Thursday, 1 December 2011

My Christmas Wish…

There’s only one thing I want this Christmas. As the wintery cheer floods back into the city with its sweet and syrupy embrace, I’ve got just one thing on my mind.

Those bright and bedazzling lights? Bulbs everywhere; sprinkling the streets, peppering tree branches and igniting the city. But it’s not the lights I want most.

What about the air? That fresh, crisp and magical gush that surges through the streets. Seeing the Londoners tucked up in their knitted scarves, scurrying through the shopping rush. All those freezing faces hustling and bustling, drenched in hats, gloves, jumpers galore. The air wants to play. It playfully pinches at their fingertips and nibbles at their noses, sniggering, swirling and whistling excitedly as they squirm about red faced.  But it’s not the air I want most.

What about the sumptuous food? From the crispy, golden potatoes to that succulent, tender roast turkey; it’s a banquet of bountiful proportions. Then there’s those crumbling mince pies, the baked and toasted treats and of course the melt-in-your-mouth chocolates. Oh how they melt; softening, soothing and gently slow dancing with your palette before that final warm, buttery kiss. But it’s not the food I want most.

Then how about the pressies?
Bright and shimmering wrappers, rustling and mysterious. The festive giggling of children, the pure wonder rippling across their eyes as they await Mr. Claus. But it’s not the presents or smiles I want most.

This year the jingling bells, sparkling eyes, shimmering presents, magical air, flashing lights and tantalising treats are not what my heart is set on. This year, I have a far greater request. What I crave and long for more than any of this and what I truly, truly want is for Christmas…

It’s just ridiculous. A quarter of our year is spent in the Christmas season! Before we’ve even hit Halloween, in flood the anachronistic, monotonous adverts and to accompany them, the shops start selling mince pies, with sell by dates before December I’d like to point out. Oh and don’t get me started on the music. In creep those three disgustingly overplayed songs. Yes Mariah, I do know all you want for Christmas, just as I do every single ruddy year. And George? Do us all a favour, learn from your mistakes and stop giving your heart away every blimming Christmas! I’m sick of hearing you wallow in self pity year in, year out. Man up. Oh and Pogues, don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. Yes we have a chuckle the first time we hear your abusive slurring each year, but then you just milk it until my ‘ears are ringing out for you to stop

Not to sound like a grumpy old fart (though since turning 17 this month my back definitely isn’t as flexible as it used to be) but I think retailers are killing the Christmas spirit. Yes, I understand they make about 70% of their revenue in the run up to Christmas but it’s time we defined the ‘run up’. As summer fades, retailers panic and begin desperately scrabbling for some money source to tap into. Then BAM, it hits them; jingle bells.

This madness must end! So, naturally, I have a proposal. From 2012, I say we bottle up the festive magic and only uncork it from December 1st.However as we are now in the December delirium, the bottle is not only open, but the festive spirit has completely spilt out all over the city for us to splash about in. So, lets splash away. 

Wishing you all peace and warmth this Christmas X

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

A 'Growing' Trend...

Lean in and listen close; I’m going to let you in on a secret about the teenage body.

Yes, us lot are linked to embarrassing bodies, pubescent awkwardness and cringeful changes la-de-da-di-dah, but I have a sneaky body secret that the scientists have overlooked.
You see, we teenagers have developed a growth.

That’s right, recoil away in disgust- but it’s the truth. We have all grown an inescapable, hard, protruding lump that has become a permanent extension of our bodies.
We constantly feel it on us, constantly fret about checking up on it, yet funnily enough; we rather adore our lumpy growth.
To make it crystal- the growth is unavoidable. However, unlike our unpredictable, ugly old visitor Mr. acne, our bulging lump is rather fashionable. It’s with us everywhere we go, a clump of comfort, almost adding a sprinkle of sanity to our lives. It’s become a teenage trademark.
Everywhere you look you’ll see us with our lumps. Curved lumps, Galaxy lumps, Berry lumps. The swelling may vary is size and shape and it may change with time but it’s always there; an inseparable part of us.
Adults may look on in disbelief, confused by our obsession with this cyst- but that is what we love the most. The growth is ours; teenage turf.

Oh and the power of the lump doesn’t stop there. The protrusion also protects us against the worst of fashion blunders. Forget Tie-Dye and Crocs, I’m talking about the dreaded teenage phobia of looking UNOCCUPIED.
Eurgh. There is nothing more hideous than simply ‘being there’ to us. What’s that I hear you say? Just smell the roses? Ponder on life? Watch the world go by? Well, listen carefully. Do you hear that? That’s the collective churning of adolescent stomachs across the country. NO.
We must constantly prove we are busy and constantly prove we have interest somewhere else. That’s where the lump comes in. Providing us with a deterrent from the truth we aren’t really doing much, feeding our social status and curing our boredom; our cyst is sacred.

So there you go, the secret truth that the teenage lump is not just prominent but in fact intrinsically attached to us. Speak of the devil, mines ringing now…

Saturday, 8 October 2011

A prisoner in my own room

She was after me. As I lay in my room last night, the realisation trickled icily down my spine.
She wanted to destroy me, torture me, devour me limb from limb. I kept dead still. I could feel her eyes on me, that searing stare; there was no escape. No matter how hard I try to hide; she’s always watching. No matter how much I ignore her; she’s always waiting. No matter what I do, Ursula my room spider is always there.

It’s no joke, this isn’t your usual cliché ‘spiders are creepy’ situation- I despise Ursula. She’s got me trapped; a hopeless victim in her web of fear, spinning me into a crumbling, psychotic mess.
I’m a prisoner in my own room.

Worse yet, Ursula times her visits meticulously, inflicting her torment at only the most inconvenient of times. Last night, she decided, it was time for a visit.
It was ; I was essayed out and needed sleep. My eyes were aching and my bed was calling. As I sank into the gentle grooves of my mattress and shimmied down into the soothing embrace of sleep- there she was. The epitome of all that is wrong with the world condensed into one devilishly small, dark mass; Ursula.

With a wriggle of her ovular chest and jerk of her prickly legs, she crept closer; stopping directly above me on the ceiling. Hopes of sleep had now dissipated and I sat, frozen, staring upwards into the depths of hell itself.
 My nightmare had begun.

 “Spiders stop and freeze because they are just as scared as you are” What a dirty lie. Ursula stops so she can look into my soul.
Arched and menacing, she pierced through me with those eight, dark spherical abysses, teasing out all of my fear and feeding her ego. As my body jittered in her psychological throttle, I’m telling you, I saw her smile.

Knowing I needed sleep and a stare off with a spider was a little ridiculous, I decided there was only one escape route; through darkness. With one mighty, brave effort I clenched my eyes shut, broke away from her eye web and plunged into darkness. At first it eased me.  Then, she crawled back into my mind. I thought of her suspended by my face, swinging into my mouth and laying her spider eggs under my tongue. Or perhaps Ursula was plotting? Recruiting all the other spiders in the room to launch an attack. It was too much- thoughts of a dense spider army covering my ceiling and swarming towards me, forced me to open my eyes. What I saw was ten times worse. On the ceiling above me there was nothing; Ursula had moved.

I was sure I could hear her malicious chortling echoing around the room; her game had just begun. I grabbed for my pillow and duvet.  Her superior sniggering encased my bedroom as I cowardly slipped downstairs to the sofa.  Ursula had won, again.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

The language of Football

I was sitting at the dinner table last night and I found myself amidst the presence of another language. Now this wasn't a kind of exotic, vibrant and intriguing language  that aroused interest and awe but rather a dull, drone that did nothing but baffle me. The language of football.
Wow. Never, in my 16 years of living, have I experienced such a draining 20 minutes filled with my brothers and father going on about players, transfers, leagues and a number of other dull words. I mean I've heard my guy mates talk about it in small doses, but this...this was something else.
As the foreign fumble of words darted back and forth across the table, I felt lost- stranded in a sister-less household.
And the worst bit? The jabber was so intense and peculiar I couldn’t find an entrance in to the conversation. So I sat there and enjoyed flattening my mash potato with a spoon.How  can a conversation go on for so blimming long on what is essentially a bunch of overpaid sissies trying to kick a ball into a net? I mean don't mistake me for one of these footy-despising females because I actually quite like playing it and watching it can sometimes be enjoyable( only, of course, if there are men on the pitch who aesthetically please and there's another girl in the room to discuss this with)

Yesterday, however, I learnt an invaluable lesson. That’s right- listening to the unfamiliar, incessant drone between the males across the dinner table taught me that  I can actually appear clued up on the whole football scene. You see, I noticed that lots of the same phrases popped up in the noise that vacated their mouths. So, by repeating these(and forcing a face of genuine interest), I have myself a brilliant way to engage with the male species.
Ladies, if you're interested in this discovery, here's a few phrases to get you started:
 ‘‘That ref was a JOKE'' ''it was end to end''  ''He's only in it for the money ''There was NO WAY that was a penalty'' ''what was he doing upfront?'' “He’s bloody clueless” ''Should have taken him off second half'' ''We need to rest him before next match'' ''what a touch'' “he hasn’t got a football brain’’ ‘’He’s a  liability- picks up too many yellows” “The defence was a complete shambles-all over the place” '' ''What was the REF THINKING?''

So, there it is- my attempt at scraping the surface of the footy lingo. Now it’s time to conquer cars.
Talking of cars...Gor, how’s about that new Porsche Cayenne diesel? 3.0-litre V6 turbo diesel under the hood but pepped up with a new turbocharger, revised injectors and improved internal friction for slightly more power at 249bhp –she’s one beautiful beast.
See, a little listening here and there and I’m practically a man.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Half the bite,Half the guilt.

I write with news of a new 'dieting' craze that has taken my household by storm.
Ever wanted to eat your favourite sweet treats but with half the guilt ? Well my family has, in the greedy throws of raiding the kitchen cupboards, found a solution.
Take a half bite.

To be honest, there's not much to expand on that because it really is exactly how it sounds...
 a  half bite.

It works nice and simply too:
When craving something yummy, don't torture yourself by not having it. Instead, give in to temptation and have it. Just... half of it.
Forget all that 'opt for some fruit' rubbish, because I think we all know that just doesn't work. That simply results in you sitting unhappily, scouring at an  irritatingly healthy apple,wishing it tasted even vaguely like the choc you wanted. But,no matter how wildly juicy and succulent that little apple may be, it will never come close to the choc.

The half bite, however, allows you to tuck in to whatever you want. And do you know what else? It allows you to kid yourself, with far more credibility, that you didn't eat that much.

* So you can enjoy the soft, chewy cookie that crumbles on your palette..and smile knowing you didn't demolish  a whole one.

* You can crunch away contentedly into that fresh bag of crinkly,greasy crisps and beam proudly knowing you were a whole half a bag off finishing them.

* Go ahead and sink into that slice of fresh cream cake and then laugh at the missing half  of the regret.

It's simple:            
   Half the treat- Half the guilt.

Admittedly though, there are drawbacks. To put down the second half of your treat is somewhat excruciating. With the taste of the first half already sweetly stroking your taste buds- the urge to allow the second half to join in is overwhelming. Then again, we could pop this on a positive spin and say it teaches a little self restraint?

Another problem is that too often do I go to offer a mate a pack of biscuits from the kitchen or go to grab the pack of pancakes ...and to my dismay, I'm greeted with lots of half eaten specimens. It's pretty embarrassing; like the kitchen's been raided by raccoons or something...

But hey ho,everything has got its drawbacks. And to be totally honest, I think if you're following a 'cut back on the crap' regime that allows your favourite foods to  go into your mouth- it's a win win.

 Right, now to tuck into this vanilla cheesecake. Well, half of it. ;)

Saturday, 6 August 2011

Help! Please save us from the LBE...

I’m not scared of the dark, I’m no woos with the supernatural and I’d happily spend the night in a haunted house. In fact, you can hurl me chained to Jeremy Kyle off a 2000ft cliff into a tank of ravenous sharks but I still wouldn’t quake like I do from the LBE.

Darker than your worst nightmare and more chilling than the shower scene in Physco –the LBE makes the most dreaded of horrors seem like Nickelodeon.  
Worst yet; the LBE is coming. 
Heart thumping and insides churning I, like every other 16 year old in the country, await in helpless anxiety for the LBEs arrival. 

We can’t escape it, we can’t ignore it and on the 25th August we’ll all be victims of that Little Brown Envelope.

What makes the LBE so menacing?, I hear you say. Well to put it succinctly, the LBE is inescapable. No matter where we are or what we’re doing- it lurks at the back of our minds ready to massacre any slight signs of complete contentment. To put it in a way all teenagers can relate to, it’s like a spot. It throbs and torments us with its relentless pulse and just won’t go away, no matter how much we try to cover it up. However, no amount of Freederm or Clearasil will affect the LBE.
That pure, focused fear of receiving an envelope which holds the accumulation of all you have worked for (or not) is quite simply overwhelming. All those stuffy lessons, mocks, homeworks and timetables. Years of working the 8.30 to 3.30 and it all boils down to the LBEShudders.

As the fear of failure wafts thick and pungently everywhere you turn, post-mortems bubble to the surface and your mind kindly reminds you, with unnerving clarity, of all those mistakes you made. Oh-the-bliss.

Worst yet, the LBE creeps up at the most irritating point possible. If it came at the beginning-at least it’d be out of the way. If it came at the end- We’d be heading back into school mode anyway. But no, oh no, the LBE deviously seeps into our Summer ¾ of the way through, shrouding the first ¾ with thoughts of it’s arrival and ruining the last ¼ with it’s aftermath. Then, before we know it- it’s back to school.
On that ‘Back to School’ note, I’d like to say to all supermarkets and shops with those vulgar ‘Back To School’ signs up, that on behalf of every kid in the country…Shut-up and stop rubbing it in!

So, the LBE will come and go, but in the meantime we must sit and quiver in the darkness of foggy anxiety. We can’t run, we can’t hide, so instead- we must wait...

Friday, 8 July 2011

Pen: An endangered species?

When sifting through the papers this morning, I was deeply saddened.
The gurgle on my insides and tug on my heartstrings was due to an article I saw reporting: 

  "Schools in Indiana are abandoning teaching children how to do joined up handwriting in favour of showing them how to type"

Now, is it just me or does this frighten the hell out of you?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of these technophobe fuddy duddies who spends their time nibbling custard creams,hugging a typewriter while moaning about modernisation , I'm awe inspired by the marvellous capabilities of the Internet...but doesn't the jump to a completely  digital world make your spine tingle?

What cuts me up the most though, is that I know this Indiana study is just the beginning. With the rapid growth of emails and expansion of online potential... the pen is slowly becoming neglected.

My reason for this little post though, was to dive into the sea of bloggers and soak up the general wave of opinions ...
I'm sitting at my work desk now, but I couldn't resist popping this finding online to see what the blogging world please, do pour out your opinions...

Anyone else, like me, scared to imagine a world consumed by technology and lacking the trusty pen?
Anyone else think they'd miss that feeling of pen-in-hand and  sense of control as your ideas flow through a nib and form on a page in front of you?
Anyone else just feel so much more content with a hard copy piece of writing and feel words on a screen lack dimension and security?

So, yes I'm aware this blog is a little hypocritical ... but I'm so intrigued! In fact  think I'm going to write an article for work on this today.  Are we about to dip into a icy online age? Will future generations and my children turn, perplexed and ask ''Mum, what's a Biro ?"


Saturday, 2 July 2011

Car-mirror Cringe

Today I found myself blushing more than I thought it possible.
In fact, if my cheeks went any redder, I think I may have genuinely been mistaken for a tomato.

The situation was simple, harmless and I'm sure it's happened to tons of people. Actually, I'm not sure- but it soothes my pride, so let's roll with it...

You know those times you're walking down a road and you can just sense there's something wrong going on with your face/hair? Maybe there's a tickle or an itch or perhaps it's just a hunch. Now, If you're not someone who tends to carry a mirror around with you, or a reflective surface... what would you, clearly, do to check your face?  What's that I hear you say? 
Spot on- so that's exactly what I did.

To be honest, I reckon car designers probably created wing mirrors in thought of this handy trick. I mean, why else would cars sit quietly perched on the roadside with those alluring mirrored ears?
The modern rushing man/woman needs public mirrors to aid their frantic darting and wing mirrors provide a helping hand. (Or ear)

So there I was, already in a rush for a work experience interview, squatting down in front of the nearest car and adjusting my hair. While adjusting, I realised I'd forgotten to put my mascara and eyeliner on. I peered along  the street-no one was to be seen- so I  reached for my  makeup bag and began to apply.
While I was there, why not just top up my blusher too? Yes, good idea.
Cue pouty fish face.

While looking at myself in the mirror... I realised; what better way to practice my interview speech? So I did. I also topped it off with practising the likes of 'concerned face' 'intellectual face' 'listening intensely face' ' and 'this opportunity won't be wasted on me face'.
Brilliant, good prep. Good, PRIVATE prep.

Then, woe betide, as I went to stand up...It hit me.
                                   BAMGoodbye dignity.
              BAM. Goodbye self respect. .
              BAM.       Hello red cheeks.

There, in the car I knelt beside -laughing hysterically- was a man watching me behind his tinted windows.

Oh no.

So  There I blushed.
      There I cringed.
      There I stared, looking bewildered as a rabbit caught in the headlights, for about 15 seconds straight.

The longer I stared, the redder I became. 
Eventually, with an embarrassed fever and wounded pride, a little miss tomato face walked away from the car -looking alot worse than she had done before.

So my message is simple. By all means make FULL use of the secret splendour of wing-mirrors, soak up their nifty brilliance and take advantage of this underrated, practical prop...But erm, just one teeny tiny tip-

Check there's no one in the car first!

Sunday, 29 May 2011

My first steps into womanhood...

It's taken 16 years and at last it's happened. There have been twists and turns and now it's happened. All this waiting to reach the peak that defines my existence and now it's happened.
On this momentous,glorious and invigorating day I can smile like I've never smiled before,laugh like I've never laughed before and hold my head higher than I thought it ever possible.
 For today, I  have become a true woman.

Now, to those perplexed readers... I'm not talking about puberty changes, marriage or any of this predictable nonsense. True woman out there  know exactly what I'm on about.
The purest and most definitive moment that epitomizes becoming a woman, is the day we look down and realize we possess a love greater than can be expressed in words.
 As those two jewels gaze up at us with such effortless beauty and graceful innocence, it hits us that no-one in the world could love them more. We realize ,life wouldn't be worth living without them and wonder how we ever coped without them there before.
A love like nothing ever felt, imagined or dreamt before-it's a love that defines us as women.  So yes, this defining moment ladies and gents, is none other than the moment a woman
falls in love with a pair of shoes.

Before, a pair of shoes could be 'nice', 'handy' or 'do the trick', but now that  I've entered  into the female field of pristine adoration for feetly comforts; my view will never be the same again. I've been awoken to just how divine shoes are.

Shoes aren't just there out of convenience or out of necessity for when our feet need protection ...
oh no
 Shoes don't just affect your feet area- they define both who you are and your purpose in life.
 A pair of shoes practically screams out your character to the world.
 Do you like comfort? extravagance? Fine dining? Sport? Adventure? Trying new things? Homely coziness? Formality?  Well, there's no real need to ask; your shoes will tell me.

So this pair of shoes that have so kindly walked me into womanhood are out of this world. Soft, faux fur lining, lace up boots that just... well, they just smile. I try to wear outfits just so they can feature. I find myself watching them as I walk (which has resulted in quite a few stumbles) marvelling at how gorgeous they look as the sunlight trickles off them. I feel like everyone is watching them if they are emanating this infectious, beautiful blaze.
These astounding angels sweep me along in their warm embrace and cuddle my senses, from toes to head. I am well and truly walking on air.

We smile together, explore together and soak up the surroundings together.
We. are. one. 
And do you know what? When I'm away, I  miss them. When I'm not wearing them, I picture them sitting at home, empty, sad and missing my feet to fill their tums.

 I position them just near my bed so that when I wake up... they're the first things i'll see.
The alarm screeches, my head spins and in flood the thoughts of all the daily toil and stress ahead. My head begins to throbs, eyes sore and body heavy as lead.... but then I see them.
My beautiful babies, beaming heartily at me, reminding me that life is good. I haven't even had my coffee and i'm already wide awake and grinning like a Chesire.
 Aaahhh boots boots- what would I do without you?

So you may be thinking it's awfully sad to pin so much joy to a pair of shoes?  Rather pathetic to feel so refreshed by some material for my feet? Well, do you know what?  You're missing out.

I think I speak for all true women when I say...

a sweet tooth for shoes will cure ALL your blues.

Saturday, 23 April 2011


The time has come.
I can smell it  in the air,taste it on my palate, hear it in the depths of my soul.
It's time for the...

Right, I'll briefly set the scene...

Every year, without fail, my family and I give up chocolate for lent.
 Perhaps that sounds normal/ uninspiring/ simple to you? If so, you need to shut down this page and leave.
Anyone pathetic enough to doubt the overwhelming grasp chocolate has on life , anyone who doesn't appreciate the chocolaty embrace that cuddles and soothes us in today's hectic world, anyone who feels the absence of the compassionate  confectionery wouldn't be detrimental to humanity- needs to go far,far away   and get themselves sorted.

Chocolate is magical.
Chocolate is healing.
Chocolate is a reason to live.

Maybe you've had an awful break up , you're stressed, hurting and shaken-
 Who dotingly heals and soothes the pain?

Perhaps you're at a dull meeting, it's unproductive,awkward and stuffy-
-Who coats biscuits, travels into your body and sparks ideas into life, stirs creativity and induces smiles ?
What about an important race that you don't think you can withstand/stomach-
 -Who boosts your moral,charges you with energy and  spurs you on to surge to that victory?

Yeah that's right- we're all forgetting just how helpful our CHOC chum is. I think we all need to have a little think about  our neglectful behaviour. We need to start showing our appreciation.
So next time you tear open a soft and crumbling choc bar, or pop open a tub of creamy, rich choc ice cream or settle down to a scrumptious hot chocolaty dessert- I urge you say thank you. No don't you snort or laugh at the absurdity- I'm being deadly serious.
I urge you to lean down and whisper tenderly  to your sweet treat ''Thank-you''. And say it with meaning.

The road has been long...

So, to return after my chocolate tangent there- Lent has been tough this year. Yes it's a season of sacrifice, reconciliation and key for spiritual nourishment- but there's no denying life without choc is excruciating. Worst of all, is that you realize of it there is cuddling our daily life. It's inescapable...

. You realize just how many people have chocolate for lunch with the constant offering from mates in the canteen/classrooms.
.. Sensuous and mouthwatering telly adverts for ice creams/chocolate bars are nestled between all the shows.
.. Beautiful celebrities take attractive bites of choc treats as they glow and pose before you.
. .Supermarkets boast reductions on sweet treats...sharing excessive close ups on all the shiny,luxurious packaging.
.. Billboards line up along my bus route to and from school, teasing me with the newest dazzling  and delicious treats on the market.
.Even the litter on the road  decides to kick and harass me. Chocolate wrappers smother the pavements to remind me what I'm missing at every step, empty packets dancing deviously in the breeze across my eye line- tempting me, snickering at me.
.Most of the desserts on  restaurant menus have me jaw agape with luxurious ,lavish descriptions of all things chocolaty... then slap me in the face by offering a 'fruit salad platter' right at the end. Mmm, nothing says splendour and indulgence like some cold fruit chunks.

But all is rewarded...

However, despite this incessant abuse and painfully isolated period of time- it all becomes worthwhile.
Because nothing, absolutely nothing, comes close to the REUNION.
Every Easter Saturday  we head out to the supermarket and spend ridiculous amounts on pure, unadulterated chocolate.
The cashiers face is priceless. 
Then we lay all our goodies on the table and  as the clock strikes midnight-
 the feast begins.
 Again we curl up in that chocolaty caress we have missed so very much.

Now as that clock hits 12, something within my soul erupts. My fingers tingle as I unravel the smooth jewel from the first wrapper tenderly. My heart pounds vigorously.My taste buds throb impatiently. Then as I slip it between my straining lips and onto my waiting tongue-IT BEGINS.
 Explosive yet gentle, loud yet serene - my body sparks to life, embracing the friend it has so dearly missed. The flavours familiarize and the swirling blend of creamy joy butters my spirits and passionately kisses my soul.

This moment alone , is a reason for living.

So, my reason for this post?
Well today  will see us embark on the 2011 CHOC HAUL. I don't know how much we'll get, or where we'll get it from but I do know one thing for sure...

It's going to be delicious.

 (Left: CHOC HAUL 2009)

(Below: CHOC HAUL 2010


Sunday, 3 April 2011

Housephone Harressment

I'm a victim of bullying.
Wow, I've admitted it; about time too.
 It's been long overdue.
I'm a trembling, taunted mess who faces aggression on  a daily basis.
Oh but the perpetrator doesn't leave physical evidence... they're much more sly and calculating than that. Prying on me when weak,  a devious  shadow that's always watching me.
Enough is enough... it's time to name and shame...reveal my torturer...
Please, somebody spare me from...


No no no, don't you laugh or turn away thinking this is some petty rant.
 I can't walk past my house phone without physically wincing.

Being at home is about relaxing. It's about unwinding ...leaving work and distractions outside.
But then this peace is obliterated. 

There I am, having some 'me time' ,settling in to some din dins in front of the telly and then BAM.
 It's all ruined.
 I'm dragged out of my serenity by the high pitched screeeeech of the bully...


The screeching goes on and on , screaming into my ears until nothing can be thought about except picking up the phone. So I succumb- and get up to obey  the bully.

Oh, but as I pick it up off the decides NOW is the time to be silent. It decides it's way more fun to watch me squirm and sigh when I just miss the last ring. Brilliant.

But the bully's just getting started.

It waits silently until I'm all the way back to my seat, comfortable and content.
It waits; like a ravenous lion fixated on it's prey.
It waits until that perfect moment,where I've reached complete and utter relaxation. Then, only then, it POUNCES with it's infuriating shriek...


Again I'm forced out of my comfort zone -  but this time I'm desperate .
 I run to the phone,in an attempt to reach it in time. But no, oh no, that would be too easy.
Again it cuts off as I get there.  It's silently sniggering at me ... taunting me with it's malicious games.

Then there's the fun it has when you're mid conversation. It listens in,cunningly waiting until the most crucial moment in the chatter...and then, well then it just cuts offDead. Just like that.

This, is annoying enough, but to push us that little bit further, dig just that little bit deeper, the daemonic device doesn't let us know it's cut off.
Too many times have I waffled on with a story,describing the ins and outs,the intricate details, pouring out an emotional essay -to find that there is no one listening at the other end.

I'm sick to death of this abuse.
I hate feeling threatened in my own home.
I want protection from this electronic evil which terrorizes me with it's tricks.
Please, somebody, help me escape this
house-phone harassment.