How To Be Tolerated

It’s Tuesday, it’s 11am, and you’re at your desk. That bender who sits opposite you is powering through her workload like a Chinese hamster, and you still haven’t managed to ‘fire off’ that email you’ve had the intention of firing since nine thirty. Your finger has been on the trigger, but you know, are you more of a ‘best regards’ or a ‘yours sincerely’ kind of person? The truth of the matter is, you don’t really care.

You don’t care, because in six months – a year, tops – you’re going to blow this proverbial popsicle stand. Because your band, blog, stand-up routine or Harry Potter slash fiction website is about to go global, and when it does, your colleagues are going to rue the day they ever asked you to file an invoice. That extra tab you have perpetually open on your work browser is your ticket out of here.

As someone who continuously has to ask themselves "Do my endeavours make everyone wish I was dead?" and "Am I an actual dickhead?", the issue of being a smug 'creative' type lies very close to home with me. It's basically my dream to be recognised for my *cough* artistic struggle, and while that has yet to happen, I feel like I have a good idea about how that's supposed to go. The following is a list of pointers on how to make a legitimate claim to creativity, without everyone hating you and the metaphorical horse you rode in on.

DO: Self Advertise

If Facebook, Twitter  and whatever the most relevant social network is by the time this hits press has taught us anything, it’s that if you’re not self-advertising, you might as well not exist. If your project has a name, then it needs a Twitter account. If it has a fan, then it needs a Facebook fan page.  Not only does this let everyone know that you’re there, churning out brilliance, hour after hour and year, but it also lets you form connections with those you would otherwise consider your rivals. Although many mistake Twitter as an outlet exclusively for logging the quality and consistency of your stools, it actually gives you unique access to the world’s most prominent creative geniuses. And their stools.

DON’T: Spam Your Friends

At the same time, there is no need to be a dick about this. Oh wow, you’ve made a new blog post? Yeah, you mentioned. An HOUR ago.  Your band has a gig this Saturday? I think somewhere between the e-vite and the Facebook group you involuntary registered me in, I heard.

Do not be the reason somebody receives a Linked-In Reminder. Try not to use the word ‘reminder’ at all. Don’t update just to tell everybody you thought of a really cool t-shirt design today. Try to post tangible, informative updates. Don’t be a dick.

DO: Attend Open Mic Nights

Open Mic Nights, while famously wanky in nature, are the perfect place to foster a fan base for yourself, not to mention a perfect platform to try out new material. Every open mic night also has at least one semi-successful artist that shows up for an ego boost, and it is your job to pick this person for contacts. It won’t be hard to figure out who this is. He or she will have a disproportionate head-to-face hair ratio.

DON’T: Leave Once You’re Finished

Seriously dude? Come on. This is not why you came here. You are not going to get five minutes at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival by doing the same routine every week and then pissing off. You will get those five minutes by getting pissed with a guy-who-knows-a-guy, who then introduces you to that guy.

DO: Expand Your Operation

You’re one talented son-of-a-bitch, so it stands to reason that you’ve got a few friends that are equally as talented. This is where you need to start calling in favours. Your flatmate does web design, and his girlfriend has a decent camera. No matter what you’re pursuing, both of these people are invaluable to you. Think of everyone you know with well-worded status updates. Would they like to write for your website? Of course they would! They’re flattered you even asked.

DON’T: Make Empty Promises

If you can’t pay someone now, don’t imply you ever will be able to. Buy them a drink, grab them around the shoulders, and say “Hey kiddo,  wanna see your name up in internet lights?” To this, they will say “Why mister, I don’t know.” To this, you will respond: “You and me kid! You and me will take on the world!” If it feels appropriate, break into a song and dance number. If it doesn’t, then don’t.

 

Either way, let your friend know that you are willing to give them all the credit for the work they put in. Make them as excited about your project as you are. But make it clear from the beginning: you may never have the money to physically pay them back.

DO: Be Self-Deprecating

You’re not the first person to write a short story about a thinly veiled ex-girlfriend masquerading as a heinous sea creature, and you won’t be the last. Why not laugh about it? That shit is funny. If you think something you’re doing is even remotely cliché, either change it, or acknowledge it. Cliché’s exist because they serve a function, and just because you’re using one doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it.

DON’T: Undermine Your Work

“I wrote this in like, ten minutes. And I had a cold. And a fidgety arse. It’s a bit shit.” Yeah, now I really want to hear you talk about it.

DO: Take Advice

The person who sold their internet start-up within a year of creating it is worth listening to. The person who earns their entire income from their t-shirt business is worth listening to. Even if they’re product is CLEARLY inferior to yours, they have done something you are not doing, and they need to be listened to.

DON’T: Take it Too Seriously

Like absolutely everything (unless you’re feeling particularly religious) success is just a well-timed accident. The people who have it can’t guarantee it, and the people who deserve it may never see a shred of it. So relax, work hard, and most importantly: don’t be a dick about it.

A Brief History of My Friend-Making Skills

Every now and then, to shield myself from the lonely nights and my own crippling ego, I like to pretend that Work in Prowess is a much bigger deal than it actually is.

The thing that is extremely helpful in this endeavor is the nice comments, emails, facebook messages and tweets I sometimes get from the people I loosely refer to (mostly in my own head, and seldom out loud) as my 'fans'. In this context, the term 'fan' means 'people who click a link when I ask them to'.

I don't respond to most of the feedback I get from people, but only because it feels awkward to. In case you've never attempted to, it's extremely difficult to respond to a compliment in writing without sounding like an utter douchebag.

Dear Reader,


Hey Reader!


Hey,


Thank you so much for your feedback on Work in Prowess. It's very rewarding for me to see that other people are enjoying my work. 


What the hell is that? It reads like a bank statement, or a reminder about an impending enema.  

Hey,


Awesome, thank you! That's so nice of you to say! I hope my blog encourages you to start your own!


And I hope this doesn't sound like I'm a child molester trying to groom you. 


What I'm trying to get across here is: it's difficult. There's nothing in the world I enjoy more than nice feedback, but unfortunately I get incredibly sheepish when it comes to replying to it. That's why my favorite kind of feedback - and this might happen once or twice every couple of months - always looks a bit like this.

Hey, Work in Prowess Lady!


Your blog is funny. We should hang out.


Yes! We should hang out! We should always hang out. I love hanging out, and I am always in the market for new friends who are willing to give me compliments. Here are some things I can offer you as a friend.

Unconditional affection. Company on long car rides. Licks on the face.

I will keep you company while you do your thing. I will sit on your couch and make passing commentary on how well you're doing on your video game. I will be hungry when you are hungry. Not hours before, or minutes after.

Here are some things you need to offer me as a friend, in return: All of my needs.

And when I say all of my needs, I really mean all of them. As my friend, you will be responsible for feeding me, driving me to my appointments, and constantly reassuring me that I'm an OK human.

This won't even be the first time this has happened.

Friend: Some old lady that lived on my street.

Time of Friendship: Ages 4-7

Need fulfilled: Shoelaces, occasional snacks

There are some things that, as a kid, took me longer to figure out than others. One of these things was my shoelaces.  I don't know what about them I found so puzzling, but I sense that it was because I lacked the dexterity to handle what is essentially two pieces of string, and the wherewithal to bend down. Was I going to let that stop me from having lone, sad little adventures around my estate? Of course not.

This was where the old lady came in. I would roam the streets like a rabid terrier, notice my shoes were untied and ring this lady's doorbell. She would answer, I would wordlessly stick my shoe through the door. She would tie my shoe, and I would invite myself in for a biscuit and some juice.

I don't know how the old lady felt about my visits, but I like to think that she enjoyed the company.

And now she follows me on Twitter!

Friend: Every person within a four mile radius of our trailer park

Time of Friendship: Ages 6-9

Need fulfilled: Cereal

I grew up in the nineties, when holidays abroad were no longer a luxury, but a given. Eeee-very-mutha-fucka got to go to Spain or France on their holidays. Not us, though. The O'Donoghue version of a holiday was six people in a three bedroom mobile home for three weeks. In Kerry. For my English readers, Kerry is kind of like the Irish version of Cornwall. In that, three days a year, you get this:

The rest of the time, however, you get this:

With age, I have learned to appreciate the beauty of Kerry. But back then, I hated it more than I can possibly hope to convey. The rain kept us inside most of the time, where we brewed a feverish hatred for one another. I dealt with this by wandering into the mobile homes of others, and asking them if they had any children who were about my age. When they said no, I just hung around anyway, and asked if they had any good cereal. A couple of hours later, there would be a knock on the door, and inevitably my mum or dad would be there, apologizing for  me. By now, I would be sitting cross-legged on a strangers floor, eating cereal and watching cartoons.

Friend: Every housemate I've ever had

Time of Friendship: Ages 19-21

Needs Fulfilled: Food, clothing, company.

By now, it has become quite obvious that my life so far is nothing more than me hanging around different peoples houses, patiently awaiting their charity. However, I have also managed to do this in my own home.

I was nineteen when I moved out for the first time, and it was a beautiful time. I was the poorest I've ever been, but that doesn't matter in Cork the same way it matters in London. You can walk everywhere, you could get a bottle of wine for four quid, and you can basically spend your every waking moment drifting from one pleather student sofa to the next. I made some terrible mistakes in that year, and I wouldn't take back a single one of them.

I'd like to say that I 'grew up' in that year, but that would be a lie. I didn't learn to cook. I didn't learn to 'clean' in the real sense, I just learned how to make things look absent of dirt. However, I did learn to utilize the pity of others for my own material gain. I would gaze at Billy as he tried to eat his dinner, until eventually he shoved the plate on to my lap. I would wander into Ryan's room, try on his jumpers and balefully declare that he had 'all the nice things' until his nice things were my nice things. By the end of our year together, I was waking up Billy in the middle of the night because I was bored and wanted to watch puppy movies.

By the time I moved to London, I had utilized the pity of others so much that I managed to stay 'temporarily' in my friend Danny O'Dwyers house for SIX MONTHS.

Friend: Chris Thomas 

Time of Friendship: Ages 21-22

Needs Fulfilled: Misc

I think it's important to note that as I've been writing this, Chris has brought me a pain au chocolat, a cup of tea, and a packet of crisps.

Salad Bar

Near my office, there is a very large Sainsbury's. And in this very large Sainsbury's, there is an incredibly well-stocked salad bar.

I don't know if this is the only salad bar in the area, but the mystique around this particular salad bar implies that it is the only one of its kind, ever. Truly, it is the one salad bar to rule us all. Around 11.30 every morning, people from the neighbouring offices start whispering about the Sainsbury's salad bar. They shiftily begin putting on their blazers and remind one another that "We better get there early, if we're going to beat the queue."

They divide into packs of three and four. But wait, Pete is still on a call. Pete wanted us to wait, because he wanted to go to salad bar, too. Pete has been talking about the salad bar's Coronation Chicken all morning.

But wait, the pack responds. Pete knew what he was getting into, when he took that call.

It was Pete's decision to make that call.

Pete can just go to the salad bar later. Fuck Pete.

And so, like a wounded soldier, Pete is left behind. The pack carries on. At this point, with all the procrastinating about whether the pack will wait for Pete or not, it is now 11.55. The salad bar is in full swing. There is a queue looping around Sainsbury's. One member of the pack wonders aloud if the salad bar is worth waiting for. And couldn't we just go to Subway?

Her lack of faith in salad bar is snarled at by the alpha members of the salad pack. She breaks off. The pack is now down to two.

There is now a queue of sixty people waiting for the salad bar,  standing with plastic bowls, ready to scoop Moroccan cous cous, stuffed red peppers and goats cheese into them. There is no talking in the salad bar queue. There is only hunters, ready to pounce. Irritated, they tap lethargically on their iPhones, absurdly well dressed and bored. Then their time comes, and they move through the ladles of salad swiftly, balancing different flavours together in accordance with the diagrams they have been drawing all morning. They pay their £2.99, and they bring their bowl back to their office, where they will eat it at their desks.

I have observed this trend for several weeks now, and have always found it to be particularly bizarre. I couldn't figure out if people were militantly planning their day around cherry tomatoes and croutons because they enjoyed the structure of the routine or because the croutons were really that good. So on Friday, I decided that I had been working in the area long enough to finally succumb to the charms of the salad bar.

I stood in line. I tapped on my iPhone. I adjusted my blazer, now clammy from standing too near the sausage roll heating tray. I slammed different kinds of salad into my plastic bowl, with an amateurish lack of skill on how well the tastes went together. People behind me sighed at my indecision. I paid, went back to my office, and ate my salad bowl at my desk.

It was absolutely delicious, and completely worth it.

Drawing: Natalie Dee

So You've Decided To Become More Handsome

There are many wonderful things about being a man. I know this for a fact, as I know at least TEN MEN and every single one of them rates the experience highly. When you're a man, your life is filled with amazing experiences such as peeing standing up, and getting paid more money than a woman for doing the same job. Awesome! The one downside of being a man, however, is that unlike being a woman, you're basically stuck with what you've got. Are your eyes so small they look like two pissholes in snow? Well, that's too bad, because you're just going to have to learn to live with that.

You could try mascara and eyeliner, but this runs the risk of making you look like either a very masculine woman, or a very confused man. Call me old fashioned, but there's really no avoiding of this.

Unless you're Bill as The Bionic Woman, obviously. 

NEVER FEAR, MEN!

Because there are steps you can take to becoming more handsome, and it is up to ME, a humble WOMAN to show you how.

SO YOU'VE DECIDED TO ACHIEVE MORE BODY MASS

First of all, you need to buy a large plastic drum of protein with a picture of an arm on it.

Realise that your large plastic drum of protein does not have any spacial correlation to your home. Keep the large plastic drum of protein somewhere totally fucking dumb, like a doorway.

Mix the protein with water or milk.

Spit it out when you realise that the drum's promises of tasting like chocolate have been utterly misrepresented, and in actual fact, it tastes like the colour brown.

Next, take up an EXTREME SPORT that almost certainly did not exist in this country ten years ago.

Your choices consist of ULTIMATE FRISBEE or some kind of bullshit Mixed Martial Arts your local gym is currently flogging.

Tell everyone about your new mixed martial art!

Practice high kicks at the office!

Take a flask of protein to work with you.

Leave it to sit on your desk. Take a swig from it every three hours, wince accordingly.

SO YOU'VE DECIDED TO BE INCREDIBLY CHARMING

OK, so realistically this post has been flawed from the outset, considering there is literally nothing a man can do to make himself facially more handsome. HOWEVER, on the plus side, if your main goal is to woo women, you can do this by being funny or charming. Generations of disappointment have taught women to lower their expectations from men, so this can be achieved easily.

Watch old movies for tips on how to be incredibly charming. Take notes on the behaviour of Humphrey Bogart.

Notice that Humphrey Bogart treats women like shit. Wonder also if you can get away with slapping women in the face.

You cannot get away with slapping women in the face.

Stop watching Humphrey Bogart movies.

Take notes on the behaviour of Steve McQueen and Paul Newman.

Realise you don't own a motorcycle, or have had your face featured on a brand of salad dressing. Also, realise you hate old movies.

Take up smoking.

Because smoking is sexy, and it gives strangers something to talk about. Unfortunately, you realise that smoking is a lot like playing the violin, in that unless you take it up at a frighteningly young age, you'll never really be good at it. Keep a raggedy box of Silk Cut in your back pocket on nights out. Clammily produce it whenever women are around. Drop cigarette constantly, fumble with lighter.

Pick up the tab for women you barely know.

Feel weird about it constantly. Wonder aloud if this is nothing more then a long-term payment plan for an unreliable escort service.

Remember your old movies! Tell a woman she looks like an old-timey celebrity.

Women love old movies, because it makes them feel intelligent. Memorize a well known old-timey celebrity for each dominant hair colour. Make sure to keep it generic! Women love it when you're generic.

Blonde: Marilyn Monroe

Brown: Audrey Hepburn

Literally everything else: Lauren Bacall

Success!
Now you get to have Sex Forever.

If none of this is working, or you've made the rookie mistake of over-learning old movie star factoids and now the object of your affections thinks you're gay: never fear! You can always throw money at the situation until it fixes itself, or as it's popularly known, go clothes shopping.

Yes, clothes shopping! It's that thing that used to be for women but now it's for men, too!

First off:

GET RID OF ALL YOUR ASSHOLE CLOTHES

INCLUDING, BUT NOT EXCLUSIVE TO:

T-shirts professing your love of drinking and your hatred of women.

Everything that celebrates what a lazy butthole you are

Everything that implies your involvement with an imaginary sports team. Especially if it's an imaginary Letterman's Jacket.

FINALLY, BUY A CRAPLOAD OF BLACK JUMPERS. 

SERIOUSLY.

JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE HAS TONS.

SO

MANY

BLACK

JUMPERS

Old People Rock Harder Than You Ever Will

Let me be the first to throw up my hands and say, today was not the best day to know me. Today has been a day where I stopped being myself, Caroline O'Donoghue, the prized swine we've all come to know and accept, and transformed into a bitchy, whiny little piglet.

I woke up at six this morning, unable to swallow or talk without stabby-knife throat pain. Feeling immensely sorry for myself, I called in sick and then spent the rest of the day whining. I whined on Twitter, I whined on Facebook. I whined in text messages to my mother, my boyfriend, my sister and my friend. I whined when no GP would  see me because I had never bothered to register with a doctor, I whined when I was forced to go to a over-crowded, under-staffed NHS drop-in centre. I whined because I had to wait for two hours, I whined because the doctor refused to give me any decent prescription medication, and I whined because it rained the whole time I tried to get home afterwards.

You get the picture. Anyway, I get on the bus and sit next to a man who is anywhere between a well-preserved 80 or a hard-living 65. He's wearing a hat and an overcoat, and when he starts talking to me, the first thing I tell him is how cool I think his hat is. I'm telling the truth. It's one of those soft trilby numbers. Old men get away with hats in a way men under sixty could never hope to achieve. Hats are a serious item of clothing, and when a man who hasn't earned the right to be serious wears one, he looks like an utter bender.

This man wears his hat in a way that implies he knows when to take it off as the situation requires: like when a lady walks into a room, or when someone is playing bagpipes. We start to talk. Like all old English people, he is amused by the idea of my Irishness. "I know a Cork girl when I hear one!" he says, but what he's really saying is "We used to own you, you know! Troublesome lot, you!" I don't take this personally.

If you've read this blog for a while, or indeed, have spent any amount of time with me as a person, you'll know that I am a great believer in arbitrary, ferocious hatred. On this blog alone, I have professed  inexplicable hatred for babies, space, fashion designers, high-street retailers, Mad Men, hobbies and James Franco.

If you were to assume that old people fell underneath my umbrella of unbridled hatred, I wouldn't hold it against you. On the contrary though, I think old people are the bomb. Old people get to do whatever they want. Why? Because they've earned it. For example, my Grandad is in his nineties. He still drives, and lives by himself. His favourite thing to do is be surrounded by women, and to make somewhat insensitive comments about the weight of strangers. This is fine. Actually, it's better then fine, it's completely awesome. The advantage old people have over the rest of us is that they can get away with being totally reprehensible, and everyone loves them for it.

If you stride into a room full of your closest loved ones and tell them your sick of their bullshit, the likely result of this action is that your loved ones will ex-communicate you. This could last between two weeks and three years. If an old dude does the same thing, he's just being a character. A regular old sparkplug.

Anyway, back to the anecdote at hand. I'm sitting on the bus, talking to my new pal, Some Old Dude.

"Do you like Peckham?" he asks

For my readers who do not live in South London, know this: nobody likes Peckham. There are nice bits, sure, but it's the kind of place that Londoners italicise when they're talking about it. Example: Peckham? What are you going to Peckham for?

"It's ok." I say, polite, and neutral as Switzerland during the last ten minutes of The Sound of Music.

"I've lived here my whole life." he says proudly "Well, except for during the war years."

The war years. This is what's so great about English old people. Because Ireland never officially fought in a war (aside from The War of Independence, of course, which I think is recognised by the rest of the world as a strop on our part) all they have to talk about is some grizzly tales about being dicked around by the Brits.

Ask an Irish elderly person about their younger days, and you will almost certainly receive an anecdote that looks like this:

AND THIS:

BUT MOST OF ALL THIS:

As an English old person about their life story, and you'll get something that looks a bit more like this:

OR THIS!

Every old English person I talk to seems keen to tell me about the jolly time they had fighting Nazis in Snoopy's plane, and this dude is no exception. Then, suddenly.

"I spent three years in a Japanese Prisoner of War camp!"

A pause.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"After the war. Three years. I worked on the railroad. In Burma? You know the railroad? You heard of that?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"That was us. We helped build that."

Another long, terrible pause. At this point in the conversation, i notice that my stop is getting incredibly close, and if I want to get off, I'm going to have to stand up right now. I can't though, because that would mean asking a man who, at one point in his life, spent three years in a Japanese POW camp, to stop talking about it. In that moment, it seemed like the rudest thing I could possibly do.

"And.. how.. was.. that.. for you?"

My old friend shrugs. "Fine."

I can't believe this. I mean, obviously, I know these things happened. I know that people suffer through awful things during war, and I know that a lot of them live to tell the tale. But what I cannot get my head around is the idea that this nice old man riding the bus with me and the man who spent a chunk of his life being forced to build a railroad are the same person. And here he is, talking about it, like it ain't no thing. He is saying the words "I spent three years in a Japanese Prisoner of War Camp." like people of my generation say "I died my hair red once."

To give you a visual, I look kind of like this:

And he kind of looks like this:

My stop has come and gone. I stay on the bus for ten more minutes, while we eat chocolate raisins and talk about the railroad. When I do finally get up, he kisses my hand in that exaggerated way people do when they know they won't ever see you again. I do not complain about being sick for at least another five hours.

Sexual Harassment and You!

Here is a short true story.

On Thursday morning, I woke up at 6.45. I showered, I got dressed. I left the house. I got the train to the tube, and the tube to work. It was raining, and as is always the case when the weather is unpleasant, the train was jammed with damp commuters and mulched wet newspaper. I was tired. I held on to a handrail and closed my eyes.

This was the moment when a semi erect penis decided to make friends with my butt cheek.

At first I thought it was some kind of mistake. Whoops! said the penis, hereafter known as Renegade. It seems as though I have found my way to your pencil skirt. My bad! What a hilarious misunderstanding!

Look. I'm a reasonable woman. I realize that, for better or worse, men are slaves to their own boners. There is no straight logical correlation between a situation and a boner's origin, and I get that. From what I understand, men get between six and six hundred thousand erections a day. As far as a dick knows, a shovel standing upright in the snow is as arousing as a half-Asian bass player rocking out in a thong.

Figuring it to be nothing more then an awkward mistake, I move. Given the packed train, this is an effort in itself. I shuffle a couple of steps forward, giving Renegade adequate space to roam. My butt is once again free to enjoy its morning in the precious solitude it's grown accustomed to. Moments later however, I feel something familiar. My new friend Renegade is back, and he's relocated to the side of my thigh. It's somewhat firmer this time: what could have been mistaken for an accidental graze earlier in the journey now feels sickeningly intentional.

The reality of the situation suddenly occurs to me. This man isn't simply a victim of a crowded train and a fairly circumstantial morning boner. This man is taking advantage of a crowded train to sexually harass me and get away with it. And it's working.

At this point, I still haven't seen the man's face. The narrowness of the the carriage and the amount of people piled into it means it's almost impossible to get a 360 view, and I've become terrified of making eye contact with Renegade's owner. I don't know what I'm scared of exactly, but something in me - some leftover pre-feminist chromosome from generation's past - tells me to just remove myself from the situation as quietly and as casually as possible. Seeing his face would make it worse. I don't know how, but it would. I move again, in turn pressing myself into the woman standing in front of me. She looks at me, perturbed. Oh God, I think. I'm starting an endless conga line of commuter harassment. Somewhat unsurprisingly, Renegade follows. The train jolts as it stops. I feel the tips of the man's fingers press against my hip. I am being steadied.

This is my stop.

I whip around to fight my way to the door, and me and Renegade's owner meet face to face for the first time. He's about thirty one. He's wearing a suit. For some reason, I find this surprising. I guess I figured that the kinds of men who sexually harass women on trains are the kinds of men who stay on the train all day, looking for their next butt cheek to graze. Alien is the concept that they board the train, defile a woman, and then just get on with the rest of their day. I wonder if he's that guy at the office where he works. The one that everyone unanimously hates, but no-one can find a good enough reason to fire. He smiles at me with the side of his mouth

I leave the train with my face burning. I'm nauseous. I feel the sides of my throat get rapidly warmer, the way your body does when it's getting ready to vomit. Mostly though, I'm just angry. I'm ferociously, lividly angry. I'm angry at this.. this dude feeling like he can treat me like the punch-line to his penis's practical joke. What's even more irritating is not what he did, but what I didn't do. And moreover: what women, everywhere, don't do every day. In my resolve not to make a scene, in my absolute determination to just be cool about the whole thing, I ended up imitating the behaviour of a side-character in a Victorian novel, passively entertaining the perverted morning routine of a total stranger.

Look.

I'm not saying that what happened to me between 8.05 and 8.10 in the morning is life-altering or devastating or even worthy of a spot on Oprah's couch. In the grand scheme of crappy things that happen to women, it's way, way down the scale of controversial gravitas.

I'm not saying I'm special, or unique. I'm not saying that this kind of behaviour is indicative of how men feel about women, or that all men are secret train perverts.

This is just something that happened to me, and this is how I felt about it. What scares me is that we, as a society, are still putting up with this shit. The majority of the women reading this have had very similar incidents, and I'm also willing to bet my bottom dollar that when they talked about it, they didn't talk about how it upset them, or how it made them feel used, or worthless. I bet they probably joked about it, and shrugged it off, and laughed that they should take it as a compliment.

And that is why, if anyone ever tries to tell me again that women aren't funny, or that women can't take a joke: I am going to spaz out, shoot up a bank, and go live on a mountain forever.

So You've Decided to Become More Attractive

Congratulations! You've decided to become more attractive. This means that you have both a) admitted to having a problem and b) have endeavoured to do something about it. This is the can-do attitude existing attractive people appreciate, and as is well known, impressing them is half the battle. Before we begin your journey to becoming more attractive, perhaps it's best we outline the adequate preparation for such a venture.

Choose a theme

If you've ever started a project before, you'll know that choosing your theme is absolutely crucial. Your theme choices are Sexy, Cute and Vaguelly Intimidating. Don't be intimidated by your theme! These are interchangeable depending on how much lipstick, eyeliner and glasses you're wearing.

Decide that you need to lose weight

This is obviously the most important part about becoming more attractive. Even if you are otherwise irredeemably unnattractive, you can at least be comfortable in the quiet honour of being a Butter Face.

Decide on how you are going to lose all this damn weight

You basically have two choices here. You can eat less, or exercise more. Some experts recommend both, but screw that. If you over-extend yourself too early in the project, you'll run out of steam halfway through. This will lead your resolve to buckle, and it will end in you licking the inside of a Skips packet at half four in the morning. Eat less, or exercise more.

So you've decided to exercise more

Congratulations! Deciding to exercise more is the winners way out of this ugliness situation you've been dealing with. Go you, you worker bee.

Realise you have nothing to exercise in

What? How does someone get this far in life without owning a pair of running shoes? You're gross.

Endeavour to buy some work-out clothes

Imagine yourself as a vision in black spandex, ponytail bobbing as you jog wistfully along your local dog-walkery.

Maybe think about getting a dog?

Don't be silly. You do not have the time or enough capacity for love.

But if you had a dog that required walking, you would exercise more and then..

Stop thinking about getting a dog. A dog will not make you thin.

Actually buy the work-out clothes

Way less fun then buying regular clothes. Feel an exciting buzz of superiority when asking the salesgirl where the jogging pants are.

Go jogging

Tell everybody at work the next day about how you went jogging

Make a loose arrangement to go jogging with a girl from work

Make jokes about how you'll be jogging buddies!

Text girl from work about jogging

Receive no reply. Feel awkward around girl forever. Jog twice more, then stop.

So you've decided to eat less

Congratulations! Eating less is the modern woman's way out of this. Eating less is great because it is characterized by what you're not doing, rather then what you are doing. And not doing something is easy!

Throw away all your nice food

What, really?

Yes, really. Now, start a change jar. Put all your change in the change jar. Now that all of your change is in a jar, you will have less miscellaneous coins to spend on snacks

This means all your change. Even the brown bits at the end of your wallet. Tell yourself that the change jar is for something awesome. Do not feel bad when you dig into it for bus fare.


Tell everyone you work with about your decision to eat less


Listen to everyone tell you about how you do not need to eat less, and how you are perfect the way you are. Appreciate this for the lies and sabotage it so obviously is. Notice that jogging girl is eerily silent on the matter.


Skip breakfast. Pick grumpily at brown bread and tuna for lunch. Notice hunger pangs with masochistic determination. 

You're hungry! That means things are going well!


Feel malnourished, tired and sad. 

Decide this is no way to live.

So you've decided to get an awesome haircut

Stay up till 3.50 am researching the haircuts of celebrities you secretly think look like you

Because if it looks good on them, it will absolutely look amazing on you

Consider getting a pixie cut

Tell everyone you know about how you're thinking about getting a pixie cut. Eventually decide against it, citing your lack of bone structure.

Once you have decided on your awesome haircut, explain your choice to a nearby hairdresser. 

Become completely unnerved when he or she takes a length of your hair, holds it to your chin, and then says "..so this is how short you want it?"

Chicken out completely. Tell your hairdresser to forget everything you just said, and to just give you the usual.

Feel wounded when nobody notices your new haircut.

Watch a series of Anne Hathaway movies on Netflix. Fall asleep in your clothes listening to KT Tunstall. 

Wake-up with inexplicably nice hair, clear skin and happy looking breasts. 

Get whistled at on the way to work. 

Shelf plans of change until further notice.