Social Media

A few weeks I discovered that my personal Twitter account, the one I keep for friends & safe humans, decided to just change my security settings. An iPhone update later and bam! My well crafted, witty one liners are available for the world & it’s Mum to see.

It would also appear that changing it back is near enough impossible. Well impossible is pushing it, but I have the technical capabilities of a frog with no thumbs.

Whilst attempting to fend off the crazy masses & instantly becoming phobic that the same thing had happened to my Facebook, it suddenly hit me that there are many things wrong with the wonderful world of social media. It sure is a world I enjoy to partake in, in small portions and responsibly (and mainly to let you lot have access to this blog), but there are several things fundamentally amiss with it. And here are some of them; 

The invention of the ‘pasty, patchy haired chested, I’m in my Mum’s bathroom & the tiles need re-grouting’ selfie.
 The acceptance of saying ‘hashtag’ in everyday, spoken conversation. See ‘Hashtag Awkward’ for reference. It sure will be Hashtag Awkward when I #throwmywineoveryou.

The fact that ‘following’ people is now socially acceptable. Not a tad stalker like and murder-ey, like it was 10 years ago.

The need for people to feel obliged to share their involvement in the most mundane of activities. See ‘Simon is having breakfast #yum’ for reference. Simon is, in fact, a boring bastard. #trueshit.

 The posting of profound, ‘look into the distance with glazed over eyes’ statuses. My top 3 so far.

Feeling lost 😦
One day…one day you’ll realise.
#revengeisabitch – karmas coming to get ya.
(this was the most sinister of the 3 but brilliant nonetheless)
The commonplace ritual of taking a photo of a paving slab. Putting a sepia tone on it. Calling it arty.
 Pictures of nail varnish. Daily updates of nail varnish.

 The feeling of deep down rejection when the girl from primary school, with whom you’ve had no contact for 15 years, forgets your birthday.

YOLO. I need go no further.
 The culture of tagging. Good examples;

Jo was tagged at The Crown & Anchor. Here’s a photo of her with a jaegerbomb doing a two-step. Tag. Hmmm. Jo was hoping to call in sick tomorrow due to the bomb induced headache. No such luck.

Jenny is with Mark at The Ritzy, Brixton *feeling excited (heart in the eyes smiley)*. Strange, Mark & I were due to go to the cinema one night this week. I don’t know Jenny. But I hate her & sure as hell won’t be returning his text. (this hasn’t actually happened (yet) but you catch my drift.
The regret hangovers induced by the tagging culture. I DID WHAT?! Yes, yes, you did. Here’s 15 photos, 3 tags and an inbox message from your disapproving Aunty Jan, to prove it. 
 The way people you would rather forget, and are in no way professionally connected to you, are able to see your current employment status. Oh, and you can see that they’ve seen it.

Pub conversations that start ‘oh my god, did you see her status, what on earth did she mean?’ To be followed by a 5 minute conversation about what the girl you all used to work with, and hate because she never made tea, meant by her badly structured rant at her boyfriend.
 And at last but by no means least, the fact that at a click of a button you can see how skinny you used to be. 15 times over.

LL x


The quarter of a century milestone is fast approaching & to be honest, I’m having a mild panic. As a teenager, 25 is practically ancient and by this age you assume that you’ll have achieved every one of your dreams.

At 12 I was convinced I’d be a famous actress by now, living in an amazing apartment over looking Beverly Hills with a husband & 4 kids.
In reality, I’m still in my Mum’s spare room and walk the length of Brixton Hill each day, not red carpets.
In my journey to the big 25, I’ve learnt some key things, things I wish I could have told my 12 year old self.

Here’s 25 of them.

1. Films are in fact enhanced versions of reality. People don’t fall in love on the tube. Men don’t chase you to airports.

2. It does you good to watch Newsnight or alike. Funny as it seems, intelligence is attractive. TOWIE is actual shite.

3. If he doesn’t text you back, he’s not being aloof, he’s not playing it cool, he’s just not that interested. Move on.

4. Snapchat doesn’t constitute flirting.

5. One bottle of wine is usually enough. If people dare you to drink more, you don’t actually have to.

6. If you get to the day before payday and have money left in your bank, you don’t have to immediately spend it. Your account doesn’t reset every last Friday of the month.

7. Getting pissed on a Monday will ultimately result in you getting pissed every other night of that week.

8. Cut out Malia, Zante and alike. Just go straight to Ibiza and realise what an actual clubbing holiday is like. Fall in love with the island. Vow to always return.

9. Approach flames with caution. Especially old flames.

10. Expensive make up is money well spent. Cheap wine is not.

11. Shaved legs are always important. 2nd date or 2nd baby. There’s no excuse.
12. You won’t win the lottery. Be on time for work, don’t rage your boss.

13. Talking of punctuality, live by the rule that if you are on time, you are late. Be ten minutes early.(I can’t take the credit for this one, it’s someone else’s motto, but it’s a good’un)

14. Accept compliments graciously. Don’t be staggered by someone finding something nice about you.

15. Being nice is easier then being horrible. Smile, be polite, go far.

16. You can’t have 26 best mates. At most you’ll have 4. Invest in them.

17. Don’t buy clothes that you have to slim into. You will never wear them.
18. Your passport should be one of your most precious possessions.

19. Print your photos. Technology is amazing and great for many things. Don’t rely on it to house your memories.

20. Don’t hold grudges. He might have been a tit & upset you, but if he’s trying…let him.

21. It’s unlikely you’ll ever be famous. Get a job you love, do well at it & earn a good wage.
22. Facebook is irritating and borders on dangerous. Don’t rely on it as your only means of communication. Go to the pub & talk to your mates.

23. Don’t waste your time trying to be like other people. You’re the best at being you so you might as well just stick with it.

24. You’ll fall ‘in love’ a few times before the real time comes a knocking. And apparently, when it does, you know.

25. You are only 25. Don’t go rushing into forevers. There are years left. Enjoy them. Wear stupid shoes, go home when the sun’s up & always say yes to tequila.

LL x

Texting Back

I often listen to my Nan talk about the days when she would write to my Grandad when he was out at war. She would write him a note about how London was, how she was, let him know she was safe. He would write back, sometimes weeks later, and share stories of life on the front line.
A real romance. A real story. 50 odd years married. Years and years apart with nothing but a letter now & again.
I’m sure my Nan would check the window for the postman and would have butterflies if something were to land on her mat with my Grandad’s distinctive writing scrawled on the front.
I’m also sure that she was more than happy to wait the weeks. The more weeks, the more special the letter seemed. She just couldn’t wait to have him home. No matter how long she waited. They were only “courting” at the time. This was their way of chatting each other up.
I often wondering what it would be like if my Nan and Grandad were “courting” now. I reckon things would be going a little something like this
Grandad would text Nan after having met her in the pub, having had a bit of drunken banter. Met her Friday, Sunday text. Standard two day turn around.
Nan would give it about forty minutes to an hour before replying with a cool, calm, contrived response, accepting his invite to go for a drink. Nan would not put a kiss at the end of the text. Grandad hadn’t put one on his. She wouldn’t want to seem too keen.
So Nan and Grandad have gone on a few dates. Nan’s been well behaved and not got stupidly drunk, not spoken about her crazy ex who once got a kick out of joyriding milk floats, not sworn too much, kept good eye contact but most importantly she played it cool.

 Grandad, cool as ever, is really keen. Nan’s like no other girl he knows. She drinks gin like a sailor in head turning dresses. Her laugh is contagious and she likes a good gangster film. Get her talking about football and he’s ready to get down one knee.

 After a month or so he can see this going places and reckons he wants to see a bit more of Nan. He’s going out for his birthday in a few weeks and has already bought her a ticket. He means it.

Nan reckons she can sense this and let’s be honest, he’s a catch so she’s beyond keen back. Grandad’s done the running, sorted out the cool east London bars to go too and treated Nan to a couple of cinema trips. It was her turn. 
Nan’s a modern woman. She works, she drives. She knows she needs to be making the moves back. She doesn’t want Grandad thinking she’s not keen. He’s been pretty hot on the texting thing. Most days a cheeky one liner will come through, perhaps a wink emoticon. There’s been texts back and forth. Nan’s confident on this one. After years of bad All Bar One experiences and sketch situations with blokes at work, she’s landed the guy that does the right thing. He replies!
So casual as, Nan sends a text. A cheeky offer of a few drinks and a bite to eat on Friday night. It’s Monday so plenty of warning. Grandad will love this, a confident woman, a woMAN with a plan. Send text.
The standard forty “I’m not going to instantly reply but I want to still appear keen” minutes goes by. No response. Nan gets home. No response. Hair wash. No response. Dinner. No response. The absolute killer…the next morning. No response.
The entire next day in the office is spent in blind panic. Nan’s head is filled with scenario upon scenario about what could have happened. By her afternoon cup of peppermint tea, Grandad is either dead or has fallen head over heels in love with a woman on the bus.
Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning is dedicated to Nan constantly refreshing her Facebook feed. 1am Wednesday morning and Grandad checks in at the pub and likes a few comments. ‘Checked in using Android’. The “he’s been mugged so couldn’t possibly reply” option is out of the window.
Wednesday is spent heartbroken that Grandad hasn’t been involved in a fatal accident and is in fact ignoring Nan. She spends the day re-reading the text. Wondering if the smiley face and the wink was a step too far. Maybe she wasn’t direct enough? Maybe she was too forward? 
5pm Wednesday and the sending texts to herself thing begins. Poor Nan just wants to ensure that her phone is actually working. It is.
By the end of the bus journey home Nan has decided to join the gym, dye her hair and eat salad only for a month. He clearly is so repulsed by the sight of her name, let her alone her face, that he can’t bring himself to reply to a god damn text.
“That’s It!”, Nan thinks. She’s moving on. She didn’t like him anyway. Another shower. Her phones on silent and in the bottom of her bag. She’d rather Aunty Rene didn’t send a text, she hear it and get her hopes up.
Gets in to bed. Making a mental note to smile at every bloke on the way to work tomorrow. 48 hours is plenty of time to secure a date for Friday night. She has after all already told her Mum she won’t be in for dinner. The potential humiliation is too much to bear.
11.15pm Wednesday.
1 message received
yeah sounds good 😉 what time?
Nan blushes even though nobody’s there. She falls asleep wondering what to wear and giggling to herself at the jokes she knows he’ll already make. 
Bloody Grandad.
 Imagine if he’d have left it 3 weeks to reply like he did in 1941….

LL x