Intimately Liv

At some point, perhaps as I was strolling past the monstrosity that is Hornsby Westfield’s fountain, clutching a Starbucks I had spent my last $3.55 (usually $4.25 but I’d had to skimp on the vanilla syrup) I realised I am in a Rut. And, that to list my life, as it stands, is to sound like one is reading the blurb of a farce film starring someone famed for playing utterly hopeless women time after time.

I mean,

I’m 22.
I have returned to my job in retail for the Christmas period, after vowing never to work another Christmas retail.
I live at home, albeit in a beautiful home with no restrictions imposed, but at my age the Olsen Twins were in a Manhattan penthouse apartment. Oh that’s right, they’re not my age yet.
I don’t have a ‘real job’ (one that involves donning a suit and prancing around Argyle on a Thursday night braying about how much I am dreading being back in the office the next morning).
Which brings me to my final point, I want to write but no one will publish me, well not what I want to write about – I will spare you the Andie Anderton diatribe on wanting to write about politics (because I don’t, really) but I will pretend I look as good as Andie Anderton whilst ranting.

Today both my credit cards were taken off me by an overly zealous bank worker who shall remain nameless – however let it be said when the Faceless Bank Person on The Phone told her to take my cards and cut them up, her eyes lit up with excitement and she regarded me furtively, as if I may suddenly snatch them back and run away laughing maniacally. Which I was tempted to, I cannot lie.

So, add to the list, my credit cards have been cut up – and soon Tiffany* will be calling to set up an appointment to see if she can give me a quote on car insurance that will ‘match up’ with my current one.

En route to work, where an entire day with my Regional Manager awaited, I got stuck in traffic. And when I say traffic, I mean namely a barrage of silver foxes manning various beige cars and sporting well and truly expired licences. In fact, I seem to be finding myself fighting this battle on the roads on a daily basis. It is this face off between me and any driver over 70 who cares to beetle across my path at the pace of a snail. I arrived at work later than planned but earlier than my Regional Manager who we shall call Seth, having used the f-word ten or so times, ‘twat’ thrice and knob countless. And it was only 8.30am. And most of these words had been directed at people four times my age which makes me a very bad person with a very crude mouth.

So I swear at old people. Add that to the list.

Clearly, I have a sad fixation on coffee chains, as evidenced in my purchase out of the dwindling coins in my (faux) Jimmy Choo wallet – and this is apparently just the worst possible thing for anyone who can even call themselves a coffee drinker because everyone knows Starbucks completely bastardises coffee. But I feel so much closer to Ashley Olsen with my tall vanilla latte (full fat, not skinny, I draw the line somewhere) and striding around clutching the tell tale green and white cup makes me feel like I am more in control of my life.

So, add to the list that I rely on bastardised coffee to give me a sense of self … and make me feel closer to being an Olsen Twin.

It gets sadder.

Two and a half weeks ago I returned home from a six month around-the-world-trip. This is why my credit cards are being shredded as we speak, this is why I have $6.43 in the bank (marginally better than last week’s 34 cents) and this is why I find myself wildly fantasising about yachting around the Mediterranean with Prince Harry. The Mediterranean would be the travel part, Prince Harry just happens to be my yachting partner.

Instead, I find myself helping people choose perfumes for their children’s Christmas presents, or helping old women on scooters choose between Youth Dew and Red Door (‘I mean I’ve worn White Linen for years, I just feel like a bit of a change’) whilst being treated to Seth’s daring harmonies to the store stereo system. Namely Daughtry’s ‘It’s Not Over’, in which he goes for the gentle unobtrusive harmonic undercurrent as opposed to the out and out show-stopping duet-esque version of Fergie’s ‘Glamorous.’

So I have royal fantasies and am intimately familiar with the subtle nuances of Red Door, White Linen and Youth Dew.

On the flip side, today I deposited a whole $45 into my travel savers account. One way ticket to London here I come.