Floor seven, please


No, not the shoes Tom Cruise made famous. The big, metal machines that take people from one level of a building to another. The etiquette on these things is crazy. We have lifts at work; I can't get to and from my desk without navigating one. I mean, I could… but it would mean walking seven flights of stairs before 8am every morning. No thank you.

I feel like I've become a somewhat expert of lifts, and the dance we do when we need to use one. Let me enlighten you.

We scan our passes at the main entrance, and it's then about ten steps to the pair of lifts, of which 90% of staff use every single morning. You can imagine rush hour between 8-9am. It rivals the queue when bloody Tim Hortons opened in Glasgow and everyone acted like they'd never seen a coffee shop before.

You scan your pass, and are presented with one of two scenarios. One; you have to wait in line. Queues. Fucking, bloody queues. Once, I stood in an eight person queue, only to find out that nobody had pressed the button. That person got so many daggers in their back that day. Two; there's a lift door just closing as you are coming through the gate. You have made eye contact with the person in the lift. You've seen them. They have seen how close you are. Do you wave them on? Silently mouth 'no it's ok'? Or do you start the jog? The half jog, half walk we do whilst the person in the lift panics to hit the 'doors open' button, but instead they hit the 'doors close' button, and you are stood looking like a proper fudd, way too close to the now closed door? Personally, I never jog. I will wait the three minutes for the next one.

So, you're in the lift. Usually, at my time in the morning, there's only a couple of us. I hit floor seven; floor three is a popular one. Lazy buggers. But sometimes, it's a very full lift. Too many people. Too many bags. Just too many. And you hit every. Single. Floor. By the time I get to five, I'm so sweaty and grumpy that I go 'fuck it, let me out, I'm walking'. Two floors ain't that bad.

Sometimes people try and chat. The most common one is when you try and press the 'door open' button for someone but they don't make it. You joke together about hitting the wrong button, looking like a dick as you know the person running for the lift won't be getting on, and it's all your fault. You also joke about sometimes getting out on the wrong floor because you haven't paid attention. We sometimes talk about the weather, specifically if it's very sunny or very wet. "Busy week ahead?" is popular. And then some poor ass will be listening to their music too loudly and we will all stand and judge them. Oh, we judge them hard.

Then we get out of the lift. I have one main point of contention here. Men always let me go first. And I always say no. Out of my feminist fucking right to not be treated like a delicate flower. Sometimes the doors start to close because I'm resisting so much. Another point? People who say thanks when they exit the lift. It's alright mate, it's not like I have an actual job to go to, I'm just here to make sure you get to your floor safely. Happy to be of service.

Don't even get me started on the snooty lady who gets on the 5pm ride down and then overly sighs when we stop at every floor on the way down; we all want outta here lady.

Do you know what I love about lifts though? Absolutely fuck all. Let's install escalators please.

Floor seven, please

Are we there yet?

I've been busy. Affa busy.

I've been adulting. How fucking annoying is that word? Adulting? It's fitting though. It shouldn't be, but it is. We shouldn't feel like we're still muddling through the world, a wary child, only acting like an adult a handful of times. Ironed a pair of pants? Adulting. Putting a bag of salad in a resealable food bag so it doesn't go off? Adulting. Saving money? Adulting. Purchasing mattress protectors? Adulting.

I've been adulting. I'm moving in with Mr K. All I can think of is Monica in friends, crying in to Rachel's arms crying, "and I have to live with the boy". Can you picture it? Can you hear her crying? I'm not crying about it, I'm bloody fucking excited. I've lived with boys for the last two years, two very lovely friends whom I have not know my new town without. Many say, oh but you've lived with boys already so it's not going to be that different. I think it will be. This particular boy will be in my bed… all the time… in my bed… using my stuff… using my expensive face wash… But do you know what? That is exactly what I'm excited about. Being responsible for someone other than myself.

So yes, I've been adulting. I've packed a scary amount of brown cardboard boxes, with labels handwritten in my unreadable scrawl, "bedroom", "spare room", "bathroom". I'm used to writing my name, because my boxes generally just went into one or two rooms that were mine. Not now; now everything is shared.

We have a "flat account". How grown up is that? We have contents insurance. Very adult. We bought a fancy new cutlery organiser after spending a good twenty minutes in Debenhams deliberating what to spend our £25 gift voucher on. Rolling pin vs. cutlery organiser. The latter was needed more urgently. (How urgently can you need a cutlery organiser?)

My current flat seems so bare. All the tat is gone from the walls, the mantle piece, all my girly arty farty decorations are down. It just looks like a space, not a home. And now, and the aforementioned crap is littering my our new home. Mr K loves it. I can tell. There's a wooden love heart hanging from four out of five door handles in the hall… I'm placing bets as to when he will get annoyed at them banging every time you open a door and remove them, hoping I won't notice. There's fairly lights, everywhere. Candles, everywhere. It's a bit girly. I'm going with the 'I'll put in everything I want and see what he removes' tactic… I'll let you know how much I end up with.

I also phoned the bank and requested a new debit card without contactless. I can't keep track of my money, there's nothing new. But I felt so adult. Taking action against my frivolous spending habit, and hoping the hassle of entering my PIN number every time will prevent me from 'popping' in for something.

What adulting thing have you done this month so far?

Are we there yet?

My tits and I

I think I’m going to take up karate. Or kick boxing. Or just boxing.

Listening to a podcast on my way home today got me thinking. What if I was ever in a position of compromise, and needed to defend myself? I don’t have any special skills, unless wiggling my nostrils counts?

My nunga nungas would only hinder my efforts, ultimately disproving the ‘you could knock someone out with those’ theory. Trust me, that would hurt me more than it would them.

Maybe I need to give you a bit of context. I have big jugs. Last time I got measured, they were a GG. Yes, two Gs. But they’re not nice, perky, porn star boobs. They’re sling ’em in your waistband, breast feeding without the baby, more stretch marks than a tubigrip, boobs. They get in my way, all day, every day. Do I hate them? Nah. Mr K certainly doesn’t seem to mind them either. They do cause me a problem though. Read further for the detailed insight.

I could run away. I can run; I’m a runner. I could gather myself, put my sprinting head on, and run. But boobs. I could not run without a sports bra. They’re like tennis balls in socks, and the top of the socks are attached to my body, and they bounce, and they swing, and they thud. They hurt when they are not warned about fast movement. I sometimes contemplate wearing a sports bra during sex… seriously, it’s crossed my mind.

Bralets? Those intricate, pretty, sexy, non-wired, non-supportive, sexy, pretty, lacey things? The ones you can see the models nipples through? The ones that Agent Provocateur sell? Yes, those super hot things. They might just cover my nipple and no more. No under wire = no, no, no go.

Picture this. It’s Wedding/Engagement/Ball/Party/Special Occasion season. You are looking for a new outfit. You go to ANY shop. There’s a pretty sleeveless dress. There’s a pretty off the shoulder dress. There’s a very edgy silk jumpsuit with spaghetti straps. Can you wear a bra with any of these items? Nope. So, can I wear them? Nope. Unless I tuck my tits into my granny pants and hope nobody asks where my extra muffin top came from… Don’t even get me started on sexy pyjamas. Lucky Mr K is regularly treated to lumpy leggings and an old band t-shirt. Hey baby, come get me 😉

They attract unwanted attention. ALL THE FUCKING TIME. On the tube, on the street, in the gym, when I run, when I go to the dentist and don’t wear a polo neck, when I have to tie my shoelaces; the list is endless.

My last moan. They make me hypocritical. They make me forgot all my feminist, strong, body positive views. I have said professed all of these in the past; don’t change your body permanently, don’t have plastic surgery, don’t conform, don’t hate yourself, don’t be jealous of other girls, be happy, be brave, be confident in your skin, be proud of what you have. But me? PLEASE GIVE ME TEN THOUSAND POUNDS SO I CAN CHOP THEM OFF NOW.

Let me know if you have the dolla and I’ll send you my bank details. Cheers chum.

How do you feel about your breasticles?

Your redhead.

My tits and I