A family portrait

Everyone's parents do things that annoy them. My father constantly tries to take my photograph.

To set the scene: I am visiting the parents, relaxing in a sunny spot in their garden.

"Oh no, dad please don't take my picture."

"Now just sit up a bit straighter."

"Dad I'm relaxing."

"Ok so just relax."

"I was relaxed."

"And smile."

"Dad stop squatting. Do you know how many chins you give me when you take pictures from underneath?"

"I know you're protective of your image."

"I am not protective of my image. STAND UP. You're giving me chins."

"Cover them with your wine glass."

"You're meant to say I don't have a chin."

"Oh sorry."

"Are we finished?"

"Enjoy yourself"

"I was enjoying myself."

He pauses and looks through pictures.

"Sit up straighter.That's it. Now look straight ahead."

"I think I'm better from the side."

"You can delete any you don't like."

"I'd really rather not look at them, thanks."

"I know how it feels to be unphotogenic."

And with that I stand, leave my sunny spot, and go inside. I need to make a run for it before he suggests that on my next visit home I wear block colours. 

They're more flattering you see.

Double standards

This weekend I painted some chairs. This was not a well considered spot of diy-ing. No, rather the case that I awoke on Saturday with the notion that our wooden chairs would look better if a different colour.

So I got up, went to the diy-shop, purchased paint, returned home and set about the task.

I understand that this is not the done thing with diy-ing. There is apparently planning that needs to take place. Dust sheets to buy and sensible painting clothes to adorn.

And so it is that I now have four newly painted chairs. And very nice they look too. I also have paint in my hair, all over my arms and a few spots on my clothes.

Oh, and there is a fair amount of paint on the patio too.

The Boyfriend comes outside and notices the large smears of paint on our slate patio.

“It’s fine” I say confidently. “Going to get some wire wool on it tomorrow.”

“Would it be fine if I’d done that?” he asks with a smirk.

I am silent. We both know the answer to that one.

What did I tell you about banks?

Remember my irritation at the bank? Well this is what another financial institution thought fit to send me today.

Note to bank: if you are going to send my new credit card in a plain white envelope, perhaps just leave it at that.

The best of the advice: How to make friends and influence people

So I asked for advice, and advice I got. No postcards yet, but I live in hope.

How do you find friends as an adult I asked.  

Here’s the best of the advice I've received.

Several friends thought fit to warn me off alcohol in my quest for companionship:

“How about an AA meeting?” one quipped. “Stop drinking beer in the greengrocers – it’s probably giving off the wrong image.”

Gee, thanks.

Of course someone else suggested finding a home on the other side of the bar, “I've always found that working part-time in a bar is a good way to meet a heap of people. Especially if it is a place you like to drink yourself, it's a perfect excuse to chat to pretty much everybody else in the room.”

From elsewhere came advice to seek holier help, “Go to church!” was followed by “very odd and unusual folks attend church. If evangelical – take your towel and cossie.”  

Many folks ‘felt my pain.’ “I hear you” one said. “Late 20s IS a tough time to relocate,” replied another, “ I moved to Edinburgh at 28 and damn, it was tough. Made lots of friends by having a baby.”

Woah – that’s a bit drastic love.

Moving on.

“In the quest for love, my lovely former neighbour trialed numerous different lady-seeking methodologies, I think including a billboard.”

So, I need to wander around this very small place wearing a billboard ‘MATES REQUIRED?’

Never mind drinking in the greengrocer, a billy-no-mates-billboard really would give off a certain impression.

“Join a uke group.” Yes I’d love to – but there’s not one. Could take uke to pub alone and hope to have influence of pied piper. Worry this will have outcome of billboard wearing.

“Get a dog” came a chorus of responses. “Not for friendship with the dog ( although that would be good) but for friendship with other dog walkers.” Whilst I would like a hound, at the present time gaining a hound might mean losing The Boyfriend. When I pointed this out to one such dog-advocate, she replied “There are pros and cons to most decisions.”

And finally, in your hour of need, you know you can depend on the support and encouragement of those far flung friends you already have “Bloody hell Rach – how hard can it be? I read earlier in the week that even Justin Bieber has 4 friends.”

And with that I am off to the pub.

Alone.

Personal ad: Friends Required. Do I even have a GSOH?

How do you make friends? No really. It’s a serious inquiry.  As a child the sole criteria of friendship is liking the same toy. Boom – you’re pals.

Seems it doesn’t quite work the same way at 29.

Now I have school friends, who knew me through the bad hairstyles, the teenage angst, the smirnoff ice. University friends, with whom I laughed, lived and drank jack daniels. And friends whom I have been lucky enough to pick up on my travels since then. Housemates, former work colleagues, friends of friends.

But having once again upped sticks and relocated to the actual arse end of nowhere, I’m at a bit of a loss. Sympathy is not what I’m looking for. I chose to move 600 miles to a place where I knew nobody. I am by the sea. I do have friends. But they’re not exactly here to pop out for a beer with are they? No they’re bloody not.

Obviously I have The Boyfriend, which is making the whole thing infinitely more enjoyable; but it would be nice to have a token friend whom I could meet for gin, or tea, or a non-drink based activity. And I know from previous experience that this friend-making-as-an-adult malarkey takes time. So I’m starting immediately.


Efforts to date:

1.    Went to book swap in local pub. Saw sign in the window, was brave and went alone. Beers and books – surely I’m going to like these people. And like them I did. But I also brought the average age down by at least 40 years. Beers drank 1. Friends made 0.

2.    Being lovely at new job. Naturally it’s a challenge to be smiley. Lots of friendly people who comment on my nice coat. Attended all work drinks in spirit of being social, but must accept these things are organic and take time. Did find lovely lady with whom could discuss The Big Reunion. Beers drank 6. Friends made 0.

3.  Yoga classes. Very enjoyable to align self with sea and all that, and bendyness coming along nicely. However, little opportunity for conversation, and definitely no beer. (Was brief titter when lovely prim lady farted, mind.) Beers drank 0. Friends made 0.

I suppose I did have a beer in the greengrocers when I popped in for groceries one evening, so there's another beer on the tally. 

But readers  where the heck you find like (ish) minded nice people who are looking to welcome you (or rather me) into their social life?

Answers on a postcard. Or in a tweet. Whichever.

Read your mail. (and why you should leave your bank before your husband)

Letters from the bank. What an annoyance. Now we're all online and paperless, all they're ever doing is updating terms. Leaflets destined for the recycling.

NO. Let me stop you there.

Changes in terms more than likely means that the change is bad news for the customer - for you.

Businesses rarely make changes that benefit the lowly consumer.

So this week, the change of terms from Natwest was telling me, in barely readable point size 7 font, that the interest rates on my savings account was going down. Now of course it didn't state that explicitly - it provided a table of figures for me to decipher under the heading, 'Our rates are changing.' Sneaky.

Magnifying glass may be required

Now, I'm sure you'll have noticed that savings rates aren't too hot at the minute, so my rate can't really cope with taking a hit. And the hit is a whole percentage. So now they'll pay me just over a percentage to loan out my money. Charmed I am not.

But Natwest, unluckily for you, I read your change of terms. And do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to move my savings account to a different bank who'll pay me more.

But of course most of us just can't be arsed.

The internet confirms how loyal we are to our banks. 26 years is the average length of time we'll stick with our bank. Now considering the average marriage is 11 years this is a very worrying statistic indeed.

So if your bank has changed your terms for the worse, for goodness sake, leave. Move your money. Every percentage makes a difference.

Don't stay with a bank longer than you'd stay with your spouse. That really is just silly.

A beginners Guide to Life by the Sea

One month into seaside living and I'm really getting a taste for the sea-air. In fact today, I saw dolphins playing off the coast. As they say in Scotland, "cannae complain lass." And complain I will not.

In summary, the last month has gone something like the following:

Bloody tourists.
Colleague: "Can you believe at the weekend I saw someone with their top off on the beach? In February? Bloody Tourists."

Me: ( internally.) Best not mention that I was there in my shorts. 

Don't anger the sea.
When it's windy by the coast, you really do notice.

Don't be deceived.
Sunshine on a February day will not a warm sea make*

*Surfing attempt no1 was called off after 15 minutes, when, upon submersion in the icy water of the Atlantic, neither the Boyfriend nor I could remember our own name.

Room with a view
Who knew offices could have views? Naturally, it's impossible to concentrate on any work at all.

A back-end issue
There are downsides to sea-side living.

Looking back
When you miss the city you left and your friends, you will feel momentarily better when you hear it's snowing up there.