my suitcase down and takes me over the limit.  Repeat after me, you do not need as many shoes as you think.  

I tend to wear my "can wear day time or evening" sandals to the airport.  That means black, comfortable and classic.  The kind that goes with shorts, dresses, anything.  That is one pair of shoes you don't need to pack.  

Also, weather dependent, I also wear a pair of shorts, a tank top and also wear the cardigan that I always take in case I need it in the evenings.

Clothes

Go light on shorts and tops.  If you are going on a sunbathing holiday, you usually just end up throwing on a floaty dress/cover up over your swimwear when going for lunch and maybe a pair of shorts.  I wore two tops for the week last time I went on holiday.  I took seven.

Indulge in swimwear and floaty cover ups.  They take up zero room.  Room you will need for evening attire.  I am a dress person.  I wear dresses every day.  I am not a separates girl.  I take ten (yes I am going for seven days).   But you and I both know that you need more.   The heat, the amount of food you have snacked on, how you feel on the day; all mean that that dress you thought would be perfect, is now the last thing you want to wear.  Take more.

Underwear - pretty much standard.  Seven pair of knickers (or panties for you American readers) and three bras which you can wash through as needed.

Products

Take minis and commit to leaving the residue of them in the hotel room at the end.  These you also need to make a list for to avoid overpacking.   These can really take up space (and weight) in your suitcase and are always my downfall.  

The only full size items should be sun tan lotion and an after sun.  

Here is what I recommend for the mini products:

Shower gel, moisturiser, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, hair heat protector spray, facial hydration spray (your skin will thank you), facial wash, make-up setting spray and micellar water.   Don't be tempted to just take make up wipes.  They are even worse for your skin in hot weather.  Also, something to wash your clothes (swimsuit, bras).  

Before you put them in your suitcase, commit to removing things.   You don't need an exfoliator.  You won't use it.  I promise.  Also, no hair oil.  You won't use it and you can guarantee that will be the thing that leaks over everything,

Be Realistic About Make-Up

This is an area where I have managed to massively cut down over the years.  I used to take my full make-up bag with me, but this is weighty and half the products I end up not using. So.....

Waterproof Mascara, eyeliner, a mini eyeshadow pallet, concealer (two shades to match when my skin tans), blusher, face powder.  I can get away with not wearing foundation on holiday so I don't take it.  A eyeshadow brusher, an all rounder blending brush.  Two lip glosses and a red lipstick.  Done.

Buy It, Don't Pack It

A hat for the sun is something obligatory.  This is something I don't use here, so I will be buying one on holiday.  I usually try to pick up a cheap hat while I am on holiday and I always leave it there.  A waste of £5-10?  No.  It will flatten in your suitcase anyway and takes up room.  Just buy one.

The Airport Bag

A tip I have here is buy a nice beach bag, not a cheap one and one with pockets.  Use that as your airport bag.  

Also, do not underuse your airport bag.  Although you don't want to weigh yourself down carrying it around the airport, you can take some necessary items in there that you don't need then to pack.  Remember to put any make-up items, facial spray etc already in a clear plastic bag to save time.

I usually put my moisturiser in and my facial spray.  My perfume goes in there also and my lip glosses.  I also put my sunglasses in, my kindle, my earbuds and charging case, my phone/kindle charger and most importantly, a couple of pairs of underwear and a swimsuit (just in case my luggage heaven forbid gets lost).  I also take all my currency, separated into my purse and an envelope in each zip pocket.  

Take Something Multi Purpose For Your Hair

I take my Dyson.  Other cheaper brands work well too.  I can dry, straighten and curl my hair all in one tool instead of taking multiple appliances.

Prior Preparation

I always get my hair cut before I go on holiday as it grows like crazy when I am on holiday.  I also get my eyebrows waxed and tinted (go a shade darker than normal to account for fading in the sun) plus a pedicure with gel on my toes so I don't need to worry about touch ups.  You could also have a spray tan done if you don't want to look off the plane pasty white, but to be honest, I never bother with that.  Take anti-histamines for a month before you go so you don't get eaten alive and take that Imodium.  I learned the hard way.

The general rule of thumb is to lay out everything you are going to take, then remove at least one item from each pile, excluding underwear.  There are shops where you are going.  Never fear!

And finally....

Leave Room To Bring Things Home

Taking mini products with you and hopefully with the tips above meaning that you are already under the weight limit means that you don't need to limit yourself on holiday trinkets.   Every single time I go on holiday I end up buying a new handbag and something ceramic for my kitchen.  Just don't go for fake labels and ceramics with the place name on them.  Always tacky and always insta regret when you get home.

Other than that, have a wonderful holiday!

Becoming Me - Letting Go of What No Longer Fits

 I recently talked about a book called Butter and discussed societal expectations and how they change and effect you as a person.

There are so many influences on us, from a very young age.  It takes a very strong person not to be influenced completely and many of us fall by the wayside, by deciding to, or simply conforming to fit in to have an easier life.

Now that I am at a stage of my life where I feel open to being myself and who I am without feeling the need to conform, I have the chance to discover who that person really is.  More than that, what I really want from life.  It is important to realise what a rare gift that is.  But I have worked hard to get here.

Throwing off the constraints of society and the people around you, including sometimes the people you love; is a little like taking your clothes off when you come home from a winter's day into the warmth of your home.  You start small with the hat, the gloves, the scarf.  Then comes the coat, which you think is the most complicated part because it is so bulky and has many zips and fastenings.  But then you realise that the jumper that is by now stuck fast to your body is actually the hardest.  But every layer thereafter is much easier.  Until you get to pulling off your socks...

I think that this analogy works well because when you are working to heal yourself and find your peace, you are never quite done.  The things you think will be easy, are not and the things that you thought would take forever, don't.  You can never tell until you start.

I decided to try and make a list of some of the things that have shaped me, looking back with clearer eyes, in the hope that I can make new choices now.  

I was a fat child.  This was why I had few friends in primary school.  Let's be honest here.  Personality is secondary when you are fat.  You know it and I know it.  The only thing that can save you is being funny, and even then; you tend to get typecast as the fat funny one (hello Hollywood) but people know nothing else about you.  I am not particularly funny.

I tried everything to make friends and was “friendly” with some; but what I learned from primary school is that it did not get better. no matter how you tried.  You just had to be not fat.  The rest would follow.  The fact that I was naturally shy did not help.

This carried forward to secondary school.  Although I did eventually find a best friend there.  But I was still an oddity. 

The are two sides to being fat though.  One is being fat in school.  I do not believe that my experiences of being fat at school shaped me other than to point out the obvious.  Children like to find the odd one out.  Someone to pick on.  Children are cruel.  But even at primary school they know that staying in the pack and picking off the weaker ones is the best play.

The other side of being fat is the fact that you are not holding up your end of a bargain that you did not know you had agreed to.  At least in my case.

The bargain was, so I was told for decades, is that you have to be attractive to the opposite sex.  This is paramount.  Otherwise, why do you even exist.  

Attractive means not fat.  Especially when you have an attractive parent.  You must follow suit.  I did not.  This means, you are not good enough.  You have not made the grade.   You are not good enough even to be on the starting block. 

Another thing that shaped me was being the last in line.  My thoughts, my opinions, my feelings did not matter.  They were the last straw. So, I simply started putting people above myself and believed that I, on the bottom rung of the ladder, deserved nothing.  This has been a major controlling factor of my life, or was.  I never put myself first, never bothered making a plan for myself, or my life.  Because I simply did not matter.

One thing about writing that I love is that it is a little like real time therapy.  Except you are making the suppositions to yourself and answering them while you write.  Thoughts occur to me as I type and I discover new things about myself.

The last paragraph is a prime example.  A raw truth that I have never realised before or never fully understood.  I never made plans for my life, because I believed that I did not matter enough to make them.  

These days, I believe in focusing on the here and now.  Not looking back and using reasons from the past to interfere with my future.  But I can learn from it.  It needs no longer to cause me  pain.  Now there is so much that is positive about my life.  Finally. I love my life.  I am working every day on trying to love myself.

For me, my healing started with love.  A clear, true love that could not be denied.  From a person who could see right through me.  To parts that I could not see for myself.  Now, I can.

That love was the beginning.  I was finally on the starting block.

Now, I am excited.  Because now, I know that I matter.  I believe it.  That I deserve space in this world.  That I can create a world for me, of my choosing.  That world includes the person that I love and includes our wants and dreams.  But I have a person who wants me to find my dreams and go for them.  What could possibly be better than that?

I have always been a person who stayed stagnant, whilst occasionally making huge leaps.  I made a leap into plus size blogging, I made a leap to pushing myself to do things on my own (like travelling to London which I have talked about here before); I made a leap into commercial writing; I made a leap by giving up commercial writing in order to write about what I believed; I made a leap back into online dating.  My last leap was the most important, I tried a new way to heal, and in doing so, discovered myself, waiting there to be found.

So, after all of this time, all of the soul searching, all the time I have spent healing; who I am?

What I found is that I am the person that I thought I was.  I am, under it all, a happy person.  I see the good in people.  I am silly, I love to laugh.  I like to take care of the people that I love.  I know that that this is my nature, and is no longer just done in the hope of love.  I have a thousand opinions.  I love to write.  It gives me joy.  

I like to cook.  I want to learn more cooking.  I maybe want to study something.  I want to write more short stories.  Maybe a book. I want to travel more.  I want to go on this adventure in life with my partner at my side and see where it ends.

The future is mine and what I make of it.  The only limits are myself and I am done with limits.

The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 8: A Witch's Curse

Today's theme I found to be an interesting one, here is what I did with it.

Write about a witch’s curse:

The woods next to the village of St Aubrens were dark and oppressive.  Sadness and pain seem to radiate out from the branches of the trees themselves and whether it was summer or winter, the leaves were always black.

The village itself was also a strange place.   There was a section in the village with rows of cottages that no one wanted to pass.  Misery seemed to hang in the air like an ever present cloud and the residents always looked like the weight of the world rested on their shoulders.

Whenever there was a celebration within the village, the festivities never reached those cottages.  Decorations were never hung, the brightly coloured lanterns were never lit, the people never seemed to smile.

Newcomers to the village never stayed long.  People were actively discouraged from buying in the area and the children who lived there moved away as soon as could.  This was not a happy village.  Because decades earlier, the village people had made a mistake, they had crossed a witch.

The villagers had always known about the witch who lived alone, or so they thought, in a tiny cottage in the woods.  Uneasy at the thought of a witch in their midst, the unspoken rule was that they left her alone and in turn, she would stay away from the village. 

After several years particularly bad harvests, the villagers started to mutter about the witch and about how she was bringing them bad luck.  One night, fueled after a night at the local tavern, those mutterings turned to anger, and the anger turned to fury.  The men of the village tore through the woods with torches alight, intent of burning the witch out of her home and getting her well away from their village.

It was only when they had set fire to the witch’s cottage that the villagers heard screams of “My children! My children!” coming from behind them.  The witch raced through the trees towards the cottage which was now fully ablaze.  There was no way anyone, even the witch, could have saved anyone inside.

The men had raced back to village, horrified at what had just occurred. 

The next day, the witch had appeared in the village square, stricken with grief at the loss of her children.  The smell of the fire was all around her and black smoke seemed to follow in her wake.   She proclaimed that every man who had entered the woods that night would suffer, that he would never know happiness again without pain.

The witch was never seen again.  Too afraid now to pursue her, the villagers never entered the woods again, and with good reason.  All the men who had entered the woods that night soon felt the consequences of her curse. 

Any feeling of happiness was followed by strong physical pain.  The sensation was described as having your heart pulled from your chest.  From a chuckle from a joke to a feeling of love or happiness caused hours of excruciating agony. 

The men soon realised that in order to survive the curse, they had to cut all happiness from their lives.  Their loved ones were sent away, they chose their food from the scraps left by others and they now each lived alone, on the same row of cottages in the village.

No one in the village knew exactly how long the cursed men had actually lived.  The years and decades passed and yet they still lived on.  Some said that they would die when the witch did. When her pain had died, so to could theirs.  

No one ever entered the St Aubrens Woods again.

Swipe Left on Love: How Phones and the Death of Nightclubs Killed Dating

I honestly am coming to the conclusion that there are two realities.  There is the reality we walk around in and see with our own eyes; and there is the reality that we seen and read about online.  Often the two seems to be at odds with one another.

Dating for example.  There are a lot of problems with dating these days.  This is going to be a two part post and I will link that post when uploaded.  

For this post, instead of talking about the usual issues (dating apps etc), I want to bring up another reason why dating is so much harder now.  You simply cannot meet people like you used to.  

I come from a regular size town.  Growing up and through my 20s and 30s the nightlife scene was amazing.  The local pubs for example.  There were three options within walking distance of my home, always guaranteed to have people in them and not just a couple of retired old men having a pint.  

I spent many a Saturday afternoon in one of the local pubs playing pool (badly) and having a flirt.  Or on a Sunday, otherwise known as "hungover, need McDonalds then pool at the pub" in town.  There were always people there to have a laugh and a flirt with.  These were regular haunts that people went to and relationships were formed as a result.

I may sound 104 when I say this, but having no mobile phone also made a difference in that.  No social media to check, no selfies.  No checking text messages, Whatapp, emails.  You were present.  Fully present, not looking at your phone every five minutes.  Even now (and unfortunately I am guilty of doing this myself) I am turned off when I am having a conversation with someone and they keep checking their phone.

Then you had the bar and nightclub scene.  You could go out on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday if you wanted.  You did not have to drink, although most did to be fair.  I still remember the route that we used to take.

You got off the bus at 8.00pm and hit the bars (fake names used for anonymity).  Firstly, The Side Bar.  From there, Yates, The Duck & Cover, The McMillan.  Then Pink Paradise, BBs.  By 11 - 11.30 ish you were heading to one of the five nightclubs available.  Remember, this was just a regular small town.  Five nightclubs to choose from, with a line that could take 30 minutes to get to the front of unless you knew a bouncer.

This was also a time when you could do all of it, plus a takeaway pizza and a cab home for £25.

There was so much choice in where to go.  And with that choice, so many people to meet.  Two of my good friends met their husbands in one of those night clubs.  That was the thing.  You met people.  You enjoyed yourself.  You chatted, you danced.  You were not attached to your phone.  You lived.  You were home by 2.00am.

I remember once saying to my best friend while we played pool on a Sunday "God I am glad that there is no evidence of last night".  By that by the way, I meant drunken dancing, a snog with someone that I regretted, or telling a boy that I thought that he was cute when sober, I would not have dared.

Now, it is different.  Our lives are recorded and put online.  Photographs, selfies, videos.  "Funny" stories told about your friend who did x, y or z.  There is no escape.  And more, instead of losing yourself on the dance floor for two hours dancing, now the idea of fun seems to be posing and posturing for young men and young girls with a bottle of prosecco and ten thousand selfies.

The art of conversation has died.  Banter has died.  No one knows how to flirt properly any more. 
Now, my town is dead.  There are still bars, one nightclub.  But due to the licensing laws changing, no one goes out until midnight anymore.  When they do go out, they stay in their own circles.  Selfies, group photos.  Posing. 

Or worse.  I went to a party recently for a 25th birthday and all the attendees went home at midnight.  Not even to a house party.  Home.  At midnight.  They didn't even seem to be having fun.  Girls, looking identical with their contouring and perfect outfits, but sitting their taking pictures of themselves.  Only when they got drunk did they dance, for the last hour.  Then home.  Home?

Bring back the nightclubs.   Change the licensing laws that close the clubs by 2.00am.  Stop taking your mobile phone out on a night out.  Talk to men. Talk to women.  

Live.  Have fun.  We have stopped living, except for the 'Gram.

The Perfect Life Is The One You Don't Have To Escape From

 When people talk about ambitions, they usually mean the big dreams.  The child who wants to be a surgeon, the walker who wants to one day climb Mount Everest.  We are taught from a young age that it is important to have goals in life, a plan.  Something that you want to be.  A career that you aspire to get.

That was never me.   To use a line inspired from Buffy, I was cookie dough for a very long time.  I was still baking.  As such, dreams and aspirations were not part of my life.  I was still waiting to see how I turned out.

That said, I always wanted two things.  Two things that you cannot train for, you cannot gain enough money to get; you cannot educate yourself for.  I wanted love, real, can't believe you are so lucky to have found each other, love.  And I wanted to be happy.  The latter, I prayed for.  It was like a mantra at one point in my life.  Over and over.  I just want to be happy.  I just want to be happy.

Although it was undoubtedly have earned me more money, a career was never something I really thought about or strived towards.  When asked in secondary school what I wanted to do for a job, I did not know.  Administration is what I ended up answering.  I remember some people laughing.  Others had answered, doctors, lawyers, teachers.  Then me, with no plan.

I have never been driven by money or success.  Although both would have given me a more advantageous life, would it have made it better?

The paths that I have chosen or have moved on are not is not one that others would have chosen.  I drifted in my life for a very long time.  But I do not regret the choices that I made.

I have a job that I love.  It will never earn me a lot of money, but I can sleep at night.  I have never experienced the Monday dread.  I enjoy what I do.  How many people can truly say that?  The money covers what I need and I am good at what I do.

In terms of love, everyone was a no, until the right one was a yes.  I knew the moment I met him that I had never met anyone like him before.  It didn't take long before I realised that he was the one that I had been waiting for.

I had accepted long ago that I may not meet that "perfect for me" person.  That he may not exist.  But I also knew that I never wanted to settle for anything less.  In that area, I am all, or nothing.  I could not imagine being with someone who I knew deep down, was not the one.

I never had a type.  My wish list was more about the person themselves and their personality traits than physical.  In terms of physicality I had a wide range of men that I called attractive.  Celebrity wise to give an example, everyone from Vin Diesel to Billie-Joe Armstrong.

But when I met my guy, everything fell into place.  My perfect for me person.

I was wildly attracted to him.  But also, and more importantly for a long term relationship, he was everything I wanted from a personality point of view, his morals, his code.  The way he made me laugh.  The way he loves me.

I feel absolutely loved, in just the way I always wanted.

So no, my dreams may not be like others.  I do not have a successful, money making job.  I am not wealthy.  But I have a job I enjoy and I found the love that I dreamed of.  I found true peace and a calm I never thought possible.

Because of that, I feel like I won the lottery.  Who can argue with that?

Butter, Bodies & Backlash - When Indulgence Breaks The Rules

 I have just finished reading a book called “Butter” by Japanese writer Asako Yuzuki.

 The central character is a female Japanese journalist, Rika, who is attempting to interview a woman, Manako, who is currently awaiting a retrial for the murder of several men.  She needs to find an “in” with this woman where all other journalists have failed.  In doing so, she ends up discovering so much more about herself.

Manako is a cook who is accused of murdering several of her previous boyfriends.  The authorities allege that she seduced these men with her food to lure them into being her boyfriend, before killing them in various different manners.   

One of the themes running through this book is that the lady is fat and as such, she is far from the accepted norm to be able to get a boyfriend in Japanese society.  What seems to fascinate the Japanese press and the public in this book is not so much the why/if she killed them, but how she got them to be with her in the first place.

The crimes committed in this book are not the main focus.  Neither is whether Manako is guilty, or not.  Indeed, they are a side note to it.

Food is the language of this book.  The writer talks about simple ingredients, such as butter, as being filled with meaning. Meals are not just to fill you up or for fuel; they are expressions of the way that you enjoy food, indulge in it, give yourself permission to have it.  The way that it makes you feel.  The control, the intimacy, and the rebellion of simply eating.

"When I'm eating good butter, I feel somehow as though I were falling"

As Rika delves further deeper into her interviews with Manako, her relationship with food changes and soon after, the way that she understands herself. When she starts to think about, truly take the time to enjoy the food and the start to cook herself, she feels at first liberated and then strangely, like every mouthful is an act of confrontation.  Yes, I am allowing myself to eat this thing.  And? 

It is a taking back of power that she did not realise she had lost.

It did make me think about the relationship we have with food and drink.  Simple pleasures, or big indulgences.  Taking the time to enjoy them.  Be in the moment.  Whether it is a icy cold glass of water that tastes like it has come from a mountain pass, or a piece of chocolate so divine that you do not want it to end.  Yet, instead of letting it sit on our tongue and luxuriating in it, we swallow and then feel guilty for eating it.  We do not pause to truly enjoy enough.

Butter focuses sharply on the societal expectations placed on women. Beauty, appearance, ambition, motherhood, each one is scrutinized and judged.  Manako is not the norm in Japanese society.  She enjoys herself, enjoys food, enjoys sex and pleasure and makes no apologies for it.  She does not conform and finds the idea repulsive.  This makes her fascinating, not just to Rika, but to Japanese society.  Learning more about Manako forces Rika to look at her own life and how those same expectations have shaped her, unseen and unknowing.

What I found interesting about the book was the accurate description of how much we unconsciously change ourselves to fit with the “norm”.  The accepted.  We are given goals based on societal expectations.  Goals that may not align with who we are and what we want.

The book looks at the female journalists on Rika’s newspaper who go on to have families.  Society expects them to juggle a career and be the perfect mothers.  They are judged heavily for both.  One who was blamed for the death of her son, because he went out to buy a meal at the shop instead of her being there to serve him.  You can have it all, but you will be condemned if you do not do both perfectly.

Then there was the male journalist who gave up his love of a band, because his favourite singer gained weight and therefore became unacceptable in society’s eyes.  It was no longer cool or acceptable to like her.  So he hid it despite his love for the band.

The idea that unless you confirm to societal expectations, you are a failure.  When Rika gained weight herself as a result of her cooking experiments it was shocking to those around her.  Because she had fallen out of her box and they no longer knew where to put her.

By the end of the book, Rika has managed to throw off the restraints of society and for the first time, in years, decades even, she is living for herself.  Rebellion is attractive.  Instead of her world becoming smaller, she bring more people into it, whilst throwing off the chains of expectation.  It is a beautiful thing,

There are many other things in this book that I have not talked about there, otherwise there would be no point in you reading it.  The story of Manako.  The story of Rika's best friend.

I recommend a read.

The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 7: Deja Vu

Story Prompt - Deja vu

Have you ever experienced deja vu? I think that most people have. A conversation you think that you have had previously or a place that seems known to you, yet you know that you haven't been there before.

For some reason, I feel like my life lately has become one long deja vu. I cannot explain it, but I feel like I am living the same day, over and over again.  

The day is a work day, so is already filled with the familiar and routine. I wake up, have a shower, have my coffee. I look through my wardrobe deciding what to wear, yet the outfit I choose, my hand seems to move towards it without thought. Like I already chose it.

I have the same breakfast every day. That has not changed for years, toast with jam and another coffee. I love the taste of the sweet strawberry jam with the bitterness of the coffee. But this day, I am rushing. I managed to sleep through the shrill beeping of my alarm clock and so today all I can manage is a slurp of coffee before I have to leave.  

I try to move quickly around the flat to gather my things, but my limbs feel heavy. My body will not move the way I want it to. I put it down to the gym workout the previous morning. I realise that I have still not switched off my alarm clock. I hear it still going off in the next room. Yet when I reach it, it is already off. Odd.

I think to myself "not again" as I run out of the door, yet I am never late. So why do I think that this is a habit? I feel like I am accustomed to the panic running through my body as I note the clock on the wall at the reception of my building. 8.19am. The train is at 8.25 and it takes ten minutes to get there.

I step out into the street. This is where I truly feel like my day is repeating itself. A car is beeping its horn, a man waving at a woman he has just dropped off. Rain, appearing as if from nowhere, starts to pour. A woman, walks past me shouting "Will you wake up, dammit!" into her phone as she rummages through her handbag for an umbrella I seem to already know that she will not find. Her voice sounds familiar, but I cannot see her face.

I check the time on my watch. 8.20. I am going to miss the train. I decide to get a taxi. My boss detests tardiness, even more than he seems to detest me. I cannot be late. Late at my firm means you are not at your desk fifteen minutes before nine.  

I book the taxi and the registration number of the taxi, RU01 NAT comes up on my screen. I stare at the screen. RU NAT. My name is Natalie. Nat to my family. What does the RU mean? Are you Nat? I shake my head. I wonder if I am going mad.

The taxi approaches and I wave it down. The driver looks, odd. He is all dressed in light blue. Whatever.

From then, the day gets fuzzy. Working at a insurance firm, days do tend to merge into one. The work is the same thing, day in day out. I get home at 6.00pm, eat a microwave meal, watch some Netflix and go to sleep. Yet the last thing I remember doing is walking out into the street as the taxi approached. This is what I remember when I wake in the morning. I have no recollection of what happened in the rest of my day. This is strange.

Another day. I wake to the alarm's incessant beeping. I swear, I can hear that beeping in my head all the time now. Beep, beep, beep. It is constant.

I turn over and look at the clock, already knowing that the time will be 7.35am. Late. Again. I feel like I have repeated this day for months. But no more. I cannot repeat this day again. Something needs to change.

I run my fingers through the rail in my wardrobe, my hand automatically going to the black pinstripe suit and cream shirt. I move along the rail, choosing a dress instead. More feminine. Something I rarely wear. Different shoes follow. A calm seems to settle in me.

I look at the time. 8.16. I could make the train if I ran. Yet the shoes I have chosen today aren't the kind you can run in. I think about booking a taxi, but I turn off the app as soon as it opens. There is another train at 8.35. I would get to the office actually on time. 9.00am. Do the expected fifteen minutes early actually even matter? Unpaid too, I think to myself. Why do I do that? To impress a boss who detests me anyway? I need a new job.

I walk downstairs and leave the building. It is now 8.23. This time, three minutes later than my repeated day has been, there is no beeping horn of a car. The rain is there, but has already started. I turn to the right towards the subway and see the woman, but not fumbling in her handbag. She is already soaked. I am not. Because I knew that the rain was coming and my umbrella is already in my hand.

I start to walk towards the station and then suddenly, there is nothing. Fog swirls in my mind and then a blackness that is all encompassing. I am conscious, yet I see nothing. I cannot feel my body. I feel as though I am in limbo. Terror spreads through my body like ice. Yet I can still hear the beep, beep, beep in my head; like my alarm is still trying to wake me up.

I wonder if I am actually still asleep. If this is just a nightmare. I try to open my eyes but it is difficult to do. Like my eyes have been closed for a very long time. What greets me when I open them is not what I expected. I am in a bed, but not my own. I am not waking from a nightmare. At least not one I envisioned. I am in a hospital bed. Machines beep around me. I try to sit up, but the movement is slow. My limbs stiff as though they have not moved in a long time.

A male nurse light blue scrubs passes by and spots my movement. He runs into the room. "You're awake! I can't believe it! Let me get the doctor".

So reader, here is my story.  

That day, that very first day in what would become a repeating cycle in my head, I was late for work. When I ran out into the street to get my taxi, I did not notice the motorcycle heading straight for me. It was a head on collision. I have been in hospital in a coma for four months.  

My injuries healed after a couple of months and there was no medical reason after that for me not to wake up. Yet I didn't. I stayed in limbo. That day replayed on repeat in the depths of my brain. Until I chose to be different. Chose a different path. Now I think that I was waiting there, in limbo; to save myself.

The doctors think that I am a medical mystery. My nurse thinks it was my sister, who visited me every day. She talked to me all the time apparently. Asking me to wake up. The nurse said that she got quite angry the day before and shouted at me.

What I think is that I was not happy before. I had not really been living. I had a job I hated, friends I never saw and life was simply passing me by. I needed to make a change. I see that now. A chance to make a change. Be different. A new life.  

I write this to you now during my lunch hour at work. Not the insurance firm. I quit. I am now a junior editor at a publishing firm, actually using the degree that I studied so hard for. My wounds are healed and the scar on my head is barely noticeable under my new hair cut. I am meeting my sister later for drinks in the city. I have a date on Friday. I am living. Not existing.

All that it took, was being late that day. A change in my routine. A chance, to change everything. All I needed to do was take it.