The Firemen

I was walking home from work earlier, or to be more precise, trying my best to walk without any embarrassing falls in the horrific snow, when a fire engine passed me. Now, fire engines tend to pass people in the street on a daily basis without any drama or bizarre consequences, and this incident was remarkably drama free for myself, however, I did lower my head, hide my face and feel a shiver run down my spine. Ok, it's not as strange as it sounds, I do not suffer from any weird fire-engine phobias (holophobia - yes I looked it up), I have never had any sordid affairs with a fireman which may result in me hanging my head in shame, I quite simply seemed to have made a fool of myself in front of them over and over again.

The first incident happened a couple of years ago. The place I work in is part of a large shopping centre. But my office is actually hidden kind of on a back street, and you have to leave the actual shopping centre to get there. Each individual unit is required to test the fire alarm of their premises once a week between 9am and 9:30am. On this particular morning my friend Greg had popped in to work to see me (and deliver me some McDonalds hash browns for breakfast). After discussing the events of the night before when we had gone out, got horrendously drunk, and caused general mayhem, I declared I was about to test the fire alarm. Rapidly, Greg scarpered, not one for shrill noises first thing in the morning. So, as usual, I tested the alarm. Now this was a nuisance in itself as it required me to purposefully set the alarm off for 30 seconds, so that the alarm signal would reach the control room who could verify that the alarm was in full working order. And high pitched shrieking sounds are not the best thing to hear first thing in the morning. Especially when one was suffering from a hellish hangover - which I usually was back then. So I was testing the alarm, problem free, and looking forward to the silence returning so I could sip my tea in peace and do some early morning Facebook stalking. However, all was not as it appeared. You see, I was correct in testing the damn alarm between 9 and 9:30am, but what I had failed to notice was that the alarm should ONLY be tested on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. And today was in fact Thursday.

After testing the alarm and returning to my desk where I had planned to enjoy a sneaky catnap.. .possibly under the desk, using filofaxes as pillows... my phone bleeped. A text message from Greg simply reading: "Was that you?!" Slightly bewildered, I text back, "Huh? Was what me?" Within seconds his response came: "The whole shopping centre has just been evacuated. The fire alarms in every shop went off and everyone had to leave. Seriously, the escalators and lifts stopped, all the shop shutters closed, and people are running about screaming, trying to find an exit." Hmm. Well this didn't sound great. And if there was a fire, I surely didn't know about it.

Suddenly, as if to answer my questions, a security guard from the shopping centre came racing into the shop panting and sweating, immediately followed by about four more. "Oh hey guys, what's going on?" I said casually, mildly alarmed at this strange display.

"What's going on here you mean? Where's the fire?" Oh. Suddenly it made sense.

"Well, there is no fire silly! I was just testing the fire alarm as I do every week," I explained calmly. The guards' faces slowly turned from scared and worried, to confused, and then to angry.

"You stupid girl! You can't test it on a Thursday! The shopping centre has been evacuated and three fire engines are now on there way here!" Well, this was slightly inconvenient.

"Oh.... oh God... erm.... so sorry guys... my mistake.....erm.... maybe you could ring them and tell them there services are no longer required?" I stuttered, feeling my face turn a beautiful shade of red.

One by one they left the shop, muttering things like "bloody idiot" and "silly little girl". After that, I couldn't enjoy the shopping centre for months, each time I entered, the security guys would radio each other, obviously saying terrible things about the girl who cried fire, and ganging together to stare at me. Now, I leave the fire alarm testing for someone else to do. It's just too risky!

The second unfortunate fire engine experience happened a few summers ago. My mum and I took the dogs on their daily walk at about 4pm. It was a lovely summer day, but as the evening grew nearer, a chill cast itself upon the air. 45 minutes later we arrived back at the house, opened the front gate, entered the garden, then stood staring at each other. "Erm mum, you might want to open the door now," I suggested. "Well I would, if I had any keys." Ah. Well I had no keys either. So... we were locked out.

"Damnit! We'd better go round the back and see if any windows have been left open," my mum decided. So off we went 'round the back' on a quest for open windows and ways to effectively break into our own house. We didn't have a key to the back gate either, so I had to climb up onto the seven foot fence, then throw myself over it landing in the bin. "Bugger!" I exclaimed, wiping empty yoghurt pots and mouldy bread from myself before opening the back gate to let my mum and the dogs in. Now, before we bought our house, it was once converted into flats, and so there is a fire escape ladder all the way up. And from our vantage point in the garden, we could see that none of the windows were open, but still it was decided that I should climb the ladder anyway just to double check. Luckily, I am not scared of heights, however, I do get vertigo. Quite bad vertigo. I only need to be on a first floor balcony to experience the overwhelming urge to throw myself off. If I stand on any sort of ledge, even if I am stood too close to the kerb, I usually roll off, or appear to kind of launch myself down. So climbing a ladder is not a great idea for me. But my mum was wearing a dress, so naturally I had to do it. After cautiously climbing whilst taking great care for several minutes, I had reached the third rung.

"Get a move on Ashleigh!" My impatient mother cried, just loud enough to throw me off balance, enough so that I fell straight off the ladder. Admittedly I was only a few feet from the ground, but still managed to land on my back and roll around shrieking for several moments, before realising, there was no sympathy here. My dog, Saphy, did try and mount me though. Lucky me. Before long we established that there was well and truly was no way into the house, and resigned ourselves to the fact that a locksmith was called for. To our dismay, the locksmith we managed to ring was going to take at least an hour to get there, and the price of the lock combined with the callout fee was just tipping £100. Great.

As we sat in the garden, silenced by the unpleasantness of the situation, the air cooled, and the hunger grew. It was getting towards 6pm and neither of us had eaten since lunchtime. Plus, whilst sitting in the cold, it quickly became apparent that one of our neighbours were cooking their dinner. Mmm yes that familiar smell of cooked chicken, such a nice homely smell. We were practically drooling, the dogs were definitely drooling, when suddenly.... "SHIT I left the chicken on!" Good job my mum had an excellent memory.

"What?! And you just remembered? What will happen!?" I squealed, images of the house burning down taking over my mind. As it happened, she had left the chicken boiling in a pan before we left to walk the dogs (not the best of ideas) and it was still bubbling away on the stove.

"Well, we could ring the fire services, and see if they think it an emergency enough to come out and help?" Mum suggested. Personally, I wasn't too sure of this idea. But if it meant we wouldn't have so it outside waiting for a locksmith and a huuuge bill to arrive, I was game.

So we rung 999. "Hello, this isn't an emergency... but it could be very soon. You see, I have locked myself out of the house, and unfortunately I forgot that I have left the gas hob on with a large pan of chicken boiling away. Now, I have called for a locksmith who will take over an hour to get here, and in that time, there is a strong chance that all the water will boil away and my kitchen will set on fire." She smiled at me calmly whilst telling the operator the story. And, much to our delight, they declared that it was deemed an emergency, and the fire rescue service were on there way. Excellent. So my mum went to go wait in the front garden, I remained in the back. After only what seemed like thirty seconds, I noticed the distant howl of a siren. It grew louder and louder, until it became apparent that there was more than one siren. Our street is just off a main road that is usually busy, especially at that time of around 6pm.

Moments later my phone rang, and I answered it to my mum's distressed voice. "Ashleigh! They've sent two fire engines, the whole road has been cordoned off and a fairly large crowd has gathered out here. Everyone's looking!" I chuckled, glad I was hidden in the safety of the back garden, able to escape embarrassment.

"Well what's going on out there now?" I asked.

"It looks like the firemen are climbing a ladder to break into the office window," my mum responded, seemingly suspiciously unattached from the situation.

"What! Where are you?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'm with the crowd that gathered of course, pretending it's not my house. I don't want to look stupid in front of all these neighbours." Of course, my mum, tactically had hidden herself in the crowd, neglecting any responsibility for the current drama.Well I wasn't going to go out there, I would remain safely in the back garden and wait. Until.... oh God... someone was in the house. Yes it was unmistakable, a dark figure had just passed by the window. I edged closer, pressing my face against the glass, waiting for the mysterious house invading suspect to reappear. Pressing myself closer still to the glass, I squinted to have a better look when...

"ARGHHHH!!! BURGLAR!" I screamed, turning and running in the opposite direction, desperate to evade the horrific intruder who had appeared right before me in the window. And in my most melodramatic style possible, I crashed straight into barbecue stand and falling flat on my face, temporarily dazing myself. Before I knew it, said intruder was standing over me chuckling.

"Now then love, was it you who left the chicken on?" Oh God, not only had he burgled my house, but had found and probably eaten my mum's chicken! This was bad. Before I could respond, several more men appeared over me, one of them shouting "Lads, come see this out here!" And another few followed, pulling me to my feet. Of course, they were all in uniform, they were in fact the firemen who had broken in to my house to open it up from the inside. Not some crazy uniformed gang of chicken-thieves, scavenging for a free meal together. By this time, my mum had re-emerged, looking chuffed that our house was brimming with firemen (albeit quite old ones), thanking them profusely for saving the day, and apologising for the 'scene' that I had caused. One by one they all left the house, bemused at the deranged mother and daughter combination, and probably off to recite the story to their mates in the pub. Needless to say, we fed the chicken to the dogs and got a take away for dinner that night, and the memory still haunts me.

Bad Romance

Everybody loves a good romantic fairy-tale ending. Without the lovey-dovey finale, when the boy gets the girl, they share a passionate kiss and all is put right with the world, life would be pretty depressing. Take Pretty Woman for example, imagine the horror an alternate ending whereby Richard Gere turned to the exquisite Julia Roberts and exclaimed "Sorry you're just a skanky hooker, I'll drop you off on the corner." Or in Bridget Jones if the delightful Colin Firth actually decided he wasn't interested in the huge-pants wearing eccentric that was our Renee. It just wouldn't make good viewing. And as for real life, the all time classic question for anyone in a relationship just has to be "How did you meet?" Now there is nothing like a sickeningly sweet tale of how two star-crossed lovers came to be. Those first long, lingering looks across the dance floor / office / classroom etc. And first dates are usually a good topic, although often filled with a collection of cringeworthy horror and awkward conversations.

Now I am currently in a long-term relationship with my boyfriend, Josh. And our story is unusually mellow. We were friends first, in Scarborough where we both live. Then I moved back to North Wales to complete my third year of uni, and he moved back to Birmingham for the same reason. Then we realised, actually, we quite missed each other, and quite would like to see each other a little more. And gradually our friendship blossomed into an amazing relationship. Of course, I usually omit the part about how seven years previously whilst we were both in secondary school we had a... well let's just say 'relationship'. Basically, Josh got his friend to ask me out, and I got my friend to tell his friend to tell him yes. Even though, admittedly I wasn't entirely sure who he was at this point. I was still very much 'the new girl', and only knew about five people so far. So lo and behold we were boyfriend and girlfriend. For about a week. During this brief affair, we went to the cinema twice - during one of the times Josh actually brought his best friend along, so the three of us sat on the back row watching some dreadful film they had chosen, before telling me they were going home to play 'Dungeons or Drgaons' or something equally un-girl friendly. Then, one day in the canteen at break time, Josh sent over a horrid chav-like girl to dump me for him - I think they might have even dated for a little while. And I was less than heartbroken, just upset because this meant I probably wouldn't be receiving a Christmas present from him. So that was fairly disastrous, and thank God it ended there, giving us several years to 'grow up' and appreciate each other more.

However, prior to our wonderful relationship, things didn't always run so smoothly. For the months, years even, leading up to us meeting, I had my fair share of horrifying bad romances. Many-a-date I had which was followed by me arriving home, falling to the sofa, only to recall my tales of terror to my ever-bemused housemates. I was a dating disaster.

I guess it all started in the first year of uni, not long after I had broken up with my first boyfriend, who I had dated devotedly for four years, from being just fifteen years old. By the time we broke up, I was nineteen, old-fashioned, and clueless about the dating world. So one night out, I met a relatively cute guy, and agreed to go on a date with him the following day. Of course, during our meet-cure, I was quite intoxicated, and so full of confidence and cool. Come the next morning, I was a shaking, sweating mess. I had no idea. No idea what to wear, what to say, what to act like. Should I wash my hair? Should I, true Josh-fashion, take a friend along just in case it was boring? Would we hold hands? What if in the harsh sobriety of day he was in fact a shrew boy? (Shrew boy being our name for boys who appeared good looking whilst your old alcohol levels were topped up, but then look decidedly rodent like in the cold light of day). I was scared. So when Sam rocked up to my halls the next morning looking drop dead gorgeous, I quivered with fear, and rolled myself under the bed for hibernation. This was all too much for me. Fortunately, my friends coaxed me out with promises of Chinese take-away if I managed to get through at least an hour of the date. I had resigned myself to failure already, but why not give it a go anyway?

Sadly, the first thing I managed to splutter out was "I've never been on a date before. Am I wearing the right shoes?" At that point, I wouldn't have been surprised at all if Sam turned on his heel and rapidly left in the opposite direction. Luckily, he found it cute. (Honestly, he did!) He too had just got out of a long-term relationship, and was quite new to the whole dating game. Obviously not as new and ridiculous as myself, but still!

So our date took us to the pier, classic first date territory. Things were running smoothly, we had chatted idly and got to know one another a little. Then we arrived at the ice-cream hut, and to my horror I realised I hadn't brought any money. Was I supposed to pay on the first date? Was he? Should I pretend to be on a diet to avoid any embarrassment? "Which ice-cream would you like?" Sam asked, not giving any clues away about who would be paying for what. Oh dear God what did I do? "I don't have any money!" I shouted, raising the attention to several passer byers who possibly thought I was being mugged. After what seemed like infinity, Sam chuckled and said he would be paying. Ok, so that wasn't so bad. Until.... The Incident. Returning from the ice cream hut, 99 cone in hand, I  spotted a vacant bench, and started toward it with haste. At the same time as another couple had. Damn them probably on their first date, looking smugly loved up and happy. There was no way they were getting this bench. So I set out with some pace, the bench being the goal, desperately trying to get there before they did. They were on target to win, until the last minute when I set out into a little sprint and practically dived onto the bench, knocking into the girl slightly so she nearly dropped her cone, and sprawled out across the bench feeling pleased for myself. Then I noticed the horror on Sam's face. Slowly, I turned to the couple, who appeared to have been slightly older than I originally believed. Yes, a lot older actually. In fact, I would say they were pensioners. I had managed to steal a seat from old people, one of whom now appeared to be leaning heavily on a walking stick. Sadly, they bowed their heads and headed off elsewhere. Needless to say, after my sinister old-people hating performance, Sam didn't ask for a second date. But compared to following dates throughout the next few years, that one was grade A romance.


I have dated boys with bad breath, boys who collected sea-monkeys, boys who had hands covered in scales, boys who wore more make up than me, and even boys who were so unsightly or unappealing that my friends gave me affectionate nicknames. A few spring to mind, like good old 'Nob Jockey Dave'. And 'The Bug'. Never did I date a guy nicknamed 'Mr Hottie' or 'Absolute Sex God' I am afraid.

Anyway, of all the terrible dates I experienced, one ultimate classic horror story springs to mind. Anyone who has read my first blog Day of the Dogs, will have developed some idea of how beastly and troublesome my dogs are. And on this particular date, they really excelled themselves.

The boy in question; Kyle. Handsome personal fitness trainer who actually asked me out, despite being witness to my dancing the night before whereby I resembled an epileptic octopus. Now, before I begin, I should point out that is was in fact his idea to go on a dog-walk date. With, of course, my beastly dogs. And of course, in his tiny little Micra. So from the beginning I should have known it would end badly.

He picked me up from my house around lunchtime, to go to the forest. The car being tiny, Rosie had to sit practically on my knee, and Saphy had free range of the back seat. Not the safest option for us or the dogs, but it would have to do. So we set off driving out of town, through the beautiful Yorkshire countryside, and towards the forest. We were getting on great, and I had noticed just how hot he actually was. And so very cool! Like, don't need to try cool. And me being the ultimate lame-o, I was desperate to make a good impression. It was about halfway there when Saphy, the black lab, started getting excited. And not long before she was literally running back and forth across the back seat and panting. This triggered off Rosie's excitement, who began to howl in a hauntingly hight pitched way. They had gone mad. I tried to quieten them down, and aside from somehow sedating them, there was nothing I could do. A short while later, I noticed Saphy had gone quiet in the back, but before I could turn to check what she was up to, she launched herself towards the front windscreen. Yes, she actually flew through the air like a truly insane canine, front legs extended forward Superman style, and crashed into the window, knocking the car out of gear with her back legs, and falling backwards landing on top of Kyle. This sudden unexpected chaos shocked us both, and , well, nearly killed us, as Kyle grappled with the steering wheel and contended with Saphy's flailing legs to stay in control of the car. Managing to pull over, I shoved Saphy off Kyle and into the footwell. I was just about to say something, who knows what, to try and apply coolness to the situation when.....it happened. I smelled something. Something bad. Frozen in fear and horror of what I was about to find, I held my breath. Kyle, who was still shaking off all the fur from his pristine jumper, slowly stopped and looked up at me. Finally, I dared to look. Turning to look to the back seat, I prayed it wouldn't be what I thought. Then I saw it. It was, without a doubt, the biggest, most soggy, steaming, hugest pile of fluorescent green dog poo I had ever seen. Right on the back seat.

"The dog has shit in my car hasn't it?" Kyle whispered, not daring to look for himself. Oh. My. God. What should I do? Right, into action. "It's ok, I have poo-bags!" I offered, herding the wicked beasts out of the car so I could assess the damage. It really did stink. Four poo bags later, it was still dripping from the seat, and really starting to seep into the upholstery. I knew I should have bought some more poo-bags before this outing.

"I hope you have some more of them, it's everywhere. My car stinks, I have to pick up a client in it tomorrow." Oh crap. "Actually.... no. I have run out, ha-ha! How funny! Oh well, deary me, surely you have some tissues lying around?" At this, Kyle looked unimpressed. After several minutes rummaging around the car, he came across a shirt in the boot "This'll have to do," he snarled, chucking me the rather nice expensive looking shirt. So I set about using his shirt to wipe up the remaining green liquid-poo, whilst Kyle tried desperately to cover up the scent by spraying deodorant and rubbing flowers on the dashboard. Without using my head, I began to put the shirt into a plastic bag, so Kyle (or more likely me) could take it home and wash it.

"ARGHHH!!!" I heard before I was rugby tackled to the floor. "Get rid of that!" He screamed, throwing the now defunct shirt as far from the car as possible.

"I was going to wash it...." I whimpered, rubbing my bruised elbow, and nursing my bruised ego. Expectedly, the rest of the date was filled with uncomfortable silence, as we both tried hard to pretend the smell wasn't there.

When I got home, I  curled up on the sofa, cursing the dogs, and vowing never to go on another date again. Naturally, my mother and friends found the whole event a classic comical story, which they had to tell everyone in the world.

Luckily for me, my boyfriend Josh is a dog lover, and finds their horrifying antics sweet.

So be warned, taking dogs on a first date should NEVER be done. It is a terrible idea, and can lead to near-death, extreme embarrassment, and pitiful looks from your friends. To this day, Rosie and Saphy live on, bringing me hell and harassment on a daily basis. But, I wouldn't change them for the world.

Facebook Kinda Life

 Anyone who works in an office, or a workplace resembling an office, or even just somewhere in which you have internet access, knows that the luring temptation of the internet cannot be easily resisted. During busy times at work, I engage with customers, do various tasks and chores, and quite frankly, work. But when it gets a little quieter, especially during the winter months, and particularly when the manager isn't in.... I become an internet recluse. I can quite easily waste hours of my life scouring endlessly through the internet.

The on-line world and I share a love-hate relationship. Especially when it comes to social networking. At the best of times, I can keep entertained by the mere presence of Facebook, and am the first to admit that Facebook stalking has become quite the hobby of mine, bordering on addiction. One must observe the lives of others! Especially others who I otherwise would have no connection with, or no real social interaction with, but Facey-B provides the chance to nosey at, well, whoever takes your fancy that day. And yet at other times, I find someone, usually someone I haven't spoken to/seen/knew of existence of in years.... and when I cave in to the irresistible temptation to 'just have a little peak' at their profile, I realise the profile is in fact private. A clear red stop sign to lurkers and unashamed stalkers like me. A message as bright as day: "You're not wanted here. Get a life." Dammit! Of course, I would likely be mortified if said stalk-worthy candidate of the day knew of my slightly deranged obsession with other peoples' lives.. theirs in particular.

It is a firm belief of mine that Facebook was provided to increase levels of procrastination in, well, everyone. At sixth form, Facebook was a welcome retreat from studying for my A-levels, and a mega-centre for everyone's teenage gossip. Then at university, Facebook deterred me and student friends alike from settling down to do that essay... that dissertation... that revision for that little thing known as a degree. Oh yes, hours I would dwindle away looking at endless photos, of endless people, at endless parties, weddings, and other events. Then there were the pregnancies. Not mine of course, but the vast majority of girls I had gone to school with. My and my friends would discuss (over Facebook chat, naturally) the ever-growing list of pregnancies, births, and teenage to young mums from back 'ome. It was like a betting game, who could accurately predict the next girl in line to become 'mum of the month', the title entailing uploaded scan photos, frequently changing relationship statuses, and an array of gossip-fuelled statuses usually declaring this months top baby names. (These can range from the normal Henry, Daniel and Claire, to the more 'exotic' Angel-Destiny, Kai-Xena-Merlin and Princess Cupcake). Now I am a graduate, and attempting (yes I still haven't managed it) to pay off my overdraft and reduce some of my student debt by working in the office of 'the family business', Facebook still lures me in with promises of scandal, stories and photos. All of which provide with me no more than a brief period of entertainment.

Understandably, it is time I grabbed this addiction before it takes full grip of me, and diminish it at once. Yes, work duties call. But, as you know, work is dull. Sooo I must provide myself with new exciting websites to become interested in and obsessive about. And luckily, I have found a few that are nearly just as good.


Of course, the phenomenon of Facebook is unlikely to simply 'go away' or become 'lame' as certain social networking sites have. So for now, me and good old FB remain good friends, stronger than ever, united in a passion for people.


So here are my 'other' top websites
5) www.styleshake.com
I discovered StyleShake quite by accident, and am SO glad I did. It is what every girl dreams of... you can design your own dress, including fabric, material, colour, and have them made specially to fit, for really reasonably prices! Upon initial discovery I spent around 5 hours dedicatedly producing hundreds of unique creations (none of which I have actually bought yet). This little gem always entertains me on a rainy day at work.


4) www.engrish.com
Engrish is a site dedicated to bringing you the most amusing incidents of bad English around. I espeically love the 'menus' section, who knew you could eat such intriguing meals....



3) www.bbc.co.uk/news
Ah the good old BBC news, a website I religiously check every single day. I love news, and hate being out of the loop. This probably stems from being at uni for three years, living in a complete student bubble. Current affairs from around the world must be monitored at all times... else bad things will happen.



2) www.asos.com
ASOS is filled with amazing bargains, and stunning outfits. A real treat for the eyes and the wardrobe. Some say it is overrated, others swear by it. All I know is... ASOS made me buy it. All of it.



1) www.failblog.org
What can I say, classic comedy. Some of the stuff on there is priceless. Love it!

Why Can't Atheists Go To Heaven.....?

Several months ago, I started working in a lovely little Italian restaurant near my house. It pays well, is two minutes away from home, and I really enjoy working there. I have made great friends with all the other staff... all but one that is.

The main chef, and restaurant owner, Antonio, appears to often be displeased with me. It took three months of me working there before he spoke to me, and he only did so to enquire about my religion. Or lack thereof as it happened. From the moment those words fell from my mouth ("I don't believe in God, I am an atheist") I knew Antonio had it in for me. Immediately he tried to challenge my non-religious beliefs with arguments such as "So you don't believe in Heaven?" (No, I believe when you die, that's it. Finito.) "Well who do you think puts dreams in your head at night?" (Dreams are images and thoughts that occur as a result of neural processes in your head whilst you sleep). And "So if I told you it was going to snow tomorrow, and it did, surely you would know God gave me this information?" (Or maybe you just watched the weather forecast).

Now I have never been one to criticise anybody for their beliefs, and I have a genuine interest in religion, and peoples' ideas on life, and I particularly enjoy engaging in a good, well thought out, educated debate about Creation Versus Evolution. However, I find it extremely difficult to be patient when someone's idea of a discussion about religion is to use the point "Because God did it" or "I just know" or "God told me".

In the last few months I have been accused of being on my way to Hell, being narrow-minded, being ignorant, and worst of all... being empty! Yes, Antonio once told me that because I am atheist, I am also empty and soul-less! In a conversation minutes later when I stated I was thinking of getting a pair of glasses to give my eyes a rest from contact lenses, Antonio let me know that "If ever I think my eyesight is going, or getting worse, I ask God to correct it, and he does." What logic is this? Surely if this were indeed a valid point, all religious people would have perfect eyesight, and us 'empty atheists' would be walking around bumping into everything, spending hundreds of pounds on eye-care.

As I said, I have nothing against anybody with any religious views, but I believe to so openly insult me and judge me, and try and enforce religion upon me is wrong. Surely the Christian thing to do would be to accept me. And not forgetting the Golden Rule; treat others how you wish to be treated. If I so frequently mocked Antonio's religion, slated him for it, and judged him, there would be an imminent uproar! Disrespecting somebody's religion has always been seen a a controversial and detrimental thing to do. And yet the same does not apply for disrespecting somebody's non-religious beliefs. I find this slightly unsettling, as and a family member pointed out, surely it is a form of bullying in the workplace?

The Pennies

So.... it is now October 2010, and has been around four months since I graduated from Bangor University with a degree in Psychology with Neuropsychology.
I left uni with the aim to save every last penny I earned in forthcoming jobs, in order to go travelling (rather than settle down with a career etc in the real world...) However, I appear to be FAILING epically at this seemingly straightforward task. Upon leaving uni, my overdraft was maxed out, and I had a bank balance of approximately -£1,250. Dammit. Now, several months on, my bank balance is a rather pathetic -£759. Oh dear. Where have I gone wrong! I have two jobs, two jobs! I work 9-4 Monday to Saturday at Scarborough Shopmobility, earning a decent wage, and 2-4 evenings a week in an Italian restaurant, receiving good money, and great tips! I SHOULD be earning around £1,100 a month! So where is all the cash?

I supposed, a few weeks after graduating, I jetted off for a week in Turkey, and spent a considerable amount of money on eating out every night, despite the holiday being a cheap late minute deal. And then there was Leeds Fest, which cost £200 for the ticket, and over £100 for food and drink and transport. And since then not 1, not 2, not even 3, but 4 of my friends decided to turn 21, and not just the kind of friends who are causal mates, or now-and-again friends, but BEST friends, and so I was obliged to splash out a bit. Then of course it was my 22nd birthday, which one would think I wouldn't need to spend so much on.... I was wrong. We went for a meal, which cost about £35 a person, and a night out, which many of my 'poor' still student-friends failed to buy me a birthday drink.. and I ended up buying everyone a take away at the end of the night, and paying for the taxi home. And in the mean time I did appear to develop a brief obsession with online shopping.....

Now I'm not one likely to develop serious addictions or compulsions, I like to think of myself as sensible and responsible. However, the Dorothy Perkins online sale was Amazing, yes indeed, with the capital A. And it got the better of me... as did Matalan, Accessorize and La Senza. But at least I wasn't splashing out on designer labels...

In addition to this, I am in the middle of a flat conversion, and am frequently required to open my purse up in order to buy a few simple amenities... such as a bloody fridge freezer, a cooker, a plasterer.... paint, utensils, microwave... and the list goes on.

And finally, this month will see my one year anniversary with my boyfriend, followed by his birthday. Now for my birthday, he spent £150 on me! At the time I was verrrry happy. Now, I am slightly concerned that I am required to spend the same on him, with it being an equal relationship and everything. So far, his gifts have set me back a good £80.

Oh and ANOTHER bloody expense.... my dentist bill the other day, for a check up (!!!) which included x-ray and polish, cost me £80... £80 for a check up!!! What is the world coming to?

So I think the moral of this story is I may NEVER get out of my overdraft... and as for my travelling plans, I was hoping to have a month in Europe, travel across Russia, and swan about in Asia for a while.... ending in Australia. Meaning I will need a good few grand... like £10,000 or something (better to have too much than too little). So, how do I get from minus seven hundred, to ten thousand? See how far I could get on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Sell things? I have nothing to sell.... sell my body?? I have scrupulous morals and a real hatred of poor hygiene (which I am sure a career in prostitution would see a lot of). Fake my own death and hope I have some sort of life insurance policy? Become a drug dealer?? Teach my cats to dance and busk in the street with them??? Hmm.... I may have to rethink these money-making strategies.