People are talking on a news show right now about the government schemes to “employ” benefit-claimants in thirty-hour-a-week shifts. This is happening in places like Tescos and other chain stores, for the price of benefits, around £50 a week. Not surprisingly, many people have expressed their dissatisfaction and some have refused to do it. Michel Roux Jr suggests that some of us have an attitude problem. Not surprisingly the opinions are coming from television personalities or those who have “made it”. I think they’re missing the point.

Not everyone being entered into this scheme is a sixteen year old is a school leaver. Some of those being offered menial jobs in large corporations are university graduates or twenty-somethings who have worked for many years. People who have left their home town, studied or worked hard for three years. We’ve built a life here. We don’t live with our parents. We literally can’t afford to survive on £50 a week, even if some of these companies pay expenses. There is rent and there are bills on top of it, bills that aren’t covered by benefits. Electricity and gas. Phone bills. Internet bills. All the basic things we need to survive and continue to try to better ourselves with. Some of us are tied into contracts from when we had money and now are struggling to keep up with the monthly payments. Graduates have student loans and overdrafts. We know that a career is built on hard graft, starting with mundane tasks that you don’t want to do in order to climb the ranks. We know that the best chefs started out washing pots. We’re not adverse to trying, but it’s simply not viable situation.

It’s hard enough to survive on £50 a week without the added stresses of a 30 hour job. It’s tiring. You need more food. You might need to buy some work clothes. I don’t know. There’s a lot of middle class arrogance floating around right now and the general opinion seems to be that you’re lazy if you deny the “privilege” of working for what amounts to £1.60 an hour. If these companies said they would employ people on £1.60 rather than surfing the benefit-clause safety net, would that be ok? No, it’s illegal. There would be massive public outrage. If you are forced to work for little to no money it is slavery.

Two years ago I applied to McDonalds and they rejected me. I have two degrees so maybe they didn’t think I’d stick around. If four years of work on top of many years retail experience won’t get me a paid job at McDonalds, what does it mean that they would be prepared to take me on for free? It seems insulting, like the people they are using to do their chores aren’t worth it. That’s what they’re saying: free labour participants aren’t worth the money they deserve to be paid. Work experience is a great thing and looks fab on a CV, but what does it say about your worth as a person? I’ve thought about this and I don’t think I would self publish one of my stories and sell it for a penny because it discredits my work and suggests it’s not worth investing in. Fifty pence, maybe, but only because I currently have about 60p in my life. Unemployed people are good people and worth investing in. Even recent research suggests that the people who built the pyramids weren’t  actually slaves.

I’d like to see the people spouting such ignorant views try it themselves. Go for it guys, give up your day job and work all week stacking shelves. Think of your life as it used to be, remembering the times when you were respected as a human being for your contribution to society. Feel the sense of shame every time someone in the news criticises the unemployed and assumes you just can’t be bothered. Work hard at your shelf stacking and watch your colleagues who get paid a proper wage do exactly the same job as you. Fall behind on your rent and try not to freak out when your electricity and phone get cut off. At the end of it you can pass go and collect £50.

Could they do it? No, of course they bloody couldn’t.

I like James Franco, I think he’s a good actor. He’s been in lots of things I’ve rated highly. Freaks and Geeks, 127 Hours Later, Milk, Spiderman. Heck, he’s even been in The X Files. There are movies like Rise of the Planet of the Apes that I want to see based on his acting. I respect him for not just sticking to the red carpet; he’s also studying for a degree. He seems like the sort of guy who is interested in life and considers the world around him.

Palo Alto does not reflect this. When the book came out I remember thinking that it was something I’d like to read. This week, when I found a proof copy sitting on the bookshelf, I decided to give it a go.

The stories are written in that Americanised way which seems conversational, like it’s talking at you. The description is sparse and Franco often repeats himself, although I don’t know if it was edited out in the final copy. In one paragraph he writes that a character is Asian and in the very next paragraph this fact is repeated. It seems sloppy, like he’s not really engaging with the content as he’s writing it.

Everyone is described first and foremost by their ethnicity. Female characters are only described in terms of how attractive the narrator finds them and whether he “wants to fuck her” or not. The girls in this collection of short stories feel like props, which is surprising since much of the content is centred around them. Boys compete to have sex with the most girls and one of the only stories written from a female perspective features her giving a blowjob to a guy she doesn’t care about. And not in a sexually empowered way. There is a lot of sex in the book, but it’s emotionless and bleak.

Some of it is downright nasty. In “Chinatown” the narrator strikes up a ‘relationship’ with an Asian girl with a “beaten up face”. When he first has sex with her he is glad it is dark so he can’t see her face. He introduces her to his friends and they all have sex with her. There’s a really uncomfortable scene where two of his friends have sex with the girl and the narrator walks in with a selection of vegetables. You get the picture. It’s not a nice read on the bus. I’m sure a lot of teenage and young adult women fancy the pants off James Franco and I would hate for them have to read this and feel like they had to like it because he’s hot and famous.

Perhaps if you could get a sense of what Franco was trying to comment on then these parts of Palo Alto wouldn’t seem as horrible, but the book as a whole seems substanceless and to be honest, pretty meaningless. Stories end without any sort of resolution or “point” to them. Every story reads the same; an introduction to the narrator and his friends, a girl he wanted to fuck and re-occuringly, a car accident. Cut to a closing paragraph often unrelated to anything which has happened before it. Palo Alto leaves you not wanting more, but wondering why you started reading it in the first place.

Maybe I’ve missed the point and this is a social commentary about trying to fit in, or a regretful memoir, or an ironic take on that kind of literature. It really doesn’t feel like it though. If Franco wanted to make a point, this could have been achieved in two of the stories in this book. The entire book is the same, identical disconnected narration (a narrow escape from the accusation of misogyny, well done) and wide gaps where the substance should be.

I’m fairly mature about these sorts of things. I’m not going to do a Tom Cruise and boycott Franco’s films because he wrote a shit short story collection, but the kind of disturbing atmosphere in Palo Alto has definitely made me rethink my opinion of James Franco. He makes me feel uneasy.

Okay, it’s time. I need to write about the greatest comedy show on television at the moment. I have fallen head over laptop for NBC’s Parks & Recreation. It’s true, I might as well admit to having an addictive personality. I smoke a lot of cigarettes and can’t buy a tube of Pringles without eating them all in one sitting but great television might just be my downfall. Once I sink my teeth into a great piece of acting and feel the plot against my skin, I can’t let go. And it is happening again.

The show is into its fourth season and there’s soooo much to catch up on. I know this because every other week I have an insane marathon where I watch approximately ten to fifteen episodes all in one go. Don’t judge me, because I was playing Pokemon on my Gameboy for a lot of of the time too so I was basically in heaven. The premise of the show is pretty simple; the Parks and Recreation department of fictional Pawnee, Indiana, decide to fill in a ugly big pit and turn it into a beautiful park when lovely buffon Andy Dwyer breaks both his legs falling into it. Parks and Recreation inspires a lot of adjectives. The team struggle to raise enough money for the job and convince the skeptical local news channel and weird residents that it’s a good idea. You could say that they encounter a few… pitfalls. This is never achieved though and by the end of Season Two the gang have effortlessly moved on to new things and you’re hooked on each episode before you’ve even realised that the pit-to-park dream has basically evaporated. The show is filmed in a mockumentary style which is popular at the moment but fits the Parks and Rec really well. It’s edited well and it’s pretty easy to convince yourself that these are real people, maybe even people that you know. Too weird?

Fundamentally, it’s a character driven show with great personalities. Leslie Knope (Amy Poehler, who also produces the show) is the deputy director of the Parks Department with dreams of becoming the first female president. She’s quirky and principled, with a habit of speaking her thoughts out loud. She’s often the fall guy (gal) providing a lost of ridiculous moments, but unlike many other strong female personalities in television she relies on her strong spirit and sense of right and wrong rather than any cop-out sexy stuff. She’s a loyal friend, generous to the point of downfall and one of the best examples of feminist comedic characters I’ve seen in a long time. Some might find her word-a-minute perkiness a little grating but don’t try to tell me Leslie isn’t a champion or I will argue with you for many hours in the pub.

Nick Offerman plays Ron Swanson, the director of the department and firm dismisser of government who looks visibly gleeful when the Parks department is faced with government cuts. Mustachioed uber-man Ron Swanson likes hunting, woodwork and meals comprises of 99% steak. He doesn’t like people. Nick also has a couple of fantastic episodes where his character reunites with ex-wife Tammy 2, played by Megan Mullally who is his actual wife IRL. I can’t speak for the green room but they make an awesome act onscreen. Whoever writes Ron Swanson is a genius. To quote a scene in a restaurant when someone asks him if he is scared to eat of the vast proportions of food, Ron Swanson replies “When I eat, it is the food that is scared”. One day I will be rich and I will wear only t-shirts with Ron Swanson’s face on them.

The rest of the main cast are dysfunctional enough to label Pawnee as the American answer to Royston Vasey. Sulky intern April Ludgate who is later employed full-time by Ron because of her terrible telephone manner; entrepreneur Tom Haverford who dreams of a life of riches, babes and swagger; sweet-hearted Andy who dreams of achieving Dave Matthew’s Band status; dating disaster nurse Ann Perkins and health fanatic Chris who might just be the most enthusiastic man in the whole world, played perfectly by Rob Lowe.

Probably the best thing about Parks and Recreation is that it isn’t cruel. So many television shows nowadays thrive on poking fun at the week, supposed friends sabotaging each other’s plans for cheap laughs. This is no UK Office or Peep Show. Parks and Recreation is the optimist’s answer to twenty-minute comedy. It pokes fun at old school racism with Pawnee’s impossible history of massacres displayed in murals and landmarks throughout the town, and jabs an elbow into the side of petty tabloid journalism for good measure. Parks and Recreation is subtly political and self-aware. Its heart is in the right place and the tender moments which occur between characters throughout the show have moved me to tears. Proper blubbing.

If you’re going to sit in your underwear this Sunday eating doritos and watching endless episodes of something, I seriously suggest that it’s Parks and Rec. Stick with the slow going initial episodes and I guarantee that by the end of it you’ll be rooting for the citizens of Pawnee. Do it. Do it now, because I need someone to squeal to about Ben Wyatt.

Hello Internet! From a failed cafe job to a new temporary penance, my forays into minimum wage no-qualifications-needed jobs is taking on a new turn. I’ve been working in a call centre this week and it’s been a see-saw of snot, despair and the occasional feel-good moment. I’ve more or less accepted that at this point in my life, my Masters degree and previous life experience don’t mean shit. Here is my tiny diary of the first few days as someone who wears a headset.

Day One

It was Valentines Day. I nervously caught the bus into the city centre not knowing what to expect. I’d been putting off working in a call centre for, well, twenty-four years. It was my final attempt, the last resort into the cesspool of bad jobs. Through out all my spells of unemployment I’ve put off applying to call centres, but a friend of friend runs a dialing out kind of business and he phoned me the day before. I had £1.30 in my purse. I couldn’t say no.

In my imagination I’d pictured rows and rows of hunched, middle-aged people in baggy work shirts mumbling and typing gibberish into their computers. Kind of like a Victorian slave labour factory only with headsets. What actually happened was that I walked into a small segment of a large open plan office space and met my five other co-workers. And they weren’t wearing uniforms!!

A key part of my social personality is that I hate talking on the phone. If you call me, I probably won’t pick up. I’ll ignore your call and send a text immediately after claiming to be somewhere noisy. I’m sorry, it’s just how it is. For the first few hours I was an awkward stuttering mess, mixing my words and scrabbling over long sentences. The goal was to phone up hospitals and medical practices on behalf of an agency and convince busy doctors and professionals to verbally fill out a survey that I would be reading out to them. On my first day, I got zero. ZERO SURVEYS. That’s nine hours on the phone and nothing achieved. I literally had a 0% success rate. I went home feeling peaky from the stuffy air-con lacking office space and fell asleep really early. On Valentines Day. Sorry, boyfriend.

Day Two

I wake up and discover that I can’t breathe. Air exits my body via raggedy spurts through my mouth. Wheeze. There is a wall of snot separating my nose from my mouth, and my brain from all other parts of me. Confused, I get a bus to work with an emergency lemsip. And a mug. I have a desk with a mug that sits on the desk, like a real person. It didn’t cheer me up though. That morning I coaxed an elderly lady to fill out my survey and she said to me, “you sound like you have a cold… you should be in bed!” I know, lady, I know. By three I couldn’t take it any more and asked to leave and spent the rest of the day on-off napping and feeling like shit. I think I cried a bit at how depressing life is.

I am down to 18 pence.

Day Three

Praise to the Gods, the magical healing power of blackcurrant lemsip and vapour rub perks me up at around eleven. The curtain of despair falls away from my nasal passages and I can talk again without sounding like I’ve been punched in the face! I feel positive. The people in my office are really nice and the majority of us smoke so I soak up the bored camaraderie over nicotine, talking about the story in the Metro where an e-cig exploded in some guy’s mouth. I doodle as I take calls and my notes are filled with crocodiles, kittens and stupid jokes as well as callback numbers.

The problem with working such a monotonous job is that it redefines your notion of time. One minute feels like five and when there’s a lunch break looming in the distance you feel like you’ve been there all night before it’s time for a pre-pared pasta snack. I got three surveys and felt great about my life. I have no idea what a Locum is and it’s part of the company’s name so I spend nine hours hoping no one asks me what I’m talking about. Another project we are running simultaneously is for the council so I get to spend two hours every evening listening to the mad and mysterious of Manchester tell me what they think about life. That’s not too bad.

Day Four

I have made peace with working in a call centre. No more crying over spilt ambition, I actually felt alert and awake on the bus in to work. I learnt a very important thing today which is that in the forty to ninety seconds between calls I can write sections of my novel.

I wrote fourteen pages of provisional wordery in my nine hour shift, scribbling down the last few words as I simultaneously greet the client with a “Hello, my name’s Red. I’m calling on behalf of…” I am a multitasking legend.I almost had fun. I told my colleagues that the word Locum (definition pending) made me think of Locusts and we spent an hour trying to think of medical insect puns. Hello, could you direct me to the Waspital? I think I won with “Centipediatrician”. I sat at my desk trying not to giggle into the microphone, thinking that all I wanted in life was to be a Games Master, inventor of great office games to pass the time. Other things of note happened:

• One of the numbers that dialed was not a client but the company itself. On establishing this with the lady on the end of the phone, she exclaimed “that’s retarded!” Wowzers.
• We accidentally called one hospital nine times and they got really angry with us.
• My colleague drew a picture of a locust wearing a nurses outfit and I pinned it to the noticeboard above my desk.
• I spoke to a man about the council and he rambled on for a very long time about how terrible everything was and then didn’t want to complete my survey.
• I made a tally chart to score the different kinds of hold music. Instrumental shits all over classical, although one of my colleagues listened to The Kinks for twenty seconds which was cool.

So as you can see it’s pretty much been a roller-coaster ride of excitement. I got five surveys today and as much as I was determined in my thinking that this job would be shit, it’s not that bad. I mean, it is shit, but the trick to surviving a call centre job filling the gaps between work. Otherwise you just go brain dead and forget who you are. I’m not going to do that. I’m going to print off word-searches and make crazy hay with my novel. It’s alright really. I feel lucky to have found a call centre job that doesn’t make me want to kill myself.

And the honest truth? It makes me really happy to tell people that I hope they have a lovely evening. One elderly lady even said “thank you dear, and have a lovely morning too!” Thanks for listening to my voice today, Manchester!

I lost my job today. I asked to go home early because of my back pain and was not invited to work for them again. They were nice about it because they are nice people, but all I heard in my head was Alan Sugar saying “you’re fired!” I am not cut out for cafe work. They did not get to see my bubbly personality because two hours of bending over the dishwasher unloading heavy trays meant that my default facial expression was “grimace” rather than “grin”. I guess you’re not catering material if you have to rub your back up against the refrigerator like a cat in heat. So there you go. I will miss being a panini queen, though.

This was my first job since last October. I lasted three weeks, which is a new high-score. I beat my old data entry job by a week. I left my data entry job because I was homeless and had to temporarily move back to Sussex. If you’ve read even a sentence of my blog before you’ll know that I am living proof of Manchester being a shit-dive for employment prospects. I apply for a lot of jobs. I applied for a lot of jobs whilst working at the cafe.

Unemployment is hard and miserable, but I didn’t bargain on how much losing a job would hurt. Even a job that was making me feel like a disabled person. I went into shock a bit, and felt profoundly depressed. I won’t miss the long hours of pain that extended into the nights, but it’s pretty terrifying to have £55 in your purse and no other way of making money. I’m past the point of optimism because in the two and a half years of being in Manchester, I’ve worked full-time for… four months. In three different jobs. Don’t tell me I’ll “get a job soon”. If I do I’ll be elated but anything previous to this event feels like false hope. Right now I feel like a dick for no longer having a job. When you’ve lived like this for a while it’s difficult to determine what is worth sacrificing your health for. The hours just aren’t out there for people to be too picky. My limit was when I was dashing to the toilet trying not to throw up from the pain of my back and a three-day stomach ache. Call me a quitter.

I have lots of ideas to fill my time now that I am a full-time unemployed person. Right now I’m watching Parks and Recreation. I did the washing up for a bit until I couldn’t handle it. I bought a peanut butter KitKat. I might go swimming next week, or finish my novel. I will book a doctors appointment. I might never eat again so I shrink to a size eight and feel less like a useless blob laying in bed like a miserable failure. I am going to apply for fifty-million jobs. I am going to sell my clothes that no longer fit me on eBay. I am going to buy more KitKats.

I caught the bus home after my last ever cafe shift and opened the book I’m reading. It’s really good. I went back to my old house and dropped off my keys. My (ex)housemate’s boyfriend was in the kitchen and we talked, and I blurted out “Have a great life! Have a great relationship!” and left. I am not good at these things. I don’t have many redeeming, money-making qualities. I am not accomplished at life. Maybe I’ll be okay though. I don’t know.

I am the Panini Queen. My turkey, salsa and caramelised onion chedder paninis are to die for. When I serve customers salad I make sure I give them hearty, generous portions so they have the energy they need for the rest of the working day. Then I go and clear tables and listen to their conversations, glance over at their business notes and powerpoints on their iPads and pretend I’m having a business meeting too. I am on constant alert for some sort of publisher to be drinking coffee and discussing how he is in desperate need of an assistant editor. At the end of the day there is often slices of cake to take home. Working in a cafe isn’t totally awful.

It’s still not great, though. Loading the dishwasher hurts my back and on the whole, customers ignore me. It can make you feel like shit, like you’re only good for wiping tables and serving cappuchinos. When I take people’s plates they go quiet and stare at me like I’m an imposter or an imposer, until I whisper “sorry” and scuttle off. Nobody wants to talk to me about the books they are reading.

So, there are many other things I would like to be doing…

Greetings Card Designer

I actually applied for this job last week. I’ve seen 500 Days of Summer and I know that I could totally be the female answer to Joseph Gordon-Levitt. To be honest I didn’t really believe it was a real job title, at least not an advertisable one (promote from within, right?) but there was an ad for a greetings card designer in Manchester. My heart raced, I applied, but they rejected me. I would be a great greetings card designer. I love etsy and cute things and I can write poetry. None of that flowery old-person crap, foxes in bowler hats would wish you luck with your exams.

Inventor of Great New Flavours of Crisps

As Panini Queen I am already adept at experimenting with toastable flavour combinations. I am great with a packet of chorizo, and ever so generous with feta. It seems only natural that I should branch out to crisps, inventing crazy new mixtures of taste for like, Pringles or something. I’d turn up at eleven in a fashionable blazer and spend two hours at my desk contemplating large laminated pictures of food before being driven to the laboratory. Simple.

Amateur Tattoo Artist

I cannot draw. Let me just put that on the table. I am a tattoo artist that cannot draw. Does that matter though? Marnie suggested that I just stab people with the needles and call it performance art. I have no problem with this. I can draw really basic cats too, so I could doodle a few of those over my clients. I could trace real pictures as well, although my hands are a bit shaky under pressure so maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea. Ok, maybe being a tattoo artist isn’t for me.

Long Distance Playwright

I want to write a play about what it means to be human in the twenty-first century. I’ll write the plot and the dialogue and I’ll direct it too. I will be Manchester’s answer to Tommy Wiseau. I really struggle with getting out of bed in the morning though, so instead of getting on a bus and going to a theatre I’ll stay in bed and watch everyone rehearse via Skype. I’ll tweet instructions and vlog notes on how to improve performances. The actors will love me because I won’t be running around all stressed and bossy, and when I occasionally turn up for coffee and IRL reviewing we’ll all be great friends.

21st Century Dorothy Parker

Would I get paid for this? It is very important that I get paid for this, although Dorothy Parker did live in a hotel so maybe I could just do that and it be for free. As a modern Dorothy Parker I would go to a fancy restaurant with my fantastic friends and spent hours trading witticisms across the table. I would smoke and drink (done) and people would feel intimidated by me because of my sharp tongue. I’d also write fiction, but sporadically and never on time (this is me). I’d suffer from depression but have great loves (hello). I’d help set up a magazine (check) that would become really well-known and respected. I would be a brilliant writer.

Sorry cafe, I think I’m going to have to quit my day job and become Dorothy Parker. Now where is my advance?

Salt and Vinegar flavoured things are the best. Pringles and chipsticks were an important part of my life as a teenager; I felt like a proper rebel eating anything that wasn’t organic, sugar-free or composed mainly of nuts. A special treat when we visiting my Grandma on Saturdays was a tube of salt and vinegar Pringles for lunch. Of course, I would eat them all. Basically what I am trying to say is that salt and vinegar rocks (and that this post is really hard to find an introduction to).

Salt and Vinegar Roasted Chickpeas. Really lovely and so versatile. Cook them for lunch, dinner or just as a snack to pick at compulsively whilst you’re surfing the internets.

Recipe

Pour chickpeas into a pan. I thought one can wouldn’t be enough but I made a batch yesterday and there is still some left, so maybe just use one can.

Sprinkle a table spoon of sea salt onto the chickpeas and pour in two to three cups of white vinegar. I used little glass beakers so two mugs of vinegar should be al-right.

Leave the chickpeas, vinegar and salt on the stove they it boils. Be prepared for your immediate surroundings to smell like vinegar. I live in a tiny ground floor flat and when I came in through the front door after popping to the shops, the whole ~lobby smelt of vinegar. It’s a stinky recipe. But I guess if you didn’t like vinegar you wouldn’t be making the stinky recipe. So.

Line a baking tray with foil and put the chickpeas on it. Sprinkle with salt and olive oil and rub it all in with your fingers. Wash your fingers. Put the tray in the oven. Roast for around 30-40 minutes depending on how crap your oven is. When they start to look brown and crisp, take them out.

Everyone claims to hate public transport, but I actually don’t mind it. Sure, the ticket prices are extortionate and you do occasionally have to sit for twenty minutes on a vehicle that smells like wee, but on the whole I like being taken somewhere on a journey where I have no responsibility or need to pay attention. I don’t have a drivers license because I’m certain I would kill someone by zoning out or dancily too vigorously behind the wheel. I am built for sleepy, relaxing adventures.

That said, sometimes public transport can be grim. Forget the stench of urine, the one thing I utterly detest is when people try to hit on you. It seems unfair; I’m trapped on a tiny square of seat unable to escape. There’s no thrill of the chase in this situation because short of getting off at a completely different stop, I can’t run away.

Some people know this. They take advantage, and it’s not because I’m looking outrageously beautiful all slouched over my phone wearing a large coat and cafe-grease. It’s because I’m there. From drunk old men to foreign dudes around my age, it’s a petting zoo of potentials for arrogant, opportunistic, desperate men.

I’m not kidding about the petting zoo. My two worst public transport experiences:

The day after the New Years Eve party of 2010: I’m getting on a train at Stoke going back to Manchester. I’m tired, hungover and I haven’t showered. A lot of people can forgo a shower for a good couple of days before they start to look rough, but I am not one of them. I look grubby. A young Indian man roughly in his mid twenties gets on the train and sits next to me. I’m leaning against the window watching the lights of the city I’m leaving, but this doesn’t stop him making conversation. It’s the same old formula: name, location, occupation. I give one-word answers and zone out. Undeterred, this guy leans in closer. Too close. He puts his hand on my knee and I take it off. Apparently this is charming. He spends the next half an hour asking to kiss me. I am trapped in the window seat and can’t escape. I think about alerting the conducter but he’s not around and it’s scary, innit? I get off at Manchester Piccadilly and basically leg it to the bus station.

Getting a bus into town to have drinks at Font: For some reason I take a seat right at the front, the seat where there is basically the stair wall in front of your face. It’s cramped, but cosy. I’m listening to music and looking forward to meeting my friends. An old man gets on. He doesn’t look homeless, more like an out-of-date, slightly ex-hippieish sort of man. He sits next to me. At some point, probably around Rusholme, he starts to look like he’s falling asleep. He’s doing that dozy lean-in sort of thing that is cute when you see it happen to other people. Not for me. My bag is resting in my lap and suddenly I feel this… pressure. The man is trying to push his hands down my thigh and between my legs. I panic. I admit, I am terrible at confrontation. This is why I write ranty blogs, right? I slide over his grasps and press myself against the window. It’s totally obvious I am not into it, but he keeps trying. I’m reading a David Sedaris book and the horrific tragicomedy of the situation is reflected in the pages. I start to nervously giggle. Eventually I get off the bus and allow myself to feel slightly traumatised. I meet my friends and tell them this story. They think it’s hilarious.

It’s not hilarious. It’s harassment. Any kind of persistent attention or action upon an unwilling subject is harassment. I hate it, I hate that I don’t have the guts to punch them in the face or at least move to a different area of the vehicle. The problem is that these people are so clearly deranged, thinking this kind of behaviour is okay, that I worry how they will react if they are challenged. And if I was to tell someone, would they believe me or would they assume I was being vain or something? It’s really disgusting that anyone would feel embarrassed at someone else’s mental actions like that.

Today on the bus I felt rotten. I’d taken some strong painkillers for my back pain and felt sick. This guy my age started asking me questions; what’s my name, where do I live, and I just couldn’t be bothered. One word answers, no eye-contact. I’m all for strangers connecting and conversing with each other – I am big into community – but in these instances it’s so blatantly not innocent. These people can sense weakness. They know when you’re just tired enough not to make a scene. It used to make me laugh years ago how many weird hit-on experiences I would have with dudes when I was ill, depressed or on my period. Now I know… they can smell it.

Talk to me about the book I’m reading or the music I’m listening to. Who’s that on my mobile screen? Buddy Holly, of course! Have you heard of him? You should download his Greatest Hits. I like that kind of interest. But don’t try to find out where I live or ask me, with a creepy grin, if I can tutor you in your studies because I’ve told you I have an English degree. It’s obvious, boring bullshit and on days like this I am always a question away from telling you to fuck off.

I’ve lived in a fair amount of places. Having been a student and someone with a history of making dreadful mistakes, I’m rarely in the same place for more than a year. Since I began university I’ve lived in nine different houses or flats, with friends, partners and strangers. That’s six years of cardboard boxes. There’s something really exciting about acquiring a new bedroom, a bit like buying a new notebook and staring at the blank pages whilst trying to decide what to write. I hang up pictures and photos, arrange my books in specific orders and usually buy a new duvet. I like new things.

On the other hoof, moving out is probably one of my least favourite experiences (tied with harrowing medical procedures and hurting my back falling down the steps of the Eiffel Tower). It’s the yin and yang of home-making that eventually you need to pack up a materialistic summary of your life and ferry it somewhere else. I hate moving out.

My moving out experience of 2012 is emotionally joyous. Living in a shared house which was very obviously ‘not my space’ was horrible and used to give me anxiety attacks when I wanted to use the kitchen or living room. Now I’m moving in with a very special someone and am wicked excited about life. Physically though, it’s rubbish! I didn’t realise how many items of clothing I owned until I threw out six bags of ‘stuff’. Having to sort through my books to decide what ones I could fit into the new flat was akin to Sophie’s Choice; forsaking Richard Brautigan for Lorrie Moore and feeling pretty guilty about it. I offered my twitter followers dibs on my rejects and, surprisingly for a 400 list of people who are mainly writers, I haven’t managed to give very many away. Do people not like free books?

I suppose it’s nice to have the choice. At the start of last year I basically fled my house in Rusholme in my friend’s car and in a day went from being someone who owned… gasp… actual furniture to someone who didn’t have a frying pan to her name. Embarrassing, but necessary, although I do really miss my sofa sometimes. This year I have not been blessed with a close friend and a car so am carting all my junk over on the bus. No-one commented on my excellent picture of Rupert Brooke and it felt like a wasted journey. Maybe I’ll ride the buses all over Manchester until someone starts talking to me about dead, cute poets.

Everyone likes a bit of stability in my life but I think I need it, like really need it. I go a bit mad if not. Just the same as council houses for kid-laden families, I think twenty-four year old women with cats should be provided with permanent accommodation by the government. How am I supposed to get my furry son into the best cat school if we’re always on the run?  Come on Tories, relax the rules!

If anyone wants any great books, a budget iPad (some sort of “slate” which I don’t know how to use) or an Epson Stylus printer/scanner, please email me so I don’t have to deal with them any more!

It had seemed like a big win at the time. It was 2010. I had just started my boring data entry job and it was election day. My housemate and I were worried the Tories were going to win, so on the way home I stopped in at an Orange store and upgraded my Blackberry for an iPhone 3GS. All evening I watched the Alternative Election show and distracted myself with a twitter application and Angry Birds. I connected it to my laptop and named it Murphy. It was love at first sight.

Part of the iPhone’s charm it that it didn’t seem soley for the rich and famous. I signed up for a two year contact for £35 a month (something I wouldn’t dream of doing now but there you go) and the phone was mine. Nowadays, the class-beating accessibility of owning an iPhone has all but worn off.

It seems that if you still have you iPhone 3GS a year or so into your contract, features begin to stop working. Applications become out of date, too out of date for the available upgrade. I got an error message last night that said my phone software could not play ringtones. Seems crazy, there were there in the first place on my phone memory hard-drive thing and nothing has changed, right?

Anyway, the seemingly invincible iPhone is only invincible up until the point that you can afford to replace it with a better iPhone. Those of us struggling to pay our two year contracts off (which have mysteriously risen to £42 a month) haven’t got a chance. For the next six months you are stuck with a high tech’ phone that doesn’t do anything. At least the battery reflects the pauper’s lifestyle of couch crashing, with the average life of my iPhone lasting around ten hours each day, much less if I want to call someone, check twitter or play a game.

Recently my phone has become self-aware, the auto-correct function is delirious with power with the five second delay when typing on the touch pad. Marmite becomes Marmots and refuses to change back. Bizarrely, last night I tried to type “drawings” and got “seaside” in return, but then I was drinking cider. The iPhone insists that it is right and battles with me for six attempts at a word change before it finally lets go. Phantom technology errors pop up from time to time, like a train station noticeboard warning me to expect delays. And whilst I can sort my applications into folders now, many of the apps are too slow to use or mysteriously shut down when I’m in the middle of doing something.

Once upon a time it was the dream to have an Apple product, to own a smooth white rectangle of your own. Now, the only joy I get from my iPhone is by buying it tacky phone cases. This love affair with Apple’s gone rotten for me now. Be careful what you sign up for!