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Recruitment agencies... don't get me started!

At the risk of never getting a job through my agencies again, I am writing this post to vent!

What is it with recruitment agencies and their time-wasting tactics? Gone are the days when I used to believe them when a consultant told me they were putting me forward for a job. These days, I know that there are some dodgy dealings going on, and if I don't see the job spec, I don't want to know about the job!

Why, well it all started a few weeks ago - for those of you loyal followers of my blog, you know that I was made redundant...

So the first thing I did when I got to my desk was bash out my CV, and send it to all the agencies I could think of. for me, that was step one! Being a Tuesday that I got the news, it was too late for me to buy Monday's Guardian, but in my mind, at least I had started the find-a-new-job-quick process.

Oh, and I posted by CV on Totaljobs and Monster.

A couple of days later, I get an email from a recruitment consultant asking me to call. Weird,I thought, why didn't he just call me himself! But I called, I wanted to know what the job was...

After spending about 15 minutes describing my past experience... another boring thing to do - don't these people go through the candidate's CV before contacting them?? - I nearly choked on my hot chocolate.

"How would you feel about being put forward for a recruitment consultant job?"

The words still ring in my ears now. I can still hear the theme music for Jaws or something playing in my head.

Was this guy for real? I'M A JOURNALIST - WHERE ON MY CV DOES IT SAY I WANT TO CHANGE CAREERS AND BECOME A RECRUITMENT CONSULTANT????

Naturally, I had to ask the consultant this, because I was astounded. And I was a bit vex that I had used my own phone, charging me 10p/min for the privilege, to speak to someone who blatantly didn't bother to find out about me before contacting me!


Anyway, he wasn't the last...

There's another tactic that agencies use, which also annoy me. The call you up about jobs that they don't even have on their books. The idea I have been told (by another agency), is to gazump the agency who actually has the job, signed off by the recruiting company!

So what about the poor sods like me and other job-seeker's in the middle? People who waist money travelling to an agency to fill in their mountainous piles of forms - so they can scan them in because they can't be bothered to read our CVs properly - wasting money responding to their phone calls... and just wasting time speaking to them, regurgitating our working life's story when we could just be going online, or through the newspapers ourselves!

Would it really hurt to be honest with people and say that - like some agencies do - I like your CV, and I'd like to register you so we can move faster if an ideal job comes up?

Would it really hurt?

What's with this nose-picking craze? Err!

What has happened to manners in this country?

Maybe I've become obsessed, but I think I'm being seiged by nose pickers! And they're not discreet about it either.

Gone are the days when someone who was casually reading a book or a newspaper (placed in their lap) would suddenly try to balance the book with one hand, so they could go for the kill down their nasal passage!

Now, people are so blatant about picking out bogies, it's shocking. They don't even use their Metro Newspapers to disguise their digging sessions anymore.

And I seem to be the only person on public transport to be shocked and disgusted by people who don't even try to hide it... oh and it's not even just on public transport now. In meetings, I've seen people go for a dig, and then...

FLICK!

Yes, flick!

That's the bit that gets to me the most. They rub their fingers together, wait for the greeny to get to the right consistency, then flick!

There was a time when I thought this was sex-related. But it's not!

Women, I'm ashamed to say, are just as bad.

Nose picking isn't only performed publicly by geeky anoraks anymore, oh no! Women who are all suited and booted, looking glamorous and with every eyelash intact all do it, too.

Errrrrrr!!

My life revolutionised... with exercise

I'm a free bird now... well almost, I only have Thursday to go, then I'm back to the world of freelance journalism until I find a job that is challenging, creative, fun, pays my bills in full and can cover a shopping spree when the need arises...

So, like any lady of leisure, I decide to do a complete overhaul of my life. From the inside to my exterior. Starting with exercise.

Ok, you can stop laughing now - I can hear you so-called friends rolling over like you're watching a re-run of The Office. I have been known to do a bit of exercise in my lifetime.

Anyway, like a sucker, I took to the new health and fitness centre around my way. I took one look at the list of classes and saw something called Revolution... that sounded perfect. I didn't bother to find out what it was, because for me, too much information = enough information to back out of anything that will a) break a fingernail; b) break a limb or c) bore the living daylights out of me.

Anyway, by 11am on Sunday, I had found a whole new respect for cyclists. I hereby promise not to overtake a cyclist at full speed, accidentally-on-purposely giving he/she a water bath on a wet April morning... and I promise not to block the cyclist lane because I don't want to drive at 2mph behind him/her until I find enough space to safely overtake.

And I will never flick over when Tour De France is on. I want tips on how to sit on a cycle for those long periods of time...

Revolutions turned out to be aerobics on stabilised cycles. Sitting down is "challenging" at the moment... and that's all I'm prepared to say about it.

For now....

Smoke-free London... I'm loving it

1st July and the smoking ban has come and it's like a breath of fresh air - sorry!

I feel like a child who was none the wiser to smoke-filled bars, restaurants (even I always sit in the non-smoking section), and train stations.

I've been made redundant - I'm not dying!

Redundancy doesn't mean you're crap at your job.

Honest.

I have been made redundant. I could have looked into redeployment, but I decided to take the money and run with it for three months... hopefully I can get another job at the same company - hope HR don't read this posting!

I wasn't shocked by the redundancies made - all seven of them - because I saw that the mags were not doing well and I expected it.

What I didn't expect was how difficult OTHER PEOPLE in my department would find it to speak to me as normal - or even just ask me if I was ok. One guy was very sweet and sent me an email basically saying that the powers-that-be were insane to even contemplate letting me go (thanks M, cheques on its way to you!).

Freelancers that I have booked over the year went out of their way to ring/email me with their condolances - and I was very touched by that. Hell, they didn't need to do it - no need to suck up to me for shifts when I'm leaving - so I was particularly touched.

But some people I'd had deep and meaningful conversations with in the kitchen, even tentatively arranged to go out for lunch etc can't sink their heads further into the carpet when they see me coming. Either that or their heads are flopping like an ostrich that's been kicked in the neck... that's the bit I don't get.

"I'm still alive," I want to say to them. I almost feel like giving them a hug for feeling so uncomfortable for MY redundancy.

What an experience.

Katie From the Apprentice and Her Showdown on GMTV Because of Her Affair

I can barely sit still while I write this. Never in my life did I imagine that a contestant from BBC show The Apprentice would ever have an impact on me - let alone be the subject of a blog posting.

But I have to say, I don't think there are many people like ruthless Katie, whatever her surname. Ok, I know she's called Katie Hopkins, but my annoyance about her behaviour made me stall.

I watched GMTV on Wednesday morning as Fiona Phillips grilled her about her sacking and, being an avid GMTV viewer, I knew Fiona was going to give her a tongue-lashing about her supposed affair with a married man - she's just moral like that.

It's just as well I'm not a cup-of-tea-in-the-morning kind of girl, or I would have choked when Fiona basically told Katie that her employers hadn't banked one her being caught naked in a field with "someone else's husband".

My sides just about manage to stay intact with the laughter. But I know where Fiona is coming from. I try not to be judgemental in my everyday existence (ok, so I lie a little), but my thing is... if you know the guy is married, and that you are under the media microscope because of your bitchy persona, why the hell would you be in a field naked with a married man? So you might like the whole open spaces thing, but what did you think it would do to your career?

Was her employer right to sack her? I don't know. But I do know that that married guy's wife must sleep an extra hour at night, knowing that the bitch who stole her husband, or at least caused her more embarrassment than anyone deserves in matters of infidelity, has been exposed and shamed.

If I were her, I wouldn't even feel the need to take scissors to my husband's suits or stitch prawns in his lapels. That would be enough for me! Wiping that smug grin off the posh, rhino-faced cow's face. Justice indeed!

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/latest/tm_method=full&objectid=19284444&siteid=89520-name_page.html

Don't You Feel Just a Little Bit Sorry for Paris Hilton?

Yes, I hear many of you say "hell know" to a question about feeling sorry for Paris Hilton and her latest jail fiasco.

Like many people I thought she was getting "celebrity treatment" when I read that her 45-day sentence had been cut to half of that for good behaviour - BEFORE she had even set foot in that jail. Hey, maybe it's some psychic power that the judge had, but how did he know she would be good? Had he had any reference form a previous jailer? Hmmm

Yes, I thought it was all a farse when I read that she would be in solitary confinement for 23 hours each day, and that she was being put onto a special wing. In my mind, she may not be eating at top celeb haunts, maybe her butler wouldn't be on hand, but I had images of sitting in her pinked out cell, putting on her make-up, laughing and joking to Lindsay Lohan or someone on her mobile, and basically not living like the rest of the prisoner.

Then I read she'd been released after just three days for some serious illness...
again the whole celebrity treatment thing came to mind, and I shrugged it off. It actually didn't surprise me. I was more surprised that she had actually made it into jail in the first place.

BUT, when I heard Paris had been sent back to jail, wailing "Mom, Mom..." http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/latest/tm_method=full%26objectid=19269214%26siteid=89520-name_page.html and that she was now really going to serve the full 45-day sentence, I was shocked. My heart actually sank, and I did feel really sorry for her!

Poor cow...

British Gas - Crap Service Continues... Do These People Ever Learn

I’ve been using a fridge freezer that switches itself off when it wants, rots my food and doesn’t freeze my ice cubes. Yes, life’s a bit dull and you may wonder why I don’t just buy a new one…

Hmmm…. The thought has crossed my mind. But then we’re one of those suckers who pay for British Gas Homecare – £44-odd pounds that we fork out to them every month to cover our boiler, five domestic appliances, pipes (which by the way does not cover our dripping tap… ok, I see the logic in that) I have no intention of getting rid of my fridge! – and as far as I am concerned, we’ve bought a new fridge freezer this year, through our payments to them!

Anyway, it’s been about two months, and we’ve been waiting for a part to come into stock. First lie. Basically the parts department have been waiting for a company called Connect to deliver the part, and that’s what they mean by out of stock. O…k….

Well, last Thursday I heard about the sixth or so of the weekly to fortnightly message from someone from the Parts Department. She – Stacey – didn’t even sound sympathetic when she left a pathetic message saying that the part was still out of stock “sorry”! But her tune soon changed when I demanded to speak to a manager that day or I was going to a) cancel my Homecare Agreement b) going to ring the new desk at the Sun. oh and I forgot about the complaints letter I threatened to write, which I told her would have her name on it.

My kettle hadn’t even boiled for my herbal tea when a manager called – surprise, surprise – and all of a sudden my part was ready and had instantly moved from out of stock status to in-stock status. All the manager – Jo – needed from me was availability. Needless to say, when I raised the coincidence of the Sun’s news desk and my fridge freezer part miraculously coming into stock to her, she didn’t have a response to give me… wish I’d thought of this eight weeks ago.

hey, and it looks like I'm not the only one whose had too much hassle to get the service I have been paying for...

http://money.guardian.co.uk/utilities/story/0,,2062011,00.html

http://anmblog.typepad.com/this_is_money_blog/2006/12/my_british_gas_.html

http://www.clik2complaints.co.uk/DPs/bgas12.html

http://www.webstermarketing.co.uk/bgas.htm

http://www.ukwhitegoods.co.uk/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1449

And what hope does anyonehave when the new boss asks us to stick with them because they're a British company... hmmm I guess that makes it alright then.

http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/consumer/bills/article.html?in_article_id=417561&in_page_id=510

What planet are these people from? Dealing with the level of incompetence is like having an extra part-time job or something... who needs that kind of stress when you're not even getting basic manners from the advisors?

Mind your cheesy feet please!

Public transport is such a cheap shot when we want something to moan about, because quite frankly, from the sweaty trains to the inaccurate train times, there is something to gripe about every day of the weak.

I’m going deeper than that and talking about how nasty people can be on the trains in particular. Nose pickers and feet lifters, you know who you are!

On Friday, I was on the train and after swishing on the last bit of lipgloss, my eyes were drawn to unpedicured feet. Not great first thing in the morning, so lucky for me that I do breakfast when I get to the office.

Upedicured, cheesy, crusty feet on a seat that I could well be sitting sometime in the future. It started off with one foot at the edge of the seat… I grimaced and looked away, but when the foot actually got higher until it was on the actual seat, I had to whip my phone out – almost chipped my nail varnish so I wouldn’t miss the snap.

Then low and behold, the nasty put both feet on the seat… so that’s when I took the second snap! How vile…

The Modern Man Part 2: The “In My Own Time” Syndrome

Since the first posting about the modern man, I’ve had more than a few comments – mainly off-blog because people feel that even an anonymous posting will expose them somehow… mainly the guys, so that says it all!

Anyway, there’s this response that I call a syndrome of the domestically comatosed man, which a few male friends have thrown towards me as if to imply that that doesn’t make them less of a modern man than they think they are: “I’ll do it in my own time.”

Basically, this is as close to not doing the outstanding domestic chore as the lazy man, but this guy thinks he’s smart. And it’s one that “fake” modern men use to buy more time. While the lazy slob type of man won’t even commit to the idea of doing, say, the dishes, the modern man impostor prefers to give false hope to his partner, buying himself more time. And the “in my own time” period generally comes when modern man impostor:

gets the cold shoulder from his partner
gets a blast from his partner
wants to impress partner’s female friends or family when they come round to visit.

From what I have been told by confiding male friends, on the surface, most modern men are actually impostors and will never change. They basically tell women what they think they want to hear – before they are fully committed with their partner. Once they have snared the poor unsuspecting woman, he will slowly show the true depth of his modern capabilities.

Whatever Happened to Good-Old Speed Dating, Jodie Marsh?

It is sad really, but I'm finding it really hard to feel sorry for Jodie Marsh's poor turnout of 'potential' husbands for her MTV reality TV show.

I mean, how many men would really want the world to know that they actually fancy the two-belt-straps-bra "glamour" (model?) thing who goes around wearing as little as possible just so she can get into tabloid papers and lads mags?

Apparently, the turnout has been so poor that the show has cast the net further afield to Sheffield, where she got an astonishing five contestants...

http://www.holymoly.co.uk/news/news/mtvs-totally-jodie-marsh-is-a-total-disaster-639.html

What ever happened to good-old speed dating, eh?

Big Brother Gone Mad?

Just read the story of Big Brother Australia not telling a contestant called Emma that her dad had died of cancer... Apparently her dad died sooner than expected and on his deathbed had asked that Emma not be told until she was out of the house, as he wanted her to enjoy the whole experience or something...

I'm still struggling to get my head around this. I don't know this girl's dad's entire health history, but I don't see how she could have gone into the house anyway... surely being with her father would be more important than trying to get 'fame' - Lord knows that kind of fame only lasts for three weeks or something; and besides that there IS always next year...

The other thing that riles me is how these producers felt they had a right to do this - regardless of her father's last wishes! She should still have been told! What makes these people think they can dictate people's lives for goodness sake!

Forget disgraceful bus drivers, what about train station controllers - how do they sleep at night? And not with Horlicks I bet!

The fact that Horlicks uses them on their TV ads just says it all. And besides that, I don't really use buses that much these days. And in the stilettos that I wear , I'm not in danger of their nasty ways.

To be fair, the last time I was running - more like limping - for the bus, the bus driver actually waited for my unfit self to get on the bus. It was so funny, there I was in 3-inch heels, a massive handbag (well big bags are a big fashion thing at the moment), a carrier bag with three pairs of shoes I'd bought in the sale at Faith that day, and a laptop!

I'm not surprised the bus driver felt sorry for me. Maybe he was just getting a thrill out of watching me limp for the bus. Lord knows what he was saying before I finally made it cos half the bus were ready to give me a standing ovation.

But back to my other point, the new culprits are train drivers ... And I need to take a breath before I start. Last Friday, I was standing on my usual platform waiting for my usual 5.35pm train. It's the same one that goes from Sutton to London Bridge. I was early for once so I just stood there relaxing, looking up at the monitor every once in a while. Then I noticed that my train had changed platforms. I had a few minutes to walk from one side of the station to the next, and I had plenty of time - even in my stilettos.

So, I'm walking across and then get half way down the stairs when the idiot train guys blows the whistle for the train to go. To say that I was fuming is an understatement. I still had a minute left and, if anything, my shoes were making more noise than a rugby team's cry before a match. And the idiot train guy blatantly saw me coming - if he didn't hear my clanging heels.

How do these people sleep at night?

Crap Customer Service Without a Smile

To the sales assistant at Penge Woolworths at 9.15am today, thanks for your miserable, wrist-slitting mood. A smile really wouldn’t have cracked your face – honest – and it would actually keep you looking younger as, believe it or not, we use more facial muscles when we give dirty looks than we do when we smile.

Oh and a “please” and a “thank you” is not an insult to customers. It is an insult, however, when all your customers are saying it to you, but you retort “£6.50” and don’t even make eye contact… word to the wise.

I just don’t understand what it is about sales advisors – or whatever they’re called in the store; the naming conventions seem to change as often as Britney Spears’ hairdos these days – and their blatant rudeness. I know I sound really old, but for the record, I’m not even 30 yet…

My thing is, we all have to earn our crust somehow, and if it means scanning food produce again and again and again and again for eight hours a day, then so be it. If you can beat wearing a cheap version of an air hostess’s uniform to do kids parties at McDonalds then let me know. For the record, this WAS during my ‘A’ levels and I got a promotion from being just a crew member; and hell yeah at the time I loved that uniform – anything but wear that awful red and grey striped polo shirt. And those tight trousers… don’t get me started.

But seriously, do these people realise how many people they can upset in a shift? I’m growing so weary of going shopping now – unless it’s for that must-have bag, or another pair of stilettos, in which case I can stomach facial expressions that resemble the back end of an orang-utan – because the thought of being greeted by someone with a complex about god knows what, who is going to cast a dark cloud on my day makes me think about taking homemade butter sandwiches to work and growing my own potatoes.

And heaven forbid you actually have to break up a gossip session at the tills to get served… and don’t even think about disturbing anyone who is concentrating on shelf-stacking to point you in the direction of something.

I’ve even given up asking for clothes in my size because even if it does exist in the mystery stock room, I know they’ll tell me otherwise. It’s like a little trap that sales advisors are waiting for naïve customers to fall in to. Yes, I honestly do believe that like bus drivers who wait for you to get within half an inch of the bus that you’ve been running half a mile for and then pull off while you bang on the door and swear obscenities at their cruelty, sales advisors get a thrill out of telling you, basically, where to go. If you haven’t experienced this yet – where have you been? – then try it out and see how wide the smile is when they tell you: “We only have what’s available on the shop floor [bitch].”

The only exception to that rule is at Faith, the shoe shop, where they hold those little gadgets to scan the shoes to see if it is in stock in your size. And I’m not just saying that because they had a wicked sale on last week… But like most technology, I’m sure it’ll get to a stage when even those sales advisors will get bored and just start saying the machine isn’t working or something...

National Lottery Scratchcards Do Work!

No, I’m not on commission from Camelot – but I would consider it if they approached me – this is me sharing my excitement at winning a tiny but significant amount on a scratchcard.

I won £12 on Monday. And the only reason why I’ve waited until now to share my good news is the shock of 1) actually winning, after a LONG time of, well, not winning and 2) winning more than just the usual £1.

You may mock, but £12 is huge. I’ve still got £2.63 of it left and I’ve been to Woolwothrs, Gregs the bakery, Sainsburys and Starbucks since I won. That’s a pretty good record for a spendthrift like me.

Roll on 1 July 2007 when smoking is banned

Roll on the glorious 1st July 2007. On this day, I will be able to stand on a train platform and move only to a) get on the train b) get away if a weirdo is standing too close to me c)because I feel like being closer to my exit point when I get off the train.

I will not have to move because some inconsiderate person has decided that my side is the place that they want to puff their cancer-causing, teeth-staining, bad-breath-inducing cigarette smoke. And it’s even more annoying when I’ve literally squeezed myself into the tiniest part of the platform where the air is smoke-free.

So like I said, roll on 1st July!

On this day, if it rains and I am getting on the bus – and the fact that it is a rarity these days is besides the point! – I can stand under the bus shelter to keep my peep-toe stilettos dry without having to give fierce looks to yet another smoker who has decided that they couldn’t care less about the fact that we all want to stay dry without passive smoking.

On this day, I can go out and paint the town red at my dancing venue or bar of choice and not narrowly miss my arm being turned into a stub point by a dimwit who can’t understand the importance of not swinging their smoking hand in small places. On this day, I will possibly avoid getting into an argument with someone who is crazy enough to burn a hole in my outfit or scald me with their cigarette because of their absentmindedness.

On this day I will breathe a sigh of relieve and, yes polluted, clean air! Oh how I can’t wait for this day…

Not more bloody bank charges!

My problem took a turn for the worst when my department was sold to our sister company. My pay date changed, and with me being busy in union meetings, other meetings and just doing my job, I didn’t get round to changing some of my direct debits.

On pay day, I was trying to buy my monthly travelcard in my local newsagents when the guy said the card had been declined. “What? How, I just got paid today – your machine must be playing up,” I said to him. But he looked at me like I was broke and should just accept it.

Something smelt fishy, anyway, so I rang my bank and hey presto, I’d been landed with about £1K’s worth of bank charges – in one month. After the direct debits that I had moved to the correct date had been paid for, I was about £10 in the black. That’s a pretty bitter pill to swallow.

In situations like these, I don’t even get that flush of panic that most would, because as far as I was concerned, the bank was going to put every single penny they’d charged me back into my account. I had a mortgage to pay, car insurance, union membership, magazine subscription, bills! And I hadn’t even treated myself yet!

But I’m sure there are loads of you reading this who know how much of a brick wall these so-called customer service officers/advisors/assistants – whatever they want to call themselves – put up when it actually comes to servicing customers. That wall is bigger than the one that divided the former East and West Germany. Hell, it’s taller than that Great Wall of China. While I’m at it, I think the whole “customer service” bit should be taken out of their job titles because that is not what they do. But “customer disservice” or “bank service” would be more appropriate.

Anyway, to cut a long, tear-jerking, can’t-believe-how-stupid/insensitive-these-people-are story short, the bank refunded a miniscule two £38 charges out of the £1K “as a gesture of goodwill” (I hate that term so much it makes my skin prick every time I hear that!). I was lived. “How am I supposed to live this month?” I asked the woman on the line. All she could suggest was putting me through to lending to set up a “repayment plan”. At this point, I had lost the will to live.

In my mind, a repayment plan is what pays back a loan or a mortgage. Why the hell would I want one for paying back automated bank charges?

But what choice did I have? Either have some money to live on that month, or get a pointless repayment plan that swooped £152 out of my monthly wage, and whacked on about £40-50 worth of interest every month because officially, I’m in overdraft! The bastards…

At this point, I’d heard something about a website that helped people get their money back from the banks. And if you’ve read my entry about financialphobia, you’ll know that my student days were something of a financial grave. The guy on GMTV had claimed back £5,000 worth of bank charges. And I was on a warpath with Natwest, so I was ready.

Logged on to http://www.penaltycharges.co.uk/, downloaded all the letters I needed and let the games begin!

They tried all their delay tactics, but nothing made me smile more than demanding my money be refunded into my account within 14 days… but that didn’t happen of course.

After a couple of months, they’d sent me an offer letter for £995. I settled with it as I reasoned that it had been my fault in a way for not sorting out my direct debits. But I was not gonna let them keep that money because it costs them about £2.50 to send out a letter to me. So where the other £35.50 9are you with me? £38-£2.50 = £35.50) comes from is beyond me. And that’s been the whole point of this whole bank charges conundrum.

Now, I’ve started telling everyone I know to reclaim bank charges. You can go back up to six years, so get your statements out and start your claim! Think of the holiday you could go on, a new kitchen, alloys for your car, another handbag you don’t need and if you have a shoe problem like me, then another pair of silver stilettos never hurt anyone did it?

I’m on my next bank charges refund assault now. I’ll keep you posted…

Read this for someone else’s story: http://www.gm.tv/index.cfm?articleid=19615

Another step-by-step guide to getting bank charges sorted: http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/bankcharges

What ever happened to the modern man?

This is not another rant about how twisted society is, so please don’t click away! But what is happening to the so-called modern guy?

I just had a long conversation with one of my male friends about his perceived expectations of a woman and I nearly strangled myself. If he has these views – and up until today I thought he was your archetypal modern guy; I think that’s partly why he’s one of my best friends (up until now!!!!) – then there’s not much hope for most guys out there.

Basically, it’s the age-old story of some guys wanting to have their cake and eat it. They want a woman who works, earns a good crust and is attractive. Fair enough, I thought. But, this drop-dead-gorgeous career woman also needs to come home, do most of the cooking, cleaning and then once she’s done, be ready for any ‘womanly duties’ – if you get my meaning – when the lights go out.

What makes me feel sad is that he admitted that this is a pretty hard life for any woman – if she’s mad enough to run herself ragged doing all these things while he sits on his derriere – but he basically said that he wants to relax when he comes home. Fair enough, but what about her? When asked what he would bring into the relationship, he backtracked a bit. To paraphrase, he basically said he would do a bit of washing etc, but not cleaning like dusting etc.

This is a guy who hasn’t even hit 30 yet, so what’s happened? I’m so perplexed by the conversation that I’m suffering from writers’ block, and that’s pretty hard for someone who talks as much as I do!

I don’t want this to turn into some stereotypical whine about how hard-up women are and what lazy dogs men are, so I’m leaving it up to the men to enlighten me on this viewpoint, because so far, I have lost hope!

I really think that a lot of young guys actually resent women working and being able to look after themselves. Afterall, it is the financial freedom we now have that means we don't have to stand for any chauvanistic views, right? In our grandparents' days women basically had to go with what the man wanted, and there would be no question that grandma would cook and clean and pander over her family. Yes, I don't see there being anything wrong with that. She was probably a housewife and her 'job' was to do these things.

These days, the working woman is almost penalised. If I think about my best mate's views, then it's like working is out of choice, but the woman still has to do all the homely things ON HER OWN afterwards. I'm still stuck at the question I asked my best mate: What are you brining to the relationship?

I'm still waiting for an answer...

Recovering financialphobe

Handbags, shoes, music CDs,make-up… oh and loads of clothes. That’s what my life revolved around in the first year of uni. Finally free from the Catholic girls school run by nuns, I was ready to embark on my new life of fun-filled nights dancing the night away and just living like a normal human being, not worrying about getting awful looks from the headmistress (a nun) if my skirt was the wrong length. Believe it or not, people actually got told off at our school if they wore a skirt that was too long! And I was a school prefect, so that says a lot, and deputy head girl at one point.

Anyway, my years of being mistaken for a businesswoman or a waitress – that does not go down too well when you’re 16-18 and have issues about the way you look anyway! – because of the black and white dress code we had in sixth form were finally behind us. And no more disapproving looks for wearing a light shade of nail polish from our chemistry teacher. I was free to be me and learn to get to know the real me, without all those rules and regulations telling me how to speak, how to sit, how to walk and how to be!

Well, typically, as soon as I turned 18 all the banks wrote to me. Telling me that if I was going to uni – and I was raring to go – I could get a student account with more perks than I knew what to do with. Oh and did I forget to mention the credit card and overdraft? How do these people get away with offering this to young, impressionable people? Obviously, not all students were or are like me – I think now young students are much more astute than I was back then because of all the media attention on student debt.

But for me, giving me access to all this “free” money was literally like sending a lamb to the slaughter. I’d worked part-time during my ‘A’ levels so it’s not that I didn’t know how to manage money. I used to be a damn good saver pre-university! But having a huge sum of money just waiting to be spent seemed criminal. And being newly released from a place where crime was a cardinal sin, well there was only one way to go – spending street.

And spend I did. How easy it was too. My wardrobe was like a Freemans’ catalogue by the end of the first term. By the second, I had moved on to my second bank account, and by the third term, it suddenly dawned on me that I actually had to pay this money back. It might have been interest free, but once you were max’ed out your overdraft and credit cards, the banks don’t see you in the same light again. Little did I know that my every financial move was being documented on a credit report… ahh bless.

I learnt the hard way that overdrafts and credit cards are not free money. And that it’s not money you have extra. It’s the bank’s money! You learn this quickly when you have a shed load to pay back.

I once wrote a feature – and a quiz for New Woman (www.newwoman.co.uk) - on financialphobia; the fear of addressing financial problems. People literally don’t open letters because they are afraid of what they’ll see in bills and statements. I recognised those signs in my younger self while researching for that feature, and it was at this point that I realised the madness I had got myself into at such a young age.

But, I can look back on this time in my life and laugh about it now, because I’m free. I remember having a heartfelt conversation with my sister about it a few years back and laughing really hard about the little tricks I’d used to keep my head above financial shark-infested waters. I had been so ashamed at the amount of money I’d spent – and the fact that after the first year of uni ended, I literally had nothing to show for it – that I didn’t tell anyone until it really took its toll. We sat and talked about spending money and had a real laugh about it. She puts it down to my mad sense of humour, but the therapy I got from that one conversation is worth millions… and I would know about the value of money.

On my journey, I found a good website that helped me sort things out in my head – Motley Fool (http://www.motleyfool.co.uk). Here, I learnt about snowballing debt to pay things off. For a while, I worked at a market research company in Victoria to help me get more cash to pay off the bigger debts that were eating into my happiness. It was such a miserable time for me, but every shift I did after a full day’s work at my main job was a reminder not to get into that same position again. Better to go through this when you’re young, free and single, I often say to myself than when you have a family, so I have to be grateful for that.

I also read a book called A Girl's Best Friend Is Her Money: The Motley Fool Women's Investment Guide by Jane Mack and Jasmine Birtles, which gave me more good tips.



Then Alvin D Hall who wrote Your Money Or Your Life: A Practical Guide To Solving Your Financial Problems And Affording A Life You'll Love came on BBC2 with his informative financial freedom series, where he literally beat the crazy spending out of people with his money-pinching tips. I couldn’t believe that there were other people out there who didn’t bat an eyelid when spending, spending and spending like me (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/breakfast/3051395.stm). But they also helped me sort myself out.

These days there is so much information out there. A decade ago – I feel so old saying that – I was on my own and at the mercy of my debtors. I used to say that once I’d paid off my debts I’d never get a credit card or use my overdraft again. But that’s the weird thing, if you want to build up your credit, you have to use them to show that you can manage your money. If you don’t, the fact that you have no credit also has a negative effect on your credit score. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place.

So, am I cured? No! I still find it hard to fight the spending temptation. It’s like what an addict goes through. If I see a nice bag or something that I want, I want it. But the lesson I’ve learnt is that it’s not worth getting into debt over. O get guilt pangs if I think I’ve spent too much money, which is great because back then, I couldn’t have felt an ounce of guilt when I was spending if it slapped me in my face!

Bingo with a difference – bitchy bingo with the LIPS (www.lipsnyc.com) crew in New York City

My life has never been the same since I went to New York for a week with work.

The weather was rubbish, and somehow I only managed to buy myself a wallet – ok, so it’s not a real Dolce and Gabbana piece, but shops NYC’s Soho would have you dumbstruck to tell the difference between the genuine article, but off course the price tells you different – and a black shirt that I can now barely fit into, but that’s another story... By the way the wallet’s quality was as good as the $10 I paid for it – the inner seams on one of the compartments had come undone inside a week of using it, so I was far from impressed.

Anyway, like I was saying, the weather was pretty poor for March – like -6 degree Fahrenheit – and I’d given up on fashion because every nightly stroll to the must-go Madison and Fifth avenues left my head feeling like an ice pick.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the UK’s unpredictable weather because frankly, I couldn’t see what all the damn fuss was about the Big Apple anyway! Not ‘til I went to this bitchy bingo thing. Near Grenwich Village, LIPS (http://www.lipsnyc.com/) is well hid, but once you find it, you’ll want the whole world and his dog to know.

Basically, it’s bingo compeered by transvestites. You get a sit-down meal, and you play bingo. It’s one of those things that you have to go to because no one can describe it to you fully. The trannies are not the tacky sort by any means. Lily Savage would look like Jade Goody, and the LIPS trannies would be Sarah Jessica Parker or someone like that. Talking of SJP, I believe there was an episode of Sex and the City that had a scene at LIPS. They had the immaculate looking one with the big green hair, who, I have to say, is the sweetest person ever. She’s on a diet, but I think she looks fab just as she is.

After about five or so Margaritas I’d forgotten all about my gripes about NYC – the horrid subways and their more than confusing maps – not to mention the rip-off metro card, and NYC’s weird toilets (could someone please tell me why they have that weird split in the middle?), not to mention the delis, which left me bloated for weeks.

Ginger, the compere for the night was hilarious. Then she clocked me and my Korean work colleague and that was it. Next thing I know I was standing in front of the whole venue giggling like a hyena on acid, saying this God-awful things back to her – under duress, of course…

Anyway, all the trannies do their little performances from Broadway shows. And they’re actually quite entertaining with it too. Some poor guy got whipped to within half and inch of his life by one tranny’s wig. But he wasn’t complaining… that’s another thing about tranny bingo that makes it so much fun. Everyone there comes with an open mind and to have fun. Like this 73-year-old woman who was there to celebrate her birthday.

How could I forget about the prizes on offer if you get a full house? I’m sure even Anne Summers would need a special license for some of those toys. I think a lap dance was the most ‘reserved’ prize.

My best part though was when my work colleague was accosted by one of the trannies who thought he looked ‘cute’. Being married, and only there because I’d harped on about going so much he felt he had to take me, this poor guy didn’t know what to do with himself when he had a derriere stuck in his face. Quality.

Psychic Sensation in New York

Oh my goodness... the shock of this experience makes a woman who is never short of words find it hard to find any to explain... but bear with me. Lunchtime - well late lunch at 2.30/3pm - and I'm about to find this Chinese take-out place that a colleague in the New York office has recommended to me. It’s still freezing cold and if I was not a good eater, I’d be going to the crap deli a couple of doors down. But, the bloating and the wind I’ve had because of this crap food is worth braving the cold for.

Anyway, so I've literally walked out of the building and am trying to get my bearing - the whole grid system in the US still baffles me! "I've got something I need to tell you. Will you let me read you? I see a smile on your face, but you're not smiling inside are you?"

A psychic... This lady accosted me on the street. She was short, personable and certainly looked a lot warmer than I did, wearing her big fur coat (possibly made of real fur, and going by the huge office she works in - yes, Londoners out there, this psychic had an office just off Park Avenue itself). I was so taken aback that she literally took my hand and led me to this plush office. I think I was so marvelled by how plush the office was that I wasn’t taking anything she was saying in. She had her logo emblazoned onto the glass and everything was so professional. Nothing like the psychic fairs I’ve seen before. I bet some chief executives would sell their right arm to have a plush office like this lady.

All I heard when we spoke on the street was “free reading” and thought, “yeah, why not?”. But in a split second – my furry mitts had only just touched the handles on the leather chairs in the reception area – yes, reception area - before she was offering to do all this “work” for me.

Now, don’t get me wrong… I do believe that some people genuinely have a gift and can “see” things. But I also think that some of these people have excellent sales techniques. Sir Alan Sugar would snap this lady up for The Apprentice any day.

This psychic genuinely seemed to care, though. But she was also quite forceful in her approach. By the end of our conversation, I had almost had a nervous breakdown, and my free reading hadn’t really told me anything, let alone shed any light on this work that I needed doing. But what was firmly engraved on my brain was the $1,000 price tag. At this point, all comatose was shocked out of my system. $1,000 – did she think the woolly hat I was wearing was from Bloomingdales or something?

Needless to say, my refusal brought a swift end to our “session”…

…but I did bump into her again in the street a couple of days later – as fate would have it. She had come out to see her “worker” was doing what she was paying him to do. Poor guy was strapped to a sign in the freezing cold, but we all have to earn out crust somehow…

New York, New York...

First time in New York: at first I had a pang of excitement, then the guilt about leaving Joshua (my two-year-old son) crept in, then I justified it (well hubby will appreciate me more when I get back... won't he?) and now I'm here feeling jet-lagged and my head feels like, any minute now, it will cave in. And I've still got about five hours of work to go!

Wait, gripe one: I need to get this gripe out of my system before I explode...

Why do people have to talk so loud on mobile phones? I was way too early for my flight on Sunday - check-in was from 3pm, I got there at 2pm due to past bad experience leaving me £50 shy. When I arrived and settled down near my gate, there was only another soul there, and he was trainspotting. Then comes Miss Italy - this is not an 'is you a racialist?' comment by the way, but speaking at that volume, even the cemetry bones could distinguish her accent.

Gripe two - Heathrow Airport: what is with those noisy mini car things that airport staff use to transport old or lazy passengers around in? Why do their sirens have to be louder than all St John's Ambulance sirens put together? Do they really need them? I mean if you were hit by those 3mph things, at worst you'd be huddled up in stitches - laughter - at the thought that it had dared hit you, let alone hurt you, so that's the health and safety excuse out the window.

I didn't realise how much of a Londoner I am until I landed at JFK airport. The queues for non-US immigration was so long... and I seemed too close to the end for my liking, considering I had flown World Traveller Plus! It just niggled me that there were four members of staff ushering people to queue behind four counters - surely they trust passengers to get that right themselves? And surely one person could have done that and the remaining three members of staff could have been at the other end of the counter, killing the long queue...

Anyway, by the time I got to the counter, my way-too-big-to-be-hand-luggage bag was in tatters. One handle was broken, and the zip looked worse for wear. I felt at ease for a split second when I finally got my turn at the counter and the attendant asked me what I'd be doing in the US. She seemed half interested in what I was saying, but just as I was about to make eye contact, I realised she was not bothered one bit, she was just using that to find out where I bought my necklace from... hmmm. If you wanted to see what nonchalant and bored in a pictionary looked like, her mug would be shot right there.

JFK airport isn't a patch on Heathrow - even crummy Terminal 4, which to my shock didn't have much options for food, besides Upper Crust and Wetherspoon. What happened to McD's - weren't they supposed to have the monopoly on fast food? Maybe the healthy options they are serving up these days have shoved them down that list, but whatever the reason, I was not impressed at the £4.49 price tag for a pannini that is the size of my palm. And the smoked-out bar-cum-restuarant thing only proved to irritate by cold symptoms further. And even that was with me wolfing down a nugget meal - yes, it was a kid's dish, but that's another long story!

Gripe 3: how did it get so cold in NYC? This was meant to be my working shopping experience, but my bones have frozen to stiffness that would stop Carrie herself... even Posh wouldn't venture to Gucci in this weather... well I don't have that priviledge, I'm headed for Soho - which according to my research (yes, work has been that slow today!) stands for South of Houston. I've got shopping to be had, and I've got three more days to do it! No pain, no gain!