Don't be a Scrooge

Dorset Brewing Company have released their annual Christmas ale, named ‘Ebe’kneesup’. Designed and brewed by newly appointed head brewer, Oliver Kitson, the beer is blended with a festive trio of orange peel, cinnamon sticks and star anise. The rich copper coloured 4.5% ale which has a malty, caramel character with a lingering mellow bitterness, and notes of cinnamon, aniseed and grapefruit on the nose is sold all over Dorset in freehouses and Wetherspoons. 

Barmen from Tom Browns, one of DBC’s flagship pubs, say ‘the beer has been flying out and the punters just can’t get enough of it.’ Thanks to excellent branding and a soaring reputation since Oliver’s arrival, their latest beer has already sold out and the team are brewing around the clock to get orders filled before Christmas day. 

Their latest beer comes at a time where the Jurassic Brewhouse, located in Dorchester is vastly expanding in popularity, with Wetherspoons selling the range of DBC ales further North. Sales & Events Manger, Sophie Green adds, 'As the Brewery's popularity has grown, we've been inundated with enquiries from London pubs; it's great now to be able to say yes!'

Founder of DBC ales, Giles Smeath, says ‘We are delighted to welcome Oliver to the team. His great enthusiasm as well as very sound technical knowledge has made him a great asset to the team.’

So put your legs up this season with a pint of Ebe’kneesup and make Christmas a cracker!

Confessions of a Multi-Tasking Waitress

My last shift. Ever. The last time I carry a burning plate slowly whitening the tips of my fingers to the furthest table, the last time I make a goddamn roll-up, the last time I have to polish an infernal side plate (top AND bottom). 

I said all this almost three years ago when I left my last waitressing job, vowing never to serve another table of snooty assholes again. Two weeks later I was wailing ‘I have no money!’ and handing my CV into another local restaurant. And it’s been fun! I’ve become good friends with my colleagues, and we’ve had some really funny moments. Other times have been hellish but that’s all part and parcel of the job. 

So, I am hoping that when I say this is my very last ‘waitress confessions’: I really mean it.

I start the shift with a confident smile and a positive attitude - after all, I’ve got five years of customer service and table-busting experience under my belt and with a strong team of well-trained staff, we’re unstoppable. Even when faced with a hungry table of ten, a birthday party, the phone ringing off the hook and a fully booked out dining area for both sittings. A few of us are nervously folding napkins during the calm before the storm, and trying not to get caught standing by the bar doing nothing by The Boss. (Keep calm, look busy.)

Two hours later and I’m carrying four empty plates up my arm - narrowly avoiding the mayo scraped on the very side of the plate and the gravy slowly making it’s way towards me - table two’s bill in my pocket and dessert menus tucked under my armpit to go onto table five. Table one is the birthday party so whilst they’re taking hundreds of photos in which the birthday mum blinks at the flash each time, I take a sneak peak at the cake sitting in the back of the kitchen which looks divine. Back into the restaurant and I have a table of six Welsh people who I can barely understand what they’re saying, purely because I literally cannot understand any accents other than mine. Nothing against the Welsh: I’m just useless. One lady on the table asks for a ‘day-ate cork’ and I have to ask her to repeat it three times before realising she’s asking for a diet coke. I feel awful. It doesn’t end there though, and later I have her repeating her meal choice several times (sorry Wales). I cheer her up with her ‘cork’, give table two their bill and table five finally get their dessert menus. 

The food bell dings, so I tear the receipt from the card machine pronto on table two and race to the kitchen (‘STOP RUNNING!’) to take out meals to the big table. With several plates of steak that bend my wrist the wrong way and balanced precariously up my arm, I arrive at the big table announcing a medium rare steak, and low and behold, no one can remember which one they ordered. In the end they decide who’s having the steak with mushroom but no blue cheese, the medium-rare with blue cheese but no mushroom, and the cremated well-done steak with the blue cheese-stuffed mushroom. Back into the kitchen for more plates, and I return with another load. I can see people’s eyes staring at the plates, wishing they’d gone for fish and chips, not the plaice fillet, or kebabs instead of prawn curry. When I finally take out the tenth dish and it’s the wrong one, I KNOW one of them has decided at the point of handing out the plates of food that they’ve changed their mind and taken a fish and chips. That is NOT how ordering food works, matey! Back to the kitchen to rustle up an extra fish and chips whilst having to act to the lady with no meal that it was an unfortunate mistake on our behalf, when really one of her ‘friends’ sitting amongst them has taken her rightful dish. 

Issue aborted when a Speedy Gonzales Fish and Chips comes out, and she’s sitting happily drowning all chef’s hard work in Ketchup. It’s time to bring the cake out to the birthday table, and sing the dreaded Happy Birthday song-where-no-one-joins-in and it’s just you singing. Fortunately everyone’s moods are high tonight, and the whole restaurant joins in with the welsh table singing all the harmonies. (It’s a restaurant, not the Royal Albert Hall.)

After a quick table wipe and relay, we’re up for round two of the evening. Table three are a group of snooty old fogies who really don’t want to say anything positive about the food they’re rapidly tucking into and when they think I can’t hear murmuring to each other how excellent the food really is, and I have to explain in huge depth on table six that the ‘steak served with blue cheese mushroom’ does not equate to a blue cheese sauce. IT’S A STUFFED MUSHROOM, ALRIGHT? Tables seem confused by the ‘x2’ scribbled next to the lamb on the specials menu, asking ‘do we have to order two of that dish in one go?’ or ‘does that mean two people can have it?’ before I explain once again that it means there’s only two portions of it left. Finger bowls are required for the xylophone-sized rack of baby back pork ribs (‘baby’ my ass!), so trying to remember to get the finger bowls to the tables in between starters and mains is an effort, but I seem to have got it down to a T.

The lady on the Welsh table has resorted to pointing to her chosen dessert from the menu,  something I’m rather grateful for as I don’t have the heart to make her repeat anything else for the remainder of the evening. I’d have probably had to make a lucky guess out of the five desserts we offer had she not. The new table one are being highly impatient, but as these are V.I.P. guests I have to be on my best behaviour. One man keeps turning his head round constantly to grab my attention, even when it’s painstakingly obvious that I’m in the middle of speaking to or serving another table, and the other hasn’t paused his conversation for me once since arriving. He’ll have to just guess the soup of the day if he doesn’t want to talk or even look at me.  In between the rush I have to bound to the top of the garden to rescue the four abandoned wine buckets from the regular group of village gossipers who left an hour ago leaving all their rubbish, fag ends and dead glasses to be collected. Back inside and the old biddy on table eight has managed to throw most of her Merlot across the table and over herself, although I don’t think she’s actually noticed that she has now permanently stained her white jumper.

Roll on closing time and we’re rushing through the jobs list whilst telepathically trying to persuade tables that really, it’s time to leave. Napkins, cutlery, menu checks, candles in… the last time I’ll ever have to polish the ice bucket, or shotgun not bringing all the umbrellas in from out back. 

I’m not particularly an emotional person when it comes to people (although I cried like a baby over my dog the other day!), but I’ve had some amazing times, and the people are fantastic. Maybe not customers who feel the need to be angry, rude, or throw a scallops-related hissy fit at their server. The life of a waitress is full of pratfalls, and the only thing between you and her is your food. So a smile and a bit of courtesy from you will go far, keeping your waitress willing to serve your food, keep your drinks topped up and replace your dirty napkin, leaving you happy and willing to leave a generous tip. It’s a catch-22!

McDonalds? We're not 'loving it'.

Who’s idiotic idea was it to allow McDonald’s a sponsor for the Olympics? Come on, own up. 

The Olympics is just a sprint around the corner: everyone's training and the anticipation is increasing. But England seems to have missed the mark on the opportunity to combat surging obesity rates, with the main Olympic's food sponsors including McDonald's, Coca-Cola, Cadbury's and Heineken. The message for this year is: 'fill up on chocolate and chips, with a can of beer'. Where are all the gym advertisers, the health food restaurants and salad bars? Despite healthy athletics running all over the place, diabetes has doubled in the past 10 years and fast food restaurants are only getting bigger.

So big in fact, that just outside the Olympic stadium is a multi-storey McDonald's cafe, the only branded food retailer on site, and aiming to serve and seat a whopping 1200 people per hour. With the promise to promote a healthy lifestyle whilst hosting the games, Britain really needs to step up to the plate. 

The population should be toughening up - not filling out, and swapping snicker bars for salads, and putting 'healthy eating' high on the agenda. Not slumming it on the sofa with a double cheeseburger and extra large fries. It has been suggested by leading health experts that fast food restaurants should be banned from sponsoring big events like the Olympics, as it sends out the wrong message. In addition, teachers, parents and even athletes should be educating children especially, about the dangers of obesity and how healthy eating doesn't necessarily mean sacrificing everything you love for a plate of lettuce leaves. 

Confessions of a Multitasking waitress (3)

Drinks. She wants red. He wants a bottle of beer. Merlot? Tuborg? Large? The older couple want tomato juice and Pimm’s.  Ice and spice? Alcoholic? No no. Virgin. And a bottle of chateau-neuf… or was it chat en oeuf?  And could we have some bread? Olives? Straws? Can we order?

It’s fish night. Table 3 have been waiting for eternity for their garlic bread, so I focus on topping up their wine regularly to ease their pain of waiting… Hopefully they’ll be sufficiently sloshed by the time food arrives they won’t even remember how long it’s been. The man on table 1 keeps harassing me to take their order, which I can’t as two other tables need more assistance and the kitchen are screaming at me for every meal order I put through. Table 5 are staring down at their empty plates - waiting to be cleared, table 8 is semaphoring at me from afar with some weird sign language he expects me to understand, and I’m stuck at table 2 whilst the man who never seems satisfied is telling me that ‘honestly’, the fish he’s just demolished, ‘wasn’t that good’. I apologise with the most remorseful expression I can procure, and point out that had he told me during his meal when I checked on him, then we could have done something about it. Through the mayhem of table-waiting, I am summoned to help out in another section of the restaurant and take an order from table 12. And taking orders it is! I’m greeted with an impatient and stroppy bloke in a gaudy hawaiian-style summer shirt - his wife won’t even talk to me to order her food let alone look up at me (I’m just the waitress) whilst he gets stuck in a rant about how he’s been waiting for ages, and now I’m telling him that half the menu is out of stock (I’m just the waitress). I understand his problem. I really do. But yelling at some poor waitress isn’t going to fix his issue, and he can either order the few remaining items from our menu before those too are sold out, or he can take his wallet to the shitty pub further down the road.

Back to table 1, who are complaining about some sediment in a glass of wine like they’d just pulled out a dirty condom from the bottom. Press pause. I explain that it’s actually normal for sediment to appear in good red wine, despite not the most optimal thing to find in your glass, but by no means the worst. I tell them that it’s simply part of the cellaring process, and is a sign that it isn’t from a massive production line where it’s all plasticized and unnatural and proves the wine has been properly aged… as everyone knows?...only to be met with peels of laughter whilst I stand there feeling absolutely demoralised and humiliated. WAITRESSES ARE NOT DUMB. And if they had any sense whatsoever, they’d be polite and friendly to the person in charge of their food. Do people really think we’re in this for the long-haul? It’s a quick and relatively easy way to fund our way through university/academic studies, so we can eventually land a job in a position that’ll have THEM sucking up to us. SHE wants another wine, stating ‘as you can see, it’s not very good’. Obviously it’s GOOD or they wouldn’t be ordering the same wine again, and it’s good BECAUSE it comes with a few bits of sediment in the bottom. It’s a catch-22. They’re being so stubborn and up themselves about this they deserve a good dousing in sediment-solid wine. 

And fast forward. Napkins go from table to laps to lips to noses to being discarded on the floor during a toilet trip. Can we grab the cheque please? No, I don’t know what wine I was drinking but another of the same. A Ketchup is opened, titled, smacked, put back, lid on.  Crockery and cutlery from the kitchen to relay tables, food on its way out, pudding orders on their way in. My chest feels tight and my stomach is empty, one side of my head is pounding, but I can't sit down, I can't even close my eyes for 30 seconds and wish this calamity away. I can only force limbs to continue this frenzied dance and hold the fort down until 11pm when the prospect of closing up is in sight. Possibly. 

Drinkers drinking, tables not leaving, a list of chores to be done and everyone trying to find their refresh button. Glasses smashed because everyone’s trying to do everything at once. Bills needed, wine glasses needed, a restock of napkins needed, my sanity needed. Thank goodness fish night’s only once a month and ocean stock is depleting. 

Ending on a high

Finally getting used to my rigid sleep cycle, I wake up bright and early at 7.20 moments before my alarm. I manage the trains like a pro, and arrive at the office right on time with minutes to spare. My final day consist of researching for gluten-free brands (of which I am now an expert), seasonal foods for September (the month of lobster, venison and beetroot), and writing another two or three articles (I've lost count). The team meeting this morning discusses our page spreads, and filling in all the blank pages with appropriate adverts, and corresponding articles. 

As a thank you for my hard work, Jessie hands me a huge bouquet of flowers, something I am so delighted with. It's not until I've made it onto the tube that I realise that maybe they're not the most practical of gifts to mission two tube lines and an OG-train with, but I am very grateful for their thought!  


The final Set List show is a triumph, with Roisin Conaty, Frank Skinner, Richard Herring, Marcel Lucont and TJ Miller all performing. I'd actually researched Marcel prior to the show, and discovered him to be quite a hilarious dry-humoured non-french-but-very-convincing frenchman. Look him up; he's very good. But, my absolute favourite BY MILES is definitely TJ Miller. He was so unbelieveably talented at getting the most obsure topic and making it a hoot. Topics this evening included Sesame street crime, coma VAT, prostitution voucher, overescapegoating, 'safe falling out of a window' syndrome, and neurotic heart surgeon. It was a fantastic ending to a fantastic week (with exception to the exclusive screening of a waterfall, and Rosé so sweet it was like straight Ribena juice).

With the wise decision of leaving the flowers with Jen in SW, I take the train back home, bags bulging, and with an extra pair of shoes and trousers than when I arrived. (Couldn't resist a bit of shopping!) 

Troubled Water

Another two productive days, writing my own articles for the website and getting started on features for the magazine including skin care products, answering Men myths (whether shoe size relates to penis size, if hair products cause baldness, if briefs reduce sperm count etc) and emailing a billion companies for high-res images to use for the magazine. All in all, it's still amazing and going great.

This morning started off rather disastrous though - I'm glad it doesn't continue in that vein! As a lady pushes past me on an over-crowded train, I suddenly hear a crunch and realise she's managed to puncture my pot of M&S bean salad, spilling juice all over the carrier bag. After debating whether to just give up and bin it (it started to look like I'd just vomited into a plastic bag and was waving it around freely), I stop at a food counter at Vauxhall to grab a spare bag to decant it into, and spend the rest of the journey carrying it upright like a highly explosive bomb.

After work I finish the day off with a quick trip round Oxford Street in torrential rain before meeting up with a friend for a trip to Wagamama's. We have a good catch up over miso soup before walking along Southbank in the rain.

To top the day off in the same spirit that it started, I return home later to find water absolutely gushing from a light fitting in the hallway ceiling, whilst Jen is at a Set List show. After some running around like a psycho wombat attempting to dodge the waterfall (no lies), I realise there's only one person to call: my dad. Half an hour later, and I've managed to locate the stop tap and turn off the water, strategically place a wok, a glass bowl and a frying pan on the already-sodden stairs and throw down towels over the lake of water rapidly making it's way to the kitchen. Look at me, a strong independent woman, finding the stop tap. Not stressed at all.

By 11pm, Jen's dashed home and we've got a Polish plumber round, who has bad news and good news after looking at the water tanks in the loft. Ever the optimist, we start with the good news, which is that he can make it temporarily safe. This leads to the bad news that the tanks are for-no-better-words 'fucked' and need replacing. We spend the rest of the evening laughing about it, whilst water keeps steadily dripping through the light fitting in Jen's bedroom. At least she hadn't gone ahead yet for a new stair-runner to be fitted in, or that too would have been screwed!


More articles of mine online: A Matter of Time and A Toast to Breakfast. 

A Published Writer already!

Up for round two, and despite being 2 nights sleep deprived (I like my 8 hours) I’m prepared. Prepared for the tubes, prepared for the steps, and fortunately my outfit today includes my flat brown leather boots. I am so prepared in fact, that I arrive at the offices half an hour early, but I love it so much already that I don’t care. 

My first tasks are organising the folders for September and October editions, and typing up notes. By late morning I’m writing my own pieces to go up on the website, which is very exciting! There’s always a worry with internship-ing that you’ll turn up, be seated on the floor surrounded by a bunch of files to organise, and the only other task of making coffee for the team. But it’s day two and I’ve been unleashed to write about anything I want. Allbeit 300 words or so. Come 3pm I’ve emailed two articles to Jessie, and after a couple of quick edits, they’re ready to go up on the website. WOW. (or whoa.) I was half-expecting constructive criticism, or ‘not really what we’re looking for’, but nope. *Jaw drops*

At 4pm I leave the office, finished way ahead of time. I’m meeting a friend at Oxford Street, so make a dash and meet her there on the dot. In true London style we stand in a crowded pub throwing back diet cokes, talking ourselves into a state of supersonic mass as we catch-up on the last 3 months in less than 30 minutes, including a successful marathon, a trip to Barcelona, and a sneak peek at my August edition, to go on sale mid-July. She’s off to Wimbledon Tennis and I’m off to Marylebone, so after the fastest and most informative conversation I think I’ve ever had, we hug and plan to meet for a rather longer time-period next week. London’s amazing and I’m in love with it. 

Check out one of my articles on the website: Tackling the Masses - Top Tips for Sale Shopping

Death by High Heel

I wake up half way through the night to a loud, spine-chilling ringing sound. Fuck. It’s my alarm and it’s actually an eye-watering 7.20. I plaster on make-up and thank goodness I planned today’s outfit in advance or I’d have thrown on any random mach of clothes and leave the house resembling a child who’s decided to play in Mummy’s Dressing-up Box. I stagger down the road in heels I haven’t worn in over 2 years. There was a time I lived in towering high heels without a blister or a bunion, but by the time I get onto the tube I’m cursing the blood-sucking buggers. 

The transport for London (TFL) site estimates my travel-time will take 1 hour 10, though I forget to consider one significant environmental factor. The London population. After several tube stations and hundreds of tube station stairs, I arrive in North London, only 2 hours later. 

I arrive somewhat flustered - sweaty, crowed tube carriages and footwear NOT intended for a marathon of stairs are not the optimum recipe for the stylish London look. However, I am greeted in the office with smiles, and after Jessie, the lady I’ll be working for, introduces me to the rest of the team, she shows me to my own (MY OWN!) desk with beautiful and shiny Mac computer. Inside, I’m dancing like a happy clown. 

My challenge today is finding events for the magazine’s October edition calendar, a double page spread near the front with events relating to the issue’s theme. October features Jo Frost (AKA Super Nanny), so the issue and calendar will be related to parenting and family life. Events such as National Walk to School Week, or National Milk Day (eww), to Disney’s Fantasia at the Royal Albert Hall and a trip to see Thomas the Tank Engine at Colne Valley Railway. My own words are going into these short dates, and I get rather egg-stravagent on the ‘British Egg Week’ slot. But they liked my style, and my words will be featured in the October issue. Plus, I am now a walking/talking events advisor for October 2012. 

After a wonderful day of work, which feels amazingly natural and second nature to be working for a magazine firm at my own desk, I head to the tube station and take the Victoria line straight down to Brixton for another night of comedy. I’ve noticed during the last 24 hours of tube-travel particular London trends. Such as, the fact that several people are wearing bright orange nail varnish, even more people are wearing flip flops (which seem a little inappropriate for tube-travelling in my opinon), and just about everyone seems to be reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. One girl sat next to me slurps on some horrendous looking Mars bar-flavoured MacDonald’s concoction before putting the cup down next to her feet. Thanks to her, I spend the rest of the journey worrying that it might topple over and mars-flavoured cellulite will start glooping it’s way towards me. 

Whilst waiting for my Aunt, I take a sit down in between my hectic London lifestyle for a well-earned fruit-pot and coffee. As an attempt to have a more personal relationship with their customers, Starbucks now write your name in marker on your takeout cup. However, even the best of plans have their flaws, as ‘Conni’ is the nearest attempt Starbucks have ever got to spelling my name correctly, even on the many occasions when I have spelt it out for them. I’ve even had ‘cone’ written on my cup before now. Spelling certainly isn’t their forte, but it’s definitely an attempt to be friendly and personal to each customer. 

Another comedy night, although we spend too much time for my liking standing about in the queue outside (front line VIP of course). The sun’s out fortunately, but I swear the heels of my shoes are about to break through into my foot…

We return home at midnight after a long night of comedy, this time from Josie Long, Russell Kane, Judah Friedlander, and Rufus Hound, and I’m so tired I can barely manage a piece of smoked salmon before crawling into bed!

Getting into the Swing of things

After a traumatic car journey through central London, evoking stomach-churning nightmares of driving through Brighton involving one way systems and rogue mopeds, I arrive at my aunt’s flat in South West London showing off a result of several years’ worth of ‘light packing’ improvements in baggage reduction. Despite being terrified about getting lost on public transport , and jumping onto a train going in the opposite direction, I’m rather looking forward to a less stressful underground commute tomorrow morning than another car drive in not-even-rush-hour London traffic. I’m surprised the cars around here don’t resemble the hoard of battered cars in Paris. 

Another journey to go, as I’m spending my evenings this week watching a friend of my aunt’s film a series of comedy for TV. If it’s any good, I’m hoping for a six-pack by the end due to fits of laughter. A drive to Brixton and I actually feel rather sick - not because of the driver, but the stress of sitting in a fast vehicle maneuvering around London. City driving petrifies me. 

We arrive at the Electric theatre/club for the comedy show, Set List, being filmed live for Sky Atlantic. Performed in America and Edinburgh amongst others, this is a stand-up comedy show where the comedians have to improvise - given a set list of odd topics, such as ‘what’s the deal with mice?’,‘wine racism’, ‘borgasm’, ‘Jehovah’s Witness annual conference’, and ‘Wow vs Whoa’ etc. Comedians tonight are Rich Hall, Tony Law, Anthony Maxwell and Drew Carey. As we know the producers, I feel privileged to be on the VIP guest list; I’m the first person in and have first pick of the seats. The night is exciting despite not being a total fan of comedy and being afraid to admit I had no idea of the ‘famous’ comedians before I arrived… After the show we hang out in the Green Room with the producers Paul and Troy and the comedians, before heading home and eating prawns for tea. 

Wii or Non?

Six hours ago, I discovered that The Boyfriend had Wii Sports in his collection of games. I then spent the following six hours going from zero to hero on Wii Tennis, whilst annihilating my right arm to a lump of sore muscle. So, my verdict - Wii or non? 

As a huge fitness fanatic, I always thought Wii sports and any other computer ‘sports’ were a total hoax, for fat kids in America lying on the sofa flicking their wrist every so often to bat the ball back. After lying in agony after spending an entire day hula hooping on the wii a few months ago did I realise that it was actually pretty good at exercising muscles you didn’t know you had, and without any actual sports equipment. 

In tennis, I’m not afraid to run about the court like a lunatic, although I often spend more time running around than actually hitting the ball. However, on the Wii my mini-mii did the hard work for me, and so I only had to concentrate on the hitting. Without my body wearing out from the running I furiously batted my arm into a sorry state: now unable to pick up so much as my Blackberry, let alone an actual tennis racquet. I can hardly say it improved my technique though, as the skill to tennis is being where the ball will land, ready to hit it back, and balancing batting skills with the stamina to run about the court. Unlike other lazy people, I played valiantly - on my feet for the entire duration, darting forward and back and flailing my arms around like someone possessed, shrieking violently in true Venus Williams style - and only 100 points or so away from PRO level (I can’t believe it’s taken over a hundred matches in 6 hours to reach a score of 900!). 

However, despite being at home and without forking out for a decent newly-sprung tennis racquet and comfortable shoes, I think I’d rather be out on the courts, sweating like Stephen Fry for two hours and return home for a well-deserved rest feeling rejuvenated and exercised. I am anguished that the Nintendo Wii is still better than me and with only an aching arm to show for all my hard efforts. Seriously, it’s like my bones have turned to play-dough. 

The Wii is good for rainy or boring days, when your ‘to-do’ list looks as exciting as a 2,000 word essay on Linguistical Neutralization, although perhaps it would be better to vary your Wii games, so you don’t result in one highly muscle-defined right arm and a puny left. Yet again though, nothing beats a good run around the park and slogging it out on the tennis court. 

The Red Carpet Workout - all you need is a bit of Love And Fitness*

*Not actual acronym...


My next gym trial was at LA Fitness. The name screams style, hollywood stars and top technology machines. It also screams high monthly membership fees, but we'll come to that bit later. I was delighted to find that they offered a 3-day free membership trial, and on top of my Groupon voucher to 10 individual day passes for a total of £15, it's barely cost me a bean! (A pay-as-you-go session is £10) I've actually saved over £115 (costing me £1.15 per session (13 sessions) instead of a collective £130). Score! 


Within 24 hours of signing up online to their 3-day trial, I had a nicely-timed phone call from a lovely lady who was asking about my fitness goals, booked me in for a spinning class, and organised my induction meeting for my trial. So 12pm on Saturday (a time I'd arranged) I met 'Barry' from LA Fitness, a very enthusiastic, charming and friendly guy with twinkly eyes who chatted to me about the possibility of joining, and if I needed any help getting started (as if!). Then I entered into the world of LA Fitness. The fitness studio is long, and there is no other way to describe it than literally an 'army' of machinery. I was delighted to find a huge range of machines including a slightly older version of my beloved AMT (Adaptive Motion Trainer), and a 'skater' machine which re-creates the movements of roller blading (VERY good for thigh muscles and glutes!) - a machine I'd only ever seen before in France. Bonus points there! Hygiene stations providing wet wipes were dotted around the place (another winner), and along one side was a row of TVs which you could plug your earphones into your machine and have a choice of four channels (one of them being music). Motivational quotes were plastered around the walls, including my favourite: 'Now the hard bit's over' as you enter the gym (actually getting yourself up and out to go to the gym is the biggest hurdle!). 

It would have been nice to have some natural light streaming into the studio, but then again, being in the middle of  city who knows what was behind all those blocked out windows...! Despite hygiene stations, few people actually clean their machines after use, and they certainly were not cleaned regularly by gym staff. (At Stratford I regularly see trainers working their way around with a bucket of soapy/sterilised water thoroughly cleaning all the machines.) It's a good gym - still no PowerPlates, and not my favourite gym - but it's definitely a top gym I've experienced. I'd have thought though, with so many people paying their overpriced £40 membership per month, that they'd be able to afford more modern machinery. £40 is a LOT - particularly for the humble student. Barry made a fair point that even if did a spin class once a week, it'd cost more per month just doing that than if I signed up for £40/month with unlimited use of classes and gym. For now though I'm just grateful I still have my Groupon vouchers to use up (they're going to hate me!). 


Last night I attended the spin class I'd booked in, being a very keen spinner. And boy, it was amazing! It ticked all my spin class boxes. The bikes (amazing - I actually prefer the older bikes, which make you work harder, than the new all-flashy Trixter bikes which are the 'spin bikes of the moment'), the playlist (upbeat, created by the trainer with latest tracks and NOT just a Ministry of Sound workout CD), the lighting (LIGHTS=OFF. No one likes to see you sweat and vice versa. The main studio lights were off and we spun in a dark room with small UV spotlights lined around the edge of the ceiling - VERY cool!), and most importantly, the instructor. This is where we get to a tiny issue, as Becky, the spin instructor was actually filling in yesterday evening, and usually coaches/motivates at Fitness First, yet another gym (yet to try) in Brighton. So SHE was brilliant, but doesn't give me insight into how good the LA Fitness spin instructors are. After the amazing, intense and energetic class she asked if we had any comments/if we'd enjoyed it, and everyone instantly enthused greatly and asked if she could come regularly to LA Fitness as they'd seriously enjoyed the session... Suggesting that perhaps the spin instructors at LA Fitness might not be so great. But for Becky, I think she actually beats Stratford's spin sessions (they bought new bikes... big mistake). The *ONLY* downside to the class was that the room seemed to lack in ventilation, which made the huge mirror-covered wall steam up within about 10 minutes of the class starting. I also forgot to bring a towel/flannel, so impulsively grabbed a wadge of toilet roll, which of course disintegrated in shreds over my face resulting in me exiting the studio looking like a crazed yeti. Fortunately it was dark and I legged it home! 

Spin class: 5/5, although with an instructor from another gym, does it speak for LA Fitness or Fitness First? Might have to go again... (next time without toilet paper debacle!)

LA Fitness gym: 4/5 - the machines look rather shabby and unclean, so arm yourself before starting, with the provided wet wipes. 

Alive but not quite 'kicking'.

I've decided to do a few more gym reviews, as I have finally realised how rare it is to find an amazing gym. Plus this is research I enjoy doing and I can benefit from. I guess I grew up lucky, as the gym back in my hometown (Stratford-upon-Avon Leisure Centre) is absolutely perfect. Following their revamp in December 2010, they have 3 PowerPlates for free unlimited use, and the best machine ever called the 'AMT' - Adaptive Motion Trainer Precor.com/AMT. All their machines have been fitted with TVs conected to a hoard of tv and radio stations, plus the layout of the gym is fantastic... I really can't fault it. 


As a student, I decided to hold fire on the gym membership (despite impulsively signing up to two gym memberships during Freshers' Week...), which means I can try out ALL the gyms in Brighton and play about with free trials and online offers.


Anyway, by total luck, next door to my student house is a small gym. 'Alive Fitness' boasts of being 'Brighton's friendliest gym' with a fully equipped studio, so I decided to check it out, and put it to the test! An instant pro-point is that they offer a free gym session for newbies, which is extremely easy to acquire. However, the gym was pokey, and crammed into a tiny room upstairs, resulting in quite a claustrophobic feeling. It felt more like being in someone's 'home gym' than an independent fitness centre. The layout deters women in particular from venturing into the weights room, and the atmosphere was more 'surgery waiting room' (complete with weekly magazines) than 'spring into fitness!' The place was certainly lacking in motivational quotes and cheesy tag lines claiming that this gym could change your life. 


On the plus side, it was quiet, and the gym-users were adults who actually wanted to exercise - not girls in see-through leggings and bikini halter-neck tops (WHO DOES THAT?) who go to the gym purely to exercise their thumbs through the exercise of texting for the duration. The final major blow though was when they practically kicked me out half an hour before closing time. Their site says the gym is open until 9.30, but by 9pm they'd turned half the lights off, the TV screens off, and switched off the machines. WOW. [Big mistake] I don't care if I was there for free (they didn't know that anyway), but I'm there for my money's worth whether or not I'm the last person in the gym! I stoically stayed until about 9.10 until they asked how long I'd got left in an 'upbeat and friendly' way. Major minus points there. To add insult to injury, for a normal pay-as-you-go session, they charge £10 which I felt wasn't in balance with the 'goods'.


Scoring: 2/5. The gym was small, although adequate, yet their enthusiasm to go home early punctured their motto of 'Brighton's friendliest gym'. There were no wipes to clean the machines after and I got a very strong impression that the gym staff weren't into cleaning the machines either. GYM HYGIENE MATTERS, PEOPLE!

Be your own success.

There will be many times in a your life where you realise you're simply just not enjoying much about your life. You may be stuck in a dead-end job, a job you're not enjoying much, another 2-5 years of university to crawl through, bored of your house, hate people at work, no money, no job, and just a bunch of 'dreams'. But stop right there, because this is YOUR life we're talking about. You have control of it, and when you reach times like these, the solution is a 'my life is shit' list. In all seriousness, this might just be my recipe for success. 

So. We're feeling down and unmotivated, and there are several areas in our life that need a bit of fairy dust. But for now, we'll find our 'dust' in the form of ink. Or lead. Whatever floats your boat - basically I'm telling you to pick up a pen and a sheet of paper and write down all the crap bits currently in your life. I put mine in a spider diagram, but a list does the same job - remember to leave plenty of space between each 'problem' because the next step is finding the solutions! 

Everyone's list will be different of course, and parts of them may be rather personal! I'd realised, by the end of January that my life was dull and I wanted to do things for myself - I wanted to be my own person, and not controlled by uni assessments and exams. Examples of my 'shit bits' include finances (every student's woe), uni life in general, and finding ways to de-clutter and de-stress. And so here comes the next, and life-changing bit. Most people KNOW how to fix their lives, but it requires motivation and it's all to easy to say 'it'll never work'/ 'it's too much of a risk'/ 'I'll fall into another rut'. STOP MAKING EXCUSES. So around/under your problems, write ways you can overcome them. 

E.g.: Finances - hand out CV, curb online shopping and general expenditure, borrow text books from the library instead of buying them, fill out Student Loan/Grant form for next year, sell things on eBay, search online for free gym sessions/activities. I also wrote a list of things I wanted to save my money for, such as a new car, a holiday, new Louboutins, a new handbag (oh, how to beat a Marc Jacobs?!), more Chanel perfume... Of course, just writing this out on paper isn't going to get the pounds rolling into my bank account, but seeing it down on paper makes it feel much less of a problem, particularly when it's surrounded by possible solutions. If you're going through a really tight financial crisis, it may be worth considering selling more larger items... before the bailiffs do. 

Uni life - I should be aiming for 5 hours of independent study per day. My tutor gives us a reading list each week, demanding we read about 7 books per WEEK in time for the next lecture. I'm really not kidding. So to reduce stress levels, I'll aim to skim read about 4/5. And despite being stuck at uni learning about morphology and linguistic neutralization - things I really won't need for my ideal career afterwards - that doesn't stop me from doing what I want to do around uni time. So expect more blog posts (yay!) as I want to pick up my writing once again. Uni isn't 'prison', so find things to do around your time there - create a life for yourself! But the main thing to remember is to knuckle down and work hard for the next few years at uni so you can graduate with shining colours and walk into your dream job and keep the happiness rolling.

To quote Tommy from 'Friends with Benefits' (my film of the month!): 'Everybody wants a short cut in life. My guide book is very simple. You wanna lose weight? Stop eating, fatty! You wanna make money? Work your ass off, lazy! You wanna be happy? Find someone you like and never let her go.' Part of achieving your goals is by taking on a no-nonsense tough-love approach to your problems. 

Creating this list is also like making resolutions. I wanted to vary my exercise activities, and attempt to like yoga, but was rather difficult if I also needed to be saving money. But by extraordinary coincidence and pure luck, the solution hit me right in the face when I was treating myself to a new pair of running leggings from my all-time favourite sportswear store, Sweaty Betty. The shop assistant was so lovely and chatty - I felt I'd made a friend when I finally left! Anyway, she asked if I was a Sweaty Betty member, and I was like 'hm say what now?' It's a free membership, literally just write your details on a card and you get a shiny pink piece of plastic, allowing you 10% off everything in store (save money), AND exclusive access to their FREE WORKOUT ACTIVITIES in the week (vary exercise). Thank you fairy godmother! So I have yoga on Wednesday evenings in a shop that I love, and a running club if I wanted on Thursdays. For free. Once you embark your life revamp, you never know what opportunities will hit you in the face! I also managed to scoop myself a 3-day free trial at LA Fitness for the weekend, and score a free spinning session there on Monday evening. It's great! A week on and I feel I've turned my life around. I'm actually finally starting to fall in love with Brighton. 


My message is 'think of what you want to do, and DO IT'. Making this list helps you work out which aspects are most important to you. If you're in a crap/boring job but desperately need the money, just keep your head down and keep ploughing on. If your job is actually making you miserable, then quit and find something new. (Probably best to find something new before quitting...) - It's easy to say and much more of a risk to do, but particularly when you're older, your job should reflect your personality, or be something you've worked your whole life for. There's a quote which was stuck up on the wall at my work: 'pick a job you love, and you'll never have to work a day in your life'. I found it rather ironic as it was in a restaurant where I waitress, and however much I like working there, it's still having to be nice and charming to snobby customers when you really just want to throw on a pair of man-trackies, wipe off your make up and watch crap on TV, but you get the idea. And if there's really no solutions for your mass of problems and banes of life, then find something extra to do to bring a piece of sunshine to your day. 


So when you're stuck in a rut, and nothing seems to brighten up your day anymore, revamp your life, and become your own success. You'll be surprised at what a couple of small changes will do.