The Interstate (Mega)Bus

By Kerry

I recently got dumped for a unicycle and a roadmap of a third world country (I would go into it, but I really don’t think I can face it right now). It’s been quite the traumatic experience, but fear not, I managed to end the whole debacle with a slew of bicycle related puns. When you are swapped in for an inanimate object, arse sores and dysentery, I believe it is important to leave the situation with dignity. But I digress the point is that I am very much ready to jump back on the Kathryn Pimps Kerry metaphorical horse.

When I say ready, I mean in the loosest of terms. Today was a good day as it marked my second tears free day. Up until yesterday I had cried at least once daily…on public transport. I don’t know what it is about public transport but it just seems to have that effect on me. Maybe it’s like motion sickness…but of the eyes.

Anyway, I’m ready. Ish.

Not only am I ready(ish) but I happen to be on a bus. Not an Interstate bus as per Kathryn’s ‘Where to Meet Men in London’ list (I’m pretty certain it is impossible to locate an interstate bus in the UK there being no states an all) but a Megabus. The London to Bristol Megabus to be exact. On the eve of a bank holiday weekend. The bank holiday weekend…the Easter one. Yup, if I can’t find me a man on this here bus, I’ve no chance…right?

And, failing to find a husband on an overcrowded bus beats silently (but very noticeably) sobbing behind an oversized pair of Tom Ford sunglasses. And yes, there was no reason for me to mention the brand but fuck you, I got dumped for a tricycle, all I have going for me is a pair of bloody Tom Ford sunglasses.

So back the fuck off.

The problem is… there are no potential men on this bus. There are men, for sure. In fact MMM and I are pretty much the only bloody women on this bus. But none of the men are in anyway dateable. And this is not an example of my unreadiness.

Trust me.

No really, let me prove my point. Let me describe in under five words the men currently surrounding me…

Burberry fedora hat.

North Korean military haircut.

Overweight, Welsh, sweat gland issues.

Under twelve.

Carlton from the Fresh Prince.

All of whom are asleep.

Even if I wasn’t emotionally crippled (currently), dead inside (the rest of the time), completely unattracted to all my bus companions (all of the time with this selection), how might I start a conversation with them? We’ve all been in this situation. No one wants to talk to a stranger on a three hour bus journey. Being woken up by said stranger to start the previously mentioned unwarranted conversation is the equivalent of calling your grandmother a cunt. Unacceptable. No love can grow from such behaviour. Any future you may have had with the dozing stranger will be forever marred by such behaviour.

No it’s just not acceptable.

I’m returning to my weeping.

I’m aiming for just the single tear today. You know like that crying Indian advert from the 70s. The one where the guy playing the Native American turned out to be Italian or something. Whoever he was, he was well upset about litter.

Aiming high as always.

As I said, I’ve got some Tom Fords to be weeping behind.

Sugar Daddy?

I think by now we’ve all established that I’m a horrible middle class Londonite millennial who will pay over the odds for everything, despite not having the income for anything and has a palpitation when I can’t get a ripe avocado in Waitrose for my breakfast.

It should therefore come as absolutely no surprise that I have belonged to some truly wanky gyms in my time. For a (very) brief time I decided that the local council gym was fine. I paid up £30 per month and went grand total of once. I then realised that I needed to join FRAME. Frame is my spirit animal in gym form. You could not find a person in that place that didn’t have ombre hair and a full outfit made up of the jazzy stuff Nike does. I actually attended that gym and *almost* got fit. I also looked like Eddie from Ab Fab whilt doing so. Sadly I got gentrified out of Dalston. At this point my gym habit was REAL and I actually considered moving to Canary Wharf, just to be close to the Reebok gym, as I’d done a dance class to learn how to dance like Beyonce there. Hint- I can’t dance like Beyonce.

I am now a dedicated follower- occasionally- of REFORMER PILATES. The most wanky of all wanky gym routines. I bloody love it. Mainly because -mind trick number one- you do exercise whilst lying on your back. Yes, you have to do it on a piece of equipment that can only be described as looking like the rack, but the fact that anyone from outside of the M25 looks at you like you’ve finally succumbed to the London scene means it’s the option for me. (I also love the fact that it’s a Pilates studio. Mind trick number two.)

Why am I boring you with the history of my gym going? Well, one of the list of how to meet a man is to go to the gym. What do my lovely gym options have in common? Well, lets say there is a poor man to lady ratio going on. My favoured pilates studio has fairy lights and plays Justin Bieber as the tunes de rigour. Theres a cross fit gym next door and they play Pantera and scream and we all tut at the modern day mans need to justify their gender in such a way. We are just confused by the ladies that go.

HOWEVER, I am not one to be beaten. I was visiting my mum and so I decided to see what the local gym had to offer in terms of potential husband. Let me paint a picture of the local leisure centre. It’s pretty easy for me if you were a child of the 90’s, because the picture needs to only be recalled. I ask you to cast your mind back to the wonder that was The Brittas Empire. Yes, that’s right. I went back to the 90’s to find a boyfriend.

I walked into the cardio room having parted with £5.25- Yes £5.25! and was immediately struck by one simple fact. I was surrounded my men. I was the only lady— I was onto something!!! On the rowing machine, On the arm cycle, ON THE CROSS TRAINER! There was just one problem. Not only was I the only lady, I was the only person under the age of 70. Admittedly, going to the gym at 10 am on a Monday morning probably is silly timing to try and find someone who isn’t on the dole or retired, but I didn’t really think about this. It was as much as I could do to drag my sorry self there to sweat away my money away on the tread mill to Bailando By Enrique Iglesias. If song has for some reason slipped out of your mind, or like me, you never knew what it was called because the only time you’ve ever heard it was on an all inclusive holiday to Croatia whilst mixing ‘green’ cocktails and having everyone stare at ‘the Brits’, I implore you to look it up. It’s a banger.

Anyway, Dating list trial number 1= 4/10. There is clearly a possibility here, but I need to go at the right time, and think of some better chat than “do you remember when Enrique Iglesias had that mole? What happened to that?!

A Spanner in the Proverbial Works.

Last week, full of enthusiasm and renewed vigour, I downloaded all the apps and started my search for a wedding boyfriend. I swiped my little heart out and after three hours and the muscle cramps in my hand that told me early onset RSI was setting in, I had accrued at least seven matches. I was ON A ROLL. I was Adele, rolling in the deep…I was Fred Durst in that bloody convertible.

Early jubilation quickly turned to absolute despair, as I realised I had made a huge error in my swiping. For the record, if the front photo is in black and white, say no. If they are wearing  hat, say no. If they have sunglasses on, they have a bonk eye.

Bumble, it turns out, has the superior calibre of men, but because the lady has to start the conversation first, I had to try out some different techniques. The one I’ve settled on is just writing the persons name in capitals with 2 exclamation marks. In case you cant’t picture this, it looks like this: WAYNE!! Overall, this has been a fairly poor strategy, but it’s low in energy input and I’m strongly of the opinion that if my future beloved doesn’t get this wonderful declaration of love, then they aren’t the man for me. No sir-ree.

(For the record, as I write this, my college is performing a magnificent rendition of Michael Jackson ‘Man in the Mirror’ in Latin. I’m quite worried for my sanity)

Quite simply, my strategy isn’t working. I’m like Ed Balls trying to do the Rumba, but without the charming ‘Britishness’.

Here’s my new plan. If someone can set me up with someone that I go on three dates with, I’ll buy them a bottle of champagne. I’m going to P-diddy my way through this.

I also thought it may be a vague entertainment to try out one of those lists which give you ten ways to meet a man quickly in London. I’ve just googled one and here are the suggestions:

10. Men’s Clothing Store

9. Interstate Train

8. Online Dating Sites

7. At the Gym

6. The Apple Store

5. Select Supermarkets

4. Annual Events

3. Facebook

2. An Educational Setting

1. A Volunteer Project

(Thanks http://www.essence.com/galleries/10-best-places-meet-man#117676)

Now, I haven’t tried any of these yet but, just using my knowledge of life, I foresee some issues. But, in the interest of content, entertainment and desperation, I’m going to give these a go…

 

KD

X

WE’RE BACK

By Kathryn

COO-EEEEEE!!!!!!

Hello legions of fans. I *KNOW* you missed my hilarious ramblings about my failure to find a boyfriend. Well guess what. After a winter of hibernating and stuffing my face with every kind of carbohydrate, I’ve decided it’s time to re-enter the world of dating. And, more specifically finding a husband.

You may think this is just because the daffodils are out and the Americans are off on ‘Spring Break’, but I’ve got no time to be gazing at James Franco tinkling on the old ivories and singing Everytime whilst making eyes at some guy in a vest. NOOOOOO. There is a far more pressing affair. My brother just got engaged.

Now, I’m as up for a bit of strong female ladying as Ariana Grande on a good day, but I AM NOT TURNING UP AT MY YOUNGER BROTHERS WEDDING WITHOUT A DATE. Nope. No-sir-ree.

So here we go fellow daters. I’m going to be like Harry Potter looking for a horcrux. I’m going to be like Wolf from Gladiators going up the wall after some poor sod. I’m going to be like bloody Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen in a haberdashers looking for the final piece of black gothic lace.

You, as ever, are along for the ride. Hold on, because I’m almost certainly going to cry. A lot.

x

How Not to Cleanse

By Kerry

So the cleanse is over and I’ve taken a few days to mainly stuff myself with actual real life foodstuffs until I want to vomit, but also to meditate on how it all went. And to be honest I think it was a bit of a failure. Quite a big failure actually.

Let me explain.

As you all know there were three separate elements to the cleanse so I think it best we tackle them each individually…

THE DIETARY CLEANSE
By far the most successful element. C9 you have been well and truly defeated. I have lived off pills and pond water for 9 days straight whilst attending daily classes, running anywhere I could and slowly losing my mind to insomnia. As a result I am lovely and thin once more. Totally batshit crazy but nice and thin so who is complaining.

Success.

THE SPIRITUAL CLEANSE
This was definitely less of an all out success. This wasn’t really a success at all. Kath really outdid herself and put together one hell of a program. Unfortunately whilst I fully embraced some elements, others really brought out the worst in me (hello hug challenge). Let’s break this down by day…

Day One – Withnail and I
This was a brilliant start to the whole process. A gentle reminder of what might happen if one does not embark on a cleanse/detox immediately via the medium of film. I think the best way to reflect on this would be via a transcript of my internal monologue whilst watching the film…
Hmmmmmmm I don’t think I have watched this film since I was a teenager. This boy who I was very much in love with (he was angry and angsty and mysterious or at least he thought he was and so did 17 year old me) was a bit obsessed with it so I was forced to watch it on repeat for the length of that miserable relationship). I really can’t tell the McCann brothers apart. I wonder which one this is. How many of them are there? Shit look how old Richard E Grant was even then. He’s meant to be 29?! Jesus Christ Richard E Grant is not 29. Richard E Grant was never 29. I wonder if he is actually 29 here or whether they did like Dawson’s Creek where they got 30 year olds in to play teenagers. Dammit I’d like a glass of wine. Or a vat of wine. A week in a cottage with nothing but a bucketload of drugs and booze is such a good idea. That’s much more fun than detoxing. I was fun once. I was really fun.  I would have won at Withnail and I once. I would definitely have been Withnail. No one wants to be I when they could be Withnail. I would have been better than Withnail.  I’d have wiped the floor with him and then some. Oh shit maybe this is a problem. Surely the point of watching Withnail and I is not aspiring to be more like Withnail…oh shit.

Fail.

Day Two – Positive Affirmations
I may have been a little late to The Rookery but once I got there I fully embraced this. I had a lovely time sitting on a bench surrounded by OAP joggers chanting self help drivel. But once again, although I completed the challenge, I fear I missed the point. The chanting may have helped me find my happy place but it turns out my happy place is showing off on a bench and giggling to myself at the absurdity of the sentence, ‘I love life and life loves me’. I’m pretty certain this was not the point.

Fail.

Day Three – Write Letter, Burn Letter, Scream
As I have never matured much beyond The Craft loving angsty teenager of yesteryear this task was by far my favourite. I definitely took the whole thing far to seriously. I even found a playlist named something stupid like ‘Teenage Emo Angst’ on Spotify to listen to whilst I put pen to paper. I didn’t manage to listen to more than 30 seconds of it. Turns out My Chemical Romance sound as bad in 2016 as they did whenever it was that they were a thing. Anywho, the whole process was quite therapeutic. Really therapeutic actually. I wrote some really good home truths (that Bernard will never read) and I jumped up and down on a book he gave me with real vigor (I thought burning literature was a bit too Nazi). I suggest that you all give it a go. It wont solve a thing but you’ll really enjoy yourself. And then go away and watch The Craft because, well, because it’s a bloody great film.

Success. Ish.

Day Four – Rock Salt Baths and Whale Song
I am really not a fan of a bath. I don’t get the point unless your shower is broken or you are suffering from an injury of some kind. I find them boring and I get flustered. I was not keen on this at all. Even less so as I wasn’t allowed to occupy myself with a book or music or anything. This seemed like a complete waste of my time. As did the whale song in a dark room that would follow.
I was right about not enjoying the bath. It was exactly as hot and dull as I expected and left my bathtub with rose petal mush blocking up the plug hole.
The whale music though was a revelation. Apart from the fact that Jeff the dog took an instant dislike to the whole business and sat outside my door barking throughout it really was quite relaxing. Maybe I was just overtired, but I genuinely could have laid there in the dark, napping, all evening.Not sure what the benefits were spiritually but I had a lovely time.

Success.

Day Five – Releasing Tina
Another brilliant call here. There is nothing I’d rather do than dress up as Tina Turner and faff around with some sage. Tina is my bloody idol. She not only knew about real life heart break but embodied a too short sequinned dress…my go to look. Oh and remember her in Mad Max 3. I was so bloody ready for this. Apart from the fact it took me two hours and a visit to every supermarket and cornershop between London Bridge and Streatham common to find any bloody sage. Oh and the fact that it needed to be dried sage in order to burn.
The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster. I did get to wear sequins and practice my Tina moves to Proud Mary though, which is the only way to pass a Tuesday evening as far as I am concerned.

Fail.

Day Six – The Five Hug Challenge
There are no words for how big a fail this was.
I was not happy about this from the offset. I am not afraid to ask people for a hug. I just don’t want to be hugged. I have no interest in being hugged for the sake of being hugged. If you are a crying and a mess I will give you a hug because I know that it will in some way comfort you and I’m a generous sort.  If I am crying please do not return the favour. Point me in the direction of a dark, sound proof room, where I can sob it out unseen by the general public. Honestly, I will be much happier that way.
So I started the challenge dubious but determined to succeed because I am bloody competitive and in my mind winning this challenge was the equivalent of beating Kath. In life.
I failed gloriously. Not only did I only manage three hugs, one of those was what Kath described as a ‘digital hug’. From Bernard.

Fail. Epic Fail.

Day Seven – Talk to a Man
Originally Kath tried to roll over the hug challenge for a second day but after I politely told her to go fuck herself she changed her mind. Instead she set me the pointless challenge of starting a conversation that lasted a minimum of four exchanges long with a man. It was a pointless challenge for two simple reasons:
1. She has been sending me on blind dates forever now where all I do is start conversations with men I do not know that last well over four exchanges.
2. I’m a bloody receptionist. I have to make small talk with an array of unknowns in the form of couriers, posties and clients every single day.
This was not a real task. Although I succeeded I still deem the whole exercise a waste of time and therefore a fail.

Fail.

Day Seven – Selective Reading of The Power of Now
The reading was easy. I got reading down to a fine art in like primary school. The content was fine. Obviously a little absurd (my mind is my enemy apparently and is using me) but some of it made sense. I get meditation as a concept. I really do think that being able to separate yourself from your thoughts is a good skill, it’s just not one that I want. Being neutral is not appealing to me. I want the highs and the lows. I want the passion. I want a Parisian architect husband who argues with me and occasionally breaks crockery. Meditation and my imaginary Parisian future husband are mutually exclusive.

Fail.

Day Eight – The Visualisation Board
Again a challenge I was very much up for. I bloody well love crafting. I particularly like crafting that involves cutting up celebrity magazines. I had big plans for my visualisation board. I planned to be be a modern day craft based Dr. Frankenstein. First I would craft my ideal me using the best bits of my favourite female famouses. Then I’d apply the same technique to crafting the ideal man. Finally I’d raid Elle decoration magazines and vogue travel guides to create the idyllic equatorial home of dreams for Mr and Mrs perfect to inhabit. But then I came across a Kooples catalogue. I realised immediately that I needn’t bother with any of the above as all I needed to do was email Kath the link to Devendra Banhart and his girlfriend’s Kooples video. Anyone watching these two beautiful people in their studio making art and being beautiful who doesn’t want their life is beyond help. Really just watch it. You’d be jealous, if you weren’t so in love with them and everything about them.
Again, I think I may have missed the point.

Fail.

Also I watched four episodes of The Affair back to back instead of The 7 Year Switch but I’d imagine they are similar so that’s ok.

THE BERNARD CLEANSE
Well there is absolutely no point lying about this. I failed to cleanse in anyway whatsoever. I spoke to him daily. I didn’t try to do otherwise. I think I have a problem.  I may need to attend some form of group therapy.  Fuck it.

Fail.

See It To Be It.

Kerry has regressed to being a thirteen year old and now doesn’t like my cleanse actions because they’ve got a bit hard. She didn’t manage to hug five people, and when I told her she had to start a conversation with a random man that lasted more than 4 back and forths and couldn’t be work related she gave me a death stare that some of my year 11 students would be proud of. Even Lucy Watson from Made in Chelsea would have shuddered. My only conclusion is that she is the real life embodiment of Harry Enfild’s Kevin. She looks a bit like him too. (I also made her read some of Ekhart Tolle’s Power Of Now, which I think sent her over the edge) However, she did an excellent job of cleaning the house yesterday, so I’ll forgive her and be nice to her… for today.

Our flat has a rather nice tradition of buying Heat when they publish the top Hot 100 and then rearranging them so they’re in the right order. So in the spirit of being an Art teacher and knowing Kerry likes a  bit of craft, She needs to make a visualisation mood board of what she wants from her future self and man, and stick it down on a piece of craft paper using pritt stick. She also needs to watch the whole series of Seven Year Switch, which is a truly terrible programme about couples who get the husband/ wife they think they want, only to realise it’s a total bloody nightmare. It’s great viewing

Tough Times

Kerry seems to be enjoying this all a bit too much. I’m a teacher so I know if there’s too much fun going on there’s not enough learning… It’s time to up the anti, and this one is going to kill her. This is going to be tougher than when Steph died in Hollyoaks. Kerry is still a bit upset about that.

She’s been all introverted and self reflective, quite frankly it’s been a bit like living with a member of My Chemical Romance the last few days she’s been so smug and introspectively emo. But now’s we’re half way through she needs to go outwards. Now I know going in for emotional spewing may be a little too much so soon, so she needs to go physical… She needs to hug 5 people. Now I know these hugs will end up being as fake as Taylor and Tom Hiddlestons relationship, and for that reason I’m going for quantity not quality. She must hug each person for at least 5 seconds, and not then blurt out “It’s for the blog”.

Kerry, this is a toughy, but I really feel it is a necessary pain to break down the barriers and realign your focus… You may even like it?

What’s Love Gotta Do, Gotta Do With It?

by  Kathryn

If there’s one person who knows how to get over a guy by being a fierce lady, it’s Tina. Tina Turner is everything a woman should be in my eyes… The legs, the hair, the sparkly outfits… THE DANCE MOVES. Kerry and I once sacked off an actual real life party because we’d just bought Tina Turner live on dvd. We stayed in and paused and rewound until we had the dance move to Proud Mary down. I bring it out on special occasions still.

So tomorrow‘s activity requires Kez to do the age old cleanse of burning a bunch of sage and wafting away bad spirits by waggling it in the corner of the room, but to make it a bit more fun (for me), she has to do it whilst embodying Tina. She must sing like a demon and dance the dance of Proud Mary as she wafts. And to really feet the full effect, I think she should wear a kimono- as long as it’s fire proof.

S.W.E.A.T

I really feel we’re warming up with this cleanse. Next job in the expulsion half of the cleanse is to help cleanse the body. So tomorrow you’re going to need to sweat it all out with an Epsom salt bath. You’ve got to stay in the sweaty bath for at least 20 mins, ideally with some candles burning. It’s very important at this point to be SILENT. You need to REFLECT. If this was a film, this is the moment you realise you are Joseph’s Gordon Levitt in 500 days of summer and it’s not going to be ok. We all love JGL so that makes life a bit easier. (if you want to do angry drunk karaoke on your path to enlightenment, a la JGL in 500 days, that would be great) Once you have completed your 20 minute sweat, you feel pretty dizzy and dehydrated, so the second part of the task is to go and down a pint of water, and have a lie down for half an hour in a darkened room and listen to some whale music. You should feel so at one with the world by that point you’ll be emanating more zen than Russell Brand when he went through that phase of wearing all white kaftan robes and talking about yoga all the time*

*He clearly wasn’t that zen, so I’ve set the bar quite low.

OUT DAMN SPOT! OUT!

By Kathryn

Yesterday I did a self defense course where I learnt that the best way to fend off an attacker is to gouge their eyes out and then bite them. Now I’m not advocating that Kerry goes and physically mutilates Bernard, that would be a bit too much, even for me. What I do think was useful was the idea you have to scream to get the aggression out and really feel your inner warrior. I want Kerry to feel like she is Jet from Gladiators. A total bad ass warrior of the highest degree. How can she do this? I think one of the most useful references I have for this is the 90’s cult classic The Craft. What did I learn from The Craft? Other than spending far too many hours in school trying to get my pencil to stand on end by magic and being totally confused that the girls from empire records was in it, I learnt that you have to do spells and scream. So tomorrows activity requires Kerry to write a letter to Bernard telling him everything she can’t say to his face, ideally get something of his and then burn them both, whilst screaming to let out the inner repression.

Go forth Kez, Go forth.