The Neet's Got Talent

So, I have to ask...are there any other 20 somethings out there staying in tonight to watch the final of Britain's Got Talent while their 40 something mothers are out on hot dates??!

It seems to me that we must be the first generation whose parents go for all-out American personal ads style dating. The BF has a theory that the reason we are so sensible is that we are merely rebelling against the outrageousness of said parents. However, I should point out that the BF is an actual artist, living in an actual Parisian garret, with an actual Frenchman. She is hardly the most likely poster girl for sensible living. Yet somehow she pulls it off.

I've been wondering what else could have led to the death of 20 something decadence. I suspect it was university top-up fees. Or the grotesque modern term 'Neet' (not in employment, education or training), apparently used solely to foster a sense of worthlessness in today's young people. No job? You're a neet, niet, nowt.

One of my brothers has spent the last year running charity marathons, doing up our decrepit house and selling all our old crap on eBay. To me, he has become a brilliant fundraiser, skilled labourer and entrepreneur. To the government, he is a Neet, of no statistical value whatsoever. Similarly, the BF, when she quits her job and begins the process of conquering the art world with her brilliance, will be a Neet. Employability and accreditation seem to be more desirable attributes than creativity and individuality.

Just to cap off this rant, I recently saw 2 separate but equally disturbing scenes: the first was an 11 year old girl playing on a phone, pretending it was a Blackberry and she was a businesswoman. The second was a group of children pretending to drive a car. In their imaginations, were they robbing a bank, flying to Hogwarts or even just driving to the beach? No. They were practising parallel parking.

Goodbye, Hanson

I'm all for frugality and living within one's means, as you can tell.

However, I recently realised that I have not been to an actual real-life hairdresser (i.e. not myself) for over 2 years.

So today, in the pursuit of my lost decadence, I had an actual real-life haircut, and no longer look like the 4th member of Hanson (the one they would have secretly kept locked in the attic for having such bad hair).

Huzzah!

"I'm not really into cars"

Last night I temporarily abandoned my sensible self and went to a posh dinner dance, the first Saturday in months that I haven't stayed at home crying over the triumph-over-adversity stories on Britain's Got Talent. I drank too much wine, smoked too many cigarettes, had ridiculously huge hair and incredibly uncomfortable shoes. Bliss. The night was also a Gok Wan-esque victory for my £20 New Look dress.

I bumped into a friend I hadn't seen in ages. She was very excited when I told her I had a blog.
"That is so cutting edge! It will become famous and be featured in the Guardian and you can turn it into a book! What is it about?"
"It's about how boring my life is."
"OH."

Or how boring I thought my life was, before meeting Mr Y, who was sitting on the same table as me and the Husband. Talking to him I realised how someone who grows vegetables (me) could in fact be much more exciting than someone who can talk for half an hour about their Jaguar (Mr Y).
"But I'm not really into cars," he boomed, "I'm more into boats."
(He said this several times- I think he wanted us to ask him about his boats. We tactfully ignored him.)
"And what do you drive, young man?"
The Husband, smirking, replied, "A Ford Escort."

Am off to buy the Husband an amusingly shaped cactus to show my gratitude.

Romance=decadence?

I'm beginning to wonder, as I consider my sensible persona, whether romance and decadence are intrinsically linked.

The other night, I watched (for the zillionth time- damn you E4 and your stranglehold on our leisure time!) the episode of Friends where Monica and Chandler get engaged. The first time I saw this I cried; this time I was considering the awesome risk assessment that must have been undertaken in order to place all those candles around the world's most famous set.

My single mother's house is currently full of bouquets of seemingly antihistamine-resistant flowers. Apart from the odd centerpiece lovingly swiped from his place of work, I can't remember the last time the Husband brought home a bunch of flowers. I think this is for 2 reasons: a) he is skint, and b) he can predict my utterly sensible response to such a romantic deed- "Are they Fairtrade?", "Were any pesticides used?", "Kenya! Imagine the mileage!", "You know what the feminists would say about this. These flowers look just like vaginas!", or simply, "Where are the antihistamines??!". And so on...

Of course, this is all unbelievable hypocrisy coming from someone who not only (owing to a very sensible budget) bought her bridal bouquet online, but who would also secretly be delighted to receive a massive bunch of flowers.

Maybe I should make the first move. Feminists, help me. Where can I buy penis-shaped flowers?

Cafe Nero

"Do you want to read my blog?" I asked my sister the other day.

Her exact words: "I'd rather kill myself."

One of my brothers did, to my surprise, actually read it. "Is it funny?" I asked hopefully.

(Long pause) "It's ...witty. More like Jane Austen than Peter Kay."

Although to me this is a compliment, coming from a man who refused to read Pride and Prejudice despite his A-levels depending on it, but who can recite the 'garlic bread' routine word for word, it was less than encouraging.

In a bid to shed my sensible persona and begin reliving the now mythical 10 year gap year, I went to my local Cafe Nero today. "Small Americano?" the barista asked wearily, clearly relishing the prospect of receiving 2 quid in return for me sitting there for 2 hours, doing the puzzles in all the newspapers and stealing the occasional cup.*

Well, dear reader(s)- who I believe at the time of writing consist of a) my mum, and b) perhaps a few pervs who hope I will inadvertently give out my mum's number- I purchased...an iced tea!

Breaking the mould in style methinks- more outrageous escapades to come.

* Sadly more for pragmatic/compulsive reasons than deliberately decadent ones.

Monthly Payslip Doodle

I recently read an interview with the wonderful Simon Pegg, in which he said something about his generation being the first to be given an extra 10 years to mess about and figure out what to do with their lives. (I can't give the exact quote as I sensibly recycled the paper said interview was in.)

I always looked forward to this: at 16, I dreamt of being a high-powered, world-famous human rights lawyer, who wrote best-selling novels under a cleverly devised pen name. But before all this began, I would spend my twenties in an utterly decadent fashion, at kooky universities that my favourite celebrities had attended, travelling the world and getting wasted. Me and the BF coined the term '10 year gap year' to describe what would surely be the most outrageous time of our lives.

At this time, I regularly told my younger sister that I was "the epitome of intellect and cool". I'm not entirely sure why this perfectly reasonable statement has since become a family joke. What I do know is this: I'm 22, married, with a sensible job, a sensible overdraft and sensible shoes. I spent my Sunday (with no hangover) doing my laundry, checking my potato crop for slugs, and babysitting for my single mother's single friend so they could go off and discuss the ins and outs of 40-something sexual relations. The unthinkable has happened: my mother has got more of a life than I have.

So far, so depressing, you might think. But it's not. That's the problem. I love being married. I love my sensible job and my sensible overdraft, and especially my sensible shoes. That's why I have them. The question I ask myself then is this: am I terminally sensible? I was decadent til the age of 21 and I don't mind telling you that it was extremely tiring. Now the 10 year gap is a term me and BF use to describe the age difference between our partners and our mothers.

Will my epitaph read "the epitome of intellect and cool" or merely "the epitome of sensible shoe wearing"? Do I have to write angry articles for the Guardian when I could much more easily write angry letters to bank managers?

Have I lost my mojo? And, if so, where would I be able to get a new one?

And, more importantly, how many clubcard points could I get for it?