What makes you tick?

Recent “research” from the folk over at Facebook posits more people see our posts than we might think. I put the word research in speech marks because this comes at a time when Facebook is being criticised for limiting the reach of peoples’ posts to force them to pay for promoted posts. The research in question, therefore, could be taken to be a poorly disguised and somewhat unscrupulous attempt to generate positive PR in response to the media backlash.

But whatever the reason, the research has got me thinking about the reach and impact of my own posts on social media, and indeed my blog. I must confess to feeling a sense of deflation when I see the number of views on my posts declining, and a rush of excitement when they begin to climb again. When someone new follows my blog I beam from ear to ear. Why? Because it means there are people out there who actually like what I write and who, rather than briefly scanning posts before deleting them, want to read them with some degree of regularity.

But who are my followers, and those who like to read my musings frequently? What drives them? What makes them tick? And what is it about my writing that keeps them coming back for more? It strikes me now I think about it that thus far in my writing experiment it’s been almost entirely one-sided. What I’d love to know is what my readers would like more of, what they’d like less of, and generally how I can write in a way that’s more agreeable to them.

It’s fair to say we writers crave acknowledgement, and the best form of acknowledgement – to my mind, at least – is feedback. But the online world operates in a similar way to the real world when it comes to levels of active involvement. Humans fall roughly into two categories; introverts and extroverts. I say roughly fall into, because it’s rare to find someone who would claim to be entirely introvert or entirely extrovert – we usually all exhibit both persuasions from time to time.

This brings me back to the Facebook research. I think it’s probably true that we engage more people than we think when we post things on the internet – because a lot of those who read it aren’t inclined to comment or to actively engage with the content. They are passive observers, perhaps because they’re introverts whose nature isn’t to wade in and shout about their thoughts and feelings but rather to consider them and process them privately. Them not engaging may not, therefore, mean they aren’t enjoying the content, but rather that they prefer to enjoy it from afar.

This rationale (irrational as it may well be) makes me feel better about not having lots of feedback on my writing. What it fails to do is make me any less curious about who my readers are and what they most like to read.

So if you’re reading this and feel inclined to drop me a line about what makes you tick, I’d really love to hear from you…

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Mother’s Day, mighty roasts and Malbec

The surprise Mother’s Day visit didn’t get off to the best of starts when I arrived home from the supermarket to find half of the dessert ingredients contained an ingredient Mum’s allergic to. Fortunately I cottoned onto this in time to avoid Mother’s Day being memorable for all the wrong reasons, and managed to claw victory from the jaws of defeat by pulling off a pretty decent two course meal (which, since you’re asking comprised pancetta-wrapped tilapia fillets with new potatoes, sugar snap peas and a lemon and caper sauce, followed by baked peaches stuffed with a mixture of amaretti biscuits, brown sugar, lemon zest, butter, almonds and pine nuts – the latter two ingredients being removed in Mum’s portion in order to avert severe anaphylactic shock.

With Mother’s Day celebrations ticked off the list I trekked from Weybridge to East Dulwich (via two trains and one rail replacement bus service) to meet friends for lunch at the Bishop, a delightful public house on Lordship Lane which was just what the doctor ordered for an afternoon of catching up, scoffing, quaffing and watching a spot of rugby. The staff are friendly and attentive – in particular Chris, the charismatic Manager for whom no request is too much trouble – and the food is quite simply divine. After a series of underwhelming Sunday roasts in similarly underwhelming pubs I felt I’d hit the jackpot today, with a gorgeous cut of prime beef served alongside a mound of fresh vegetables, crisp roast potatoes, a giant Yorkshire pudding and an individual gravy boat and portion of horseradish sauce (being a horseradish addict this last detail particularly delighted me). The Manager’s recommendation of a glass of Malbec was the perfect accompaniment, and a few bottles and several desserts (top tip: The chocolate pot is to DIE for, and I don’t say that lightly) later we rolled out the door feeling sated and content.

And so to the weeks ahead; ten more working days in my current job before a trip to New York and the start of a new job and part time freelance career. After two years of living miles apart my boyfriend has just moved to London for four months which couldn’t be more perfectly timed. Things are changing and it’s about time too. In the words of Orange, the future’s bright.

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Teenage dreams

I’m conscious that I may need to amend the rules of my writing challenge (but as I set them in the first place surely that’s my prerogative?), given that I wrote fiction every day a couple of weeks back and have written mainly blog posts this week. In times of change I find myself more drawn to blogging. I think it’s the teenager in me trying to document everything lest it be forgotten. But whatever the reason I’m enjoying it, so for now I’m going to carry on and hope you’ll humour me.

This morning I was up with the lark (well, comparatively so considering it’s a weekend) to prepare for the British Heart Foundation 10k race in Regent’s Park. I wasn’t worried about the distance – it being just a warm up compared to the 16 mile race I’m doing in two weekends’ time – but I was nervous about my time. Whilst I’m quite a steady long distance runner I’m no Speedy Gonzales, and I was worried I’d show myself up by finishing in over an hour.

The conditions were far from ideal; cold, foggy and muddy underfoot. Foolishly I’d left my gloves at home, and with the start of the race delayed – and my poor circulation kicking in – it soon became apparent this had been a major error.

Eventually we were off, and for the first couple of kilometres I settled into a comfortable pace. Then the course strayed from the path into thick patches of mud, and as I struggled to negotiate them I noticed that the tips of my fingers had turned an alarming shade of blue.

By the eighth kilometre I was determined to keep up the pace I’d set right to the end, but at the ninth I hit a wall and for a moment felt I couldn’t go on. Somehow I pushed through the final kilometre to the finish line, and was delighted to realise I’d finished in under 54 minutes – far exceeding my expectations.

This afternoon I (grudgingly) accompanied my boyfriend to Oxford Street to help him choose a suit for work. In Moss Bros we were served by a sweet boy who was, he told us, still at school but working in the shop every Saturday. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, bless him, and he looked so awkward standing there, his gawky frame clothed in an ill-fitting suit. I know I sound patronising but it was so endearing the way he tried to engage me in adult conversation whilst my boyfriend was in the changing room.

On re-reading that last paragraph it occurs to me I’m already on the slippery slope to old age. Before I know it I’ll be spitting into hankies and wiping people’s faces. Come back teenage me, all is forgiven.

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Nothing ventured, nothing lost?

The old adage, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” might just as easily (slash negatively) be “nothing ventured, nothing lost.”

At least when one does not seek to rock the equilibrium in their life they can be relatively assured that nothing will change for the worse – right? I used to think so, but since joining the ever-growing ranks of the redundant (well, nearly-redundant – I got out just in time) I no longer agree.

Why? Because there’s no such thing as equilibrium in life, it’s a fallacy. Everything is shifting and changing all the time. Anyone who thinks they are immune to change is most likely in for a nasty shock at some time or other, whether personally or professionally. We humans are hardy creatures, but we’ve evolved over millions of years to be this way. If we hadn’t adapted to change we would no longer exist. Just like the dinosaurs – and HMV.

What I’m trying to say in a roundabout way is that it’s far better to seek out change than to wait for it to be thrust upon us. At least that’s the argument I’m currently using to make me feel less panicky about the particular path I’ve sought out; that of the part time PR professional/part time freelancer.

Last night I sat down and took a long, hard look at my finances. And it wasn’t pretty. If I was scared to go part time before, right now it wouldn’t be far off the mark to say I’m petrified. But as I’ve already said, there are no guarantees of constancy in life, and who’s to say I won’t make millions from my leap into the unknown once the initial (and sadly inevitable) period of poverty has passed?

Today, in reaction to the rising sense of panic about my impending part-time-dom [sic], I’ve been updating my online biographies and tidying up my website in preparation for my ‘official’ launch as a freelancer. I’ve also emailed a couple of agencies about getting on their books. Already I’m enjoying this feeling of being in control of my career. Long may it continue.

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This pic makes me laugh – it was taken during a pub quiz a couple of years ago where the quizmaster gave each team two pots of play doh and challenged them to make something. I forget the exact theme, but I was clearly feeling similarly worried about money – or lack thereof – as I am now if what I made was anything to go by!

Offer me up

I love an offer, me. In fact I just can’t get enough. Which is just as well considering I will soon be earning considerably less as a part time office worker (though I like to think my inner JK Rowling will burst free on my one freelance day a week and keep the coffers topped up – nay, overflowing. Well, a girl can dream).

There’s something deeply satisfying about handing your debit card to a cheerful sales assistant and seeing their little face drop as, with your other hand, you unholster your smartphone from your pocket and wave a voucher code in their face courtesy of your latest app (or, for the less technologically savvy amongst us, brandish an actual voucher that’s been carefully torn from the pages of a newspaper or magazine).

Today I was delighted to find not one but two offers (cue squeals of delight) on my O2 Priority Moments app that seemed worth checking out. I didn’t get off to the best start with Hotel Chocolat, whose promised ‘Mother’s Day chocolate mini-slab’ failed to materialise as it was “out of stock.” Not ideal.

Unperturbed, I made straight for The Body Shop (that’s a fragrant lie, I was actually led on a wild goose chase out of Liverpool Street station, around the block and back to where I’d started by my Google Maps app – the Body Shop actually being about ten feet away from Hotel Chocolat, where I had begun my merry dance. But hey, you can’t be appy all the time. Geddit? Sorry, I’ll get my virtual coat).

“I think you’ll find this entitles me to fifty per cent off today’s purchases,” I said to the lady at the counter with a conspiratorial wink.

“But there eez an offer on today,” she said in faltering English, with a broad smile and a flourish of her hand.

I blinked at her, processing her comment. “Your point being?”

“Well, if there eez an ozzer offer, I may not be able to geev you zat one.”

I scanned the shop for evidence of the offer to which she was referring. “But these signs say there’s a thirty per cent discount to customers who sign up for a reward card.”

She grinned at me. “Yes.”

“And I don’t want a reward card. I just want to redeem this offer.”

Her smile faltered. “All I am saying eez that it may not be possible to redeem ze offer because of ze other offer.”

“I see. So you want me to browse the shop, select my items, come back to the till and only then will you be able to tell me if I can have fifty per cent off?”

“Yes,” she said brightly. “I just warn you now eez all.”

After a moment’s deliberation I relented, deciding that the benefit of being granted a fifty per cent discount would – just about – outweigh the risk of traipsing around the shop selecting items that would have to be put back should I not be granted the deal.

As fate would have it the gods were feeling benevolent, and when I reached the till a smiling man scanned my smartphone and pronounced the deal would be honoured.

“What a relief,” I said, “that lady said the other offer might make this one invalid.”

“Oh no,” said he, “that offer’s got nothing to do with this one. Yours was always valid.”

Smiling thinly, I picked up my bag and turned to leave.

“Have a nice day,” said the smiling moron as I walked out.

No thanks to you, I thought uncharitably.

Hot Tub Cinema – a review

The fact it’s 5pm and I can only just bring myself to write about Hot Tub Cinema last night is surely testament to how much fun was had (hint: Too much fun for a Tuesday night). What made the whole experience even more surreal was the fact the venue was located in a warehouse just a stone’s throw from my office. At 6.25pm I left work and by 6.27pm I was standing by a giant glittery Oscar statue being registered by a woman in an animal onesie.

Once inside it got even more surreal, with all the staff dressed as animals (bar one man in a tutu and wig) and most of the guests in some form of elaborate fancy dress. I’d felt embarrassed turning up with just a pair of flippers and a float as my contribution, but as it turned out they went down a treat (however, fishing a flipper out of a dirty, tepid hot tub at the end of the night was a definite low point).

Now, moving on to the facilities…There was a licensed bar serving a variety of alcoholic beverages – which you could purchase with pre-bought tokens stored in a handy wallet around your wrist – as well as traditional cinema snacks like popcorn and hot dogs. Much to our relief there was also ‘table’ service during the film, meaning you didn’t have to get out of the hot water and traipse – tipsy and sodden – over to the bar.

The only downside was the size of the hot tubs. Billed as being big enough to fit eight (though to be fair to the organisers they did say six would be more comfortable), I can only assume they were talking about eight toddlers. With six of us in it the water levels were treacherously high, and by the time eight had clambered in…well, let’s just say it was a good job we all knew one another, and that nobody was claustrophobic. Fortunately the lovely organisers allowed us to spill over into the adjacent free tub shortly after the film commenced, which made for a much more enjoyable viewing experience.

Much as I love Ferris Bueller’s Day Off it was somewhat hard to concentrate on the film given the novelty of the surroundings. At certain points in the film the staff encouraged everyone to stand up and dance around in their tubs; cue much hilarity and more than a bit of hot-tub-hopping.

With the film finished and the music cranked up to ear-splitting levels the event descended into full-scale, drink-fuelled chaos, with people leaping from one tub to the next with wild abandon. When I turned around and found myself face-to-crotch with a tub of naked men I knew it was time to take my leave and stumble back out into the real world.

To conclude with the words of Ferris Bueller himself: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” I urge you, dear reader, not to miss out on Hot Tub Cinema. It’s ridiculous, but it’s an experience you won’t forget.

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My friends won’t thank me for putting this on the world wide web, but hey, all in the name of research…

Hot tubs and naughtiness

Tonight I’m most excited to be going to the Hot Tub Cinema to see one of my favourite eighties films, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. If you haven’t seen it and are a fan of silly coming of age comedies then I would strongly recommend you do (I would suggest heading down to your local Blockbuster to rent it this very eve, but given the state that particular company’s in at the moment perhaps not. Though come to think of it they might be doing it on sale for a good price…?)

I used to love watching films about naughty school children, not least because I considered myself to be one and delighted in any opportunity to prove it. At primary school my finest (or least fine, depending on which side of the fence you sit in the morality stakes) moment was when my best friend and I managed to flood the toilets by sneaking out of morning assembly, putting plugs in all the sinks, turning the water on full and then slipping back into the room again before anyone noticed. Hours later, when the headmistress hauled the entire school back into the hall and demanded a confession – threatening everyone with punishment should the guilty parties not step forward – we merely sat with serene expressions as a murmur of discontent ran through the crowd.

But getting back to hot tub cinema; what a concept! If only I’d thought of it myself! Find a roof top or deserted warehouse, hire a big screen projector and a handful of hot tubs and market your event as a time-limited opportunity for groups of hip Londoners to watch classic films whilst wearing wigs and other ridiculous theme-related paraphernalia. Add to the (already not cheap at £28 a head) mix a licensed bar and you have got a money spinning scheme of which your parents (or at the very least your peers) would be proud.

I shall report back.

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If tonight’s half as cool as this I’ll be delighted!

Desiderata

Three weeks ago I was informed my role at work was being made redundant. Well, the official line was that there was a business case for it to cease to exist and that I would therefore be entering a period of consultation, during which I would be quite welcome to put forward a counter proposal should I feel disinclined to agree with the reasoning for terminating my employment.

I felt no desire whatsoever to oppose the business case, in part because I knew I could never continue working for an employer that valued my contribution to the workplace so little they had held the metaphorical axe over my head in the first place. In the main, however, I didn’t wish to oppose it simply because I felt my time there was up.

It’s never nice to feel you’re not wanted, especially when you feel you have worked hard and delivered everything that was expected of you – if not more. But it’s vital for your sanity not to take it personally and to try and move on. You know your value even if they can’t see it, so instead of waiting around for your turn in the hangman’s noose find a new opportunity and avoid it.

It’s this attitude that’s helped me to see my impending redundancy in an entirely new light. I’d been looking (albeit casually) for other jobs for several weeks before the news came, and whilst it was a bolt out of the blue it’s a plain fact I wouldn’t have stayed for that much longer anyway. Being faced with redundancy was exactly the catalyst I needed to make the change I’d been craving, and fortunately my employers have at least been accommodating when it’s come to needing time off for interviews.

Speaking of interviews, I’d forgotten just how much I hate them. It’s horrible having every aspect of you put under the microscope and scrutinised; I’ve often wondered how introverts cope. A good interviewer can put you at ease in a moment – to some extent at least – but a bad one can leave you traumatised for years. And it’s not just down to how skilful the interviewer is, it’s as much about how well you ‘fit’ with the organisation itself.

Take the interview I had this morning as an example. On the face of it there was nothing wrong with either the organisation or the people. In fact, as my preparation had progressed I felt increasingly excited by it. But as soon as I walked through the door something felt amiss. There must have been nearly forty people in the room yet you could have heard a pin drop. Then, when I sat down in the interview room and reeled off my ‘pitch,’ I felt I had impressed them to some extent, but simply didn’t feel any rapport with them. We were all smiling, but to me those smiles felt empty. Something wasn’t right, and I knew in that instant I could never be happy there.

In stark contrast last week I had a second interview at another, smaller, organisation, where I felt I had clicked instantly with both the CEO and the lady who would be my boss were I to be offered the role. The atmosphere was relaxed and even though the interview itself was rigorous I didn’t feel at any point I was being deliberately caught out or put on the spot. Afterwards the PR assistant took me for a coffee to find out more about me. I knew they had seen ten people at first interview and were seeing me and one other people at the second stage, and I was told at the end of the day they were going to take the weekend to decide and come back to me on Monday.

After this morning’s interview I must admit I felt despondent. I knew if they asked me back for a second interview I wouldn’t want to go, but I also knew if the place I really wanted to work came back with a no I’d be back at the drawing board; not a drawing I was keen to start from scratch.

I walked along the river thinking about all I’ve learned over the past few weeks; how much of a difference it makes to at least try to be positive (even though it’s sometimes hard) and how important it is to make the most of every second, and not take people for granted. By the time I got to the train station I was feeling a lot better, and ready to rationalise whatever eventuality came my way.

Fortunately it was exactly the eventuality I’d been wishing for. And I’m now not only going to work for an organisation I think I could really, truly love, I’m also going to have time to pursue my dream of becoming a freelance writer.

To conclude I’m going to use the final verse of my favourite poem, Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann:

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Past Post: Volunteering abroad (published on Guardian Online, 2007)

Another Monday morning in the office and you’re distractedly staring out of the window, thinking that there must be more to life and wondering how you can feasibly escape the daily grind, if only for a while. And then it comes to you: why not spend a few months volunteering abroad? A great idea, you think, as you sneakily open up an internet browser window and begin to do some research. Within minutes, however, you are staring dumbfounded at the website of a well-known ‘ethical travel organisation’ and thinking your only chance of affording to do a placement would be to take out a second mortgage on your flat – and possibly sell your car to boot.

It would be naïve to assume that living and working in a developing world community for any length of time would be without its costs, but in my own experience the vast majority of companies that come up on a basic ‘volunteering abroad’ Google search charge extortionate prices for what amounts to several weeks or months of living in the most basic conditions imaginable, and furthermore give you very little idea as to exactly where your money is going.

Before my own African adventure I obtained quotes from several of the largest and best-known volunteer placement agencies and was stunned to find, at the top end of the spectrum, programme fees in excess of £1,000 for a two-week placement! Admittedly the more expensive options are touted as ‘all-inclusive’ packages offering such extras as in-country support, transport to and from your place of work and possibly language training, criminal bureau checks and medical insurance for the duration of your trip, but the question is: are these things you could arrange yourself for a little more effort and at a fraction of the cost?

Don’t be fooled by the phrasing when it comes to money – whether you are asked for a programme fee outright or a ‘donation’ towards the cause, it amounts to the same thing. You have to pay for your placement. End of. And if you feel the company you have chosen is worthy and honourable, go for it. I did with Volunteer Africa and I don’t regret my decision. Of my £1,950 programme fee (for a twelve week placement) I was assured that nearly half would go directly to the project itself – in this case two orphanages in Mwanza, northern Tanzania – with the remainder covering my accommodation, language training week in Dar es Salaam and the company’s own costs to keep the programme running. During my stay VA sent a health advisor to talk to us about avoiding malaria as well as two trustees to purchase essential items for the volunteer compound, so I felt my money was in responsible hands. And, importantly, as a lone female traveller with worried parents sitting at home biting their nails down to the stubs over my safety, it certainly seemed wise to go with a reputable company who could provide such a service.

But after spending a few months in Africa I have come to realise you don’t have to pay the earth for your placement. If money is no issue and you are happy to use a reputable company that charges a fortune but promises a first-rate service then that is, of course, up to you. But if money is a real sticking point and you are prepared to put in a little more effort and take a chance, waiting until you are in your country of choice before searching for a placement may well mean you spend significantly less and find something just as rewarding.

On my travels through both Tanzania and Kenya I have heard, through word-of-mouth, of many small institutions – both schools and orphanages – that are desperate for volunteers but lack the means to advertise for them. Often, they are more than happy to offer free accommodation in exchange for whatever service can be offered, meaning volunteers don’t need to spend a penny other than to cover their own living costs. Admittedly they cannot provide the ‘support’ that is offered by the larger agencies (though if you have fully comprehensive travel and health insurance you shouldn’t really need it) but you do get to hang on to your money and spend it when you see an urgent need, at the source and on your own terms.

Beware those companies who charge a fee to find you a placement but don’t actually give any of your money to the projects in question. Rarely do they throw up anything that you couldn’t have found yourself through more extensive research, so whilst for cash-rich, time poor people they can offer a viable solution, they can also make those less financially blessed souls feel frustrated and, to some extent, conned out of their money. When I reached the Imani Agape orphanage in Kisii, western Kenya – a placement found for me by 2Way Development which charges a fee of £850 – I was sad to realise just how much difference my £850 would have made to the project itself, but after paying the fee to the organisation I had comparitively little to spare. Had I contacted the orphanage directly, I later found out, I would have been offered accommodation entirely free of charge.

The bottom line is this. Everyone is different, with different requirements and expectations of volunteering abroad. But before you commit yourself to a volunteer placement make sure you do two things. Firstly, read the small print to see exactly where your money is going, and secondly, set your budget and stick to it. Don’t be shoe-horned into paying more than you can afford as you will only regret it later. The important thing to remember is that whether your budget is big or small, there is an option out there to suit you.

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This photo was taken on my first volunteering placement in Mwanza, Tanzania, in 2007. I have such happy memories of these children and their happy, smiling faces. I often wonder where they are now, and hope that they’re happy.

The things that really matter

Yesterday I heard some tragic news about an old friend, and it’s put everything into sharp perspective. So many people (myself sadly included) go through life worrying about things that might not even happen, taking the people they love for granted – taking life itself for granted. But what they are failing to appreciate, or perhaps refusing to acknowledge, is that life is precious, and it’s fragile. So fragile that it can be snuffed out in an instant, without warning.

I’ve always been a big believer in things happening for a reason, but when tragic accidents happen and rob beautiful, young and vibrant people of their lives and futures, I find it hard to fathom what possible reason there could be.

If nothing else perhaps such awful tragedies can help us to appreciate the importance of living life to the full, appreciating every second and taking nothing and no one for granted.

Last night I went to Birmingham for a reunion with some of my closest friends from my university days. I couldn’t have been amongst a more supportive group of people when I found out the sad news. Today three of us went back to our halls of residence and walked around the Vale, literally retracing our steps from all those years ago. It was a stunning day, warm and sunny without a cloud in the sky.

As I stood beside the lake with the sun on my face, watching the swans gracefully float past, I felt acutely aware of every detail of my environment. It felt somehow vital to process everything, log it and consign it to my memory bank lest it be forgotten, lest it be the last time I should ever see it.

If you, like me, take too many things – and people – for granted, why not take a few minutes today to tell those closest to you how much they mean to you. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can say today, because you never know what tomorrow will bring.

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Where our university days began..