The Single Girl's Guide to the Doctors

My feelings towards going to the Doctor’s fluctuate depending on how antagonistic I’m feeling. If I’m ill, I know that I’m ill and somebody else telling me isn’t going to make me feel better. And anyway, my local surgery is just ridiculous. It takes all your snotty effort to phone them, only to be told they have no appointments…unless it’s urgent, in which case you can ‘drop in’ between the hours of 11.30 and the first Tuesday of 2016, to see the duty doctor.

 

Previously, my response to 'is it urgent?' has been, 'yeah, I’d say so; I can’t see out of one eye…' which was deemed important enough that I was encouraged to sit in the waiting room from 11.30 until who knows when just in case a doctor became available. However, I have recently figured out a sure-fire way for any girl to secure an appointment…

 

'Is it urgent?'

'Uhm yeah.'

'Could I ask what it is that’s wrong?'

'Well, I’m on the pill, and…'

 

Sorted!

 

I think (well, I hope I’m not the only one) that any girl will have experienced the way that whatever reason you are at the Doctor’s, you will always be confronted with that dreaded, awkward question…

 

'Are you sexually active?'

 

This question is just fine if you’re in a relationship! You can answer a very simple 'yes', perhaps followed by the story of how you met and a to-the-second update on how long you have been together.

 

So what’s the answer if you’re single?!

 

Never mind, I think my red chinos, buttoned up colour, and cardigan with foxes on was saying something quite the contrary to ‘absolute sex goddess’…

 

The awkwardness begins to peak as it’s time to take off clothes. Unbuttoning my trousers*, which is strange enough as it is, especially if like me you decide it to be an ideal time to make eye contact with your Doctor, I had that crazy panic which I’m pretty sure everyone else does (okay, maybe just me)… What knickers am I wearing? Have I shaved my legs?

 

(For the record, I had ridiculous yellow and pink spotty knickers on which made my arse resemble that of Mr. Blobby, and no, I hadn’t shaved my legs…)

 

The crazy thing is – and I know Doctor’s genuinely don’t care what knickers I’m wearing – but I don’t even know what underwear I would deem suitable to be wearing. Anything too lacy, stringy or see-through would surely be a bit on the slutty side, but anything featuring cute frogs or Disney characters isn’t highlighting your maturity levels and making your health (sexual, or otherwise) seem that paramount…

 

Since I’m tapping into the part of my brain where I store all my awkward situations… when I went for my Cervical Cancer jabs when I was sixteen, the (male) Doctor advised me to remove my shirt for the injections… this really wasn’t necessary… I had a short-sleeved t-shirt on.

 

Perv.

 

Now excuse me whilst I eat an apple a day.

 

Harriet Baker

* After receiving a text from my friend saying "Why did you have to take your trousers off at the Doctors?!", I feel I need to justify that I was at the Doctor's coz I have dodgy legs and my chino's were too tight (or maybe my calves were too fat) to roll them up. Thus, I had to take them off. Ok?!

The Single Girl's Guide to the Olympics.

Since both Cadbury’s and Coca Cola are backing London 2012 I couldn’t really feign ignorance… Most of our Olympic budget has been spent on building various stadiums we don’t really need – and when I say don’t need I’m not being political… I mean Southampton has a swimming and diving pool and it would be far more convenient for me to make Tom Daley my husband if he were in the same city as me.

27 Million British Pounds were spent on the Olympic opening ceremony on Friday night, and despite my general sense of Olympic pessimism, I thought it was spot on. Danny Boyle truly showed the courage, imagination and enthusiasm of Britain. I’ve heard a lot of criticism of the show, but if it can inspire pride in even a handful of sceptics, I think Boyle, and the zillions of performers and volunteers achieved what London 2012 is all about. Nevertheless, after the parade of the competitors, which made me question both my knowledge of world geography and the length of the alphabet, I couldn’t quite help feeling that my Olympic interest had peaked.

My lampooning nature returned in strong spirits both because of the Queen’s quite blatant disinterest in the whole affair, and the fact that after all of the other countries showed off beautiful, traditional outfits, Team GB rocked up looking like chavvy space-men.

Despite my genuine lack of interest in anything other than Tom Daley, gymnastics and all the other dancey prancey sports; I don’t want to miss out on this cultural event, and so I’ve channelled my interest the only way I truly know how, and I will now share this with you.

HARRIET’S TOP 5 OGGLE-WORTHY OLYMPIANS.

5) Ryan Lochte
America
Swimming

4) Jack Green
UK
Athletics

3) Mark Knowles
Australia
Hockey

2) Thomas Pichler
Australia
Gymnastics

1) Tom Daley
UK
Diving

You're so welcome.

Harriet Baker

The Single Girl's Guide to Driving

We bumped into some old friends yesterday. My wife was driving.

I like to think I’m a reasonably good, safe driver, unless of course something out of the ordinary occurs, like other cars on the road. Or pedestrians. Or cyclists – they’re the worst. Or tractors, dustbin trucks, road works, animals… 

But, of course, I am a 'woman driver'. Which is just the worst type of driver you can be, obviously… but why?

I have been driving for two years, and if you know me then I know you’re thinking about the number of attempts it took me to pass my test, but that is beside the point. Assessments in driving, whether within the realm of insurance, maintenance or even parking spaces, are based on gender. But why?! Surely, and perhaps I am being a little ignorant here, there is no definitive evidence to suggest that all men are fantastic drivers, whilst women become a risk to everyone within a two hundred mile radius the minute they can see a car.

A mayor of a town in Germany designated particularly “hard” parking spaces to be just for men whilst wider, well-lit spaces close to the exits of the car park were specifically for women, and although it turned out to be a bit of a publicity stunt as opposed to outright sexism, it got me thinking… especially since today my lovely little Sunmobile had to go to the garage for its M.O.T.

One of the designated parking spaces in the German city of Triberg.

Last year, taking Sunshine for her M.O.T, which she passed of course because she’s wonderful, the men in the garage parked her, ready for collection, in just the most ridiculous way. I had to do about a twenty-three million point turn before I could leave. And they just stood there. Watching. Laughing. (Well maybe they weren’t laughing, but three of them just stood in a row to observe my dodgy driving). It was horrid, and so today I made a decision to swallow my pride and reinforce all gender stereotypes:

Mr Car Man: 'Miss Baker, your car is ready for collection now.'

Me: 'Could you please ensure that it is easy for me to drive it out of the garage?'

They did it! And when I got there I was so relieved that it was not going to be a repeat of the previous year’s driving shenanigans that I did not feel any embarrassment at all. So whilst I disagree with the unnecessary assumptions of female and male driving skills, I admit I am disgraceful at parking and getting out of stressful situations… and so I welcome designated areas for useless parkers…

However, it isn't just parking where women are provided various allowances...

image courtesy of http://www.sheilaswheels.com/

Sheila's Wheels, an insurance company designed specifically for women, offers the following under their comprehensive car insurance:

• 'Free 24-hour confidential counselling'
• 'Handbag cover up to £300', you know, for all our precious lipsticks and whatnot.

And my personal favourite...

• 'Female-Friendly Repairers', who, most likely, all have to do a pre-employment misogynist test. 

But it's not only Sheila's Wheels who are exploiting our own presumptions that we're second-rate drivers in comparison to men. My Purple Garage (in my hometown), which sounds a little bit like something you can buy from The Early Learning Centre, prides itself on being 'where women in the know go'.

Ladies, whilst I am thrilled that you've found a garage you're comfortable with going to, an uncomfortable number of the reviews on the website reviewed the colour of the garage to be one of the positives. Seriously?! No wonder we have this reputation!

Hands up if you're a hypocrite...! Here are some female driver stereotypes which I happily display: I've named my car, in fact all my female driving friends have named cars, many of which are in some form of relationship - romantic or otherwise - with Sunshine. Furthermore I have a cuddly ladybird named Dot who sits in my car, not to mention my Snoopy seatbelt covers.

But this is what annoys me. I can be driving bang on (usually a little over, but shh) the speed limit in my yellow Ford Ka and I guarantee at least one car will overtake me on every journey I take. I can be a passenger in my Dad's Mini Cooper or Alex's black Ford Focus, driving at exactly the same speed I would be, and cars will happily stay behind. It is as if people see a 'female' car, and just predict slow or dodgy driving.

It will not be until the end of the year that insurance companies will be stop being allowed to calculate their insurance costs dependant on gender, and whilst I'm all for gender equality, I just cannot see it happening within motoring mind-sets... and I'm not sure I care too much.

Apologies for a very indifferent, conclusion free article.

Harriet Baker

The Single Girl's Guide to Magaluf

I never realised it was possible to judge the tone of a holiday from the flight alone until I was on the 05.40 from Gatwick to Palma last Thursday, and the group of twelve lads sat in front of me (who I can only guess were holidaying in celebration of one of them hitting puberty) decided it was acceptable to wolf-whistle the air hostess not only when she was pointing out the emergency exits – coz safety is so sexy – but for the entire flight. Then ordering those tiny, over-priced beers, all before 7 a.m.

Palma International Airport serves the infamous party destination of Magaluf, also known for reasons I need not explain as Shagaluf. I stayed in Palma Nova, about a twenty-five minute walk away from Magaluf and the location of two types of people:
1) Those who didn’t realise how close Palma Nova is to Magaluf, and
2) Those who are pretending they didn’t realise how close Palma Nova is to Magaluf.

You can decide which category I fell into… either way, my friends and I adopted the flawless phrase of “When in Maga…”, and handed over our Monopoly-money-Euros for tickets for our weekend in Magaluf, despite being half-warned by the receptionists at our hotel that “we seem like nice girls”…

It all started at 3 p.m on Magaluf beach where we boarded BCM’s Boat Party – also known as a Booze Cruise. I was doomed the moment I uttered that fateful phrase: “I’m not going to drink that much”… If you don’t like drunk people, or stupid drinking games then never ever go on a Boat Party… and if you do, and it’s your Birthday, don’t admit it – unless you want a guy sitting on you with his mangina.

The DJ on the boat was just horrendous, and didn’t get any less horrendous the more I drank – every time he told a girl to get her tits out I could feel feminism backtracking. Don’t worry though, according to my friends I let him know what I thought of him.

Post-Boat Party, I found myself in another bar before attempting to return to the hotel. Imagine the walk home from a club in England, say at about 2 a.m – make-up is crumbling off your face and you’re walking like a newborn giraffe? Well that was me, but at about 6.30 in the evening, just as the sophisticated but geography-challenged vacationers of Palma Nova were preparing for an evening stroll or a nice dinner.

After passing out for a while, we then left for Magaluf one more time at about 2 a.m. After a few clubs we went to BCM: the largest club on the island. Two words: Free. Bar.

So Magaluf has this dodgy reputation which I don’t think is wholly deserved. Yes, my friends were chatted up by two guys who walked away the minute they refused to go back to their hotel. And yes, I did spot a cheeky condom on the floor of the water party.

Magaluf is like double-strength orange squash without any water…
I’ve met the sort of guys and girls in Magaluf all over the place: Southampton, Liverpool… I’ll never forget the unexpected and unwelcome back massage I was given outside a club in the South of France a few years ago; it’s just that in Magaluf it’s so much more concentrated. Sex is expected and easy... but it's optional.

However, I often make the assumption in clubs at home that guys in clubs or bars aren’t worth any serious consideration. But hang on, I’m out with my friends in a club, and we’re nice, normal girls. Plus my male friends go out, and they’re decent… and I suddenly, drunkenly realised that the same applies to Shagaluf.  

So don’t be put off by the prospect of having to wear a full on wetsuit to avoid the std filled sea… if you love going out then I would fully recommend Magaluf. I had the best night out of my life, and I’ve been out a lot.

And anyway, some of the names of the beaches, hotels or bathrooms of a restaurant would make pretty original baby names…

Harriet Baker


Thank you to my best friends Becca and Alice, who fully had my back in Magaluf, and for filling in the blanks so I could write this article :)

The Single Girl’s Guide to the Bewilderment and Bollocks of Dating

In this article I will attempt to uncover the level of bollocks in a series of, what I consider to be, frequent problematic assumptions within the realm of relationships.

1)      “We can just spoon”

Unless he’s gay, she’s gay, he’s completely sizzled, she’s paralytic or she’s feeling menstruriffic, this always leads to something – if not everything – else.

2)      Nice guys finish last…

My lovely Mum once told me that I should be friends with a guy before we start ‘going out’, and whilst this has worked (I use the term ‘worked’ loosely, obviously it didn’t work coz I’m spending my Saturday night watching Eurovision and writing an article about being single) for me before, nowadays it seems to me that girls drop the dreaded ‘F’ bomb the minute a guy is nice, interesting and seems to care.

I love my guy friends – I mean they let me write this superficial waffle for The Pessimist Chronicles – and I spend my time envying the lucky girls that they will one day put a ring on, but I don’t want them for myself. The friendship grenades have been thrown and the result is a crazy explosion of amazing friendships J

 If she opens up to you emotionally, you may as well chuck your parents the papers to adopt her as your sister.

If she tells you about the guys she’s ‘seeing’, do you really think she is romantically interested in you?

But to all you nice guys out there – don’t change. Sure, the idiots always seem to get made breakfast by the girls who spend hours crying down the phone to you, but this doesn’t have to be the way! If she’s honestly worth sacrificing friendship for then still be nice, but make it clear that she’s special.  Nice guys can finish first; you just gotta stop her lighting the fuse on the ‘F’ bomb.

3)      “I can usually do this with one hand”…

Look, I can’t undo my own bra with one hand, in fact when I put it on in the morning I do the crazy sexy thing of doing it up at the front then spinning it round. So, whilst I will be reasonably impressed if you remove it in a James Bond-esque manner, it’s not really standard bra behaviour.

If you don’t have an 100% one-handed-bra-removal rate, don’t bother trying. It’s just embarrassing and a bit awkward.

As the infinitely wise Shania Twain once said, “That don’t impressa me much”.

4)      “I’m not like other guys/girls”
Pretending to be someone you’re not is just never a good idea. Fine, if mission is accomplished after you trick them into “just a spoon”. But what happens, god forbid, if you're still seeing them sixth months down the line?

How do you explain the fact that you’ve stopped going to Church? That you don't actually like N*Sync? That you're naturally an idiot? You're married...? What happens when your friends  drunkenly call them “Number 30” to their face, when they think you’ve only slept with two people?
How do you tell her you don’t like musicals? She’d rather go with her friends and enjoy it, then have you to her left trying to figure out how many over-priced Maltesers you need up your nose and in your mouth before you stop breathing.

Whilst it’s embarrassing when my friends tell guys I meet that I love comics, and reading and cats, I’ve come to the realisation it’s best they know from the word ‘Go’, rather than find out when they enter my creepy library of cats. That’s not a euphemism, but I think it should be.

5)      “My ex was a …”

…Slut, Idiot, Nutter…

If they’re calling their ex that, they will probably talk about you like that a few months down the line. Plus it shows they cannot accept any responsibility for their part in a failed relationship. Also it’s mean.

Similarly:

… Model, Porn-star, Royal, Volunteer for every Charity, ever.

Some things don’t need to be shared, comparisons are always unnecessary.

So that was super helpful.
Now let’s put our prettiest dresses  and smartest shirts on and hit the bars...

I’m ready…

Harriet Baker

The Single Girl's Guide to Keeping Fit

Whilst I wouldn’t mind being a size smaller, this is not about losing any weight. This is about the fact that I get out of breath walking to the kitchen for my second breakfast, or mid-afternoon snack.

I refuse to go the gym because the gym is just people paying an insane monthly fee to look at each other sit on machines and occasionally lift something the weight of a kitten, or stride away on an elliptical trainer on a setting so low that it’s like you’re chilling out on Mars. 

I refuse to join a University sports team. If you are on a sports team then, like my Dad who was an absolute football hero at University, you will find it hard to understand how ridiculously intimidating sports teams are to everyone else. I played girls football and ran until year 9, at which point an invisible force comes along, causing everyone to become competitive and angry and destroying all traces of fun. So, I turned my back on sport, devoted all my time to Art, joined the Poetry Society and discovered an irrepressible taste for cookies (all the while, killing my already slim chances with any of the hot, sporty, popular boys - or any boys come to think of it).

So I go running. Sometimes. Rarely.  
I am the Queen of Excuses with exercise. I won’t run if it’s sunny, coz I’ll get too hot. I won’t run if it’s raining, coz I might slip over. I won’t run if its daylight because people will see me. I won’t run at night-time because people will attack me.
As you can see, the window of time which I deem suitable for running is probably about fifteen minutes every two months, and then I’m probably busy eating cake or going for a cheeky cider or five at Spoons.

So, I bought a Workout DVD. To be specific, it’s Ministry of Sound’s ‘Pump It Up’ – apparently, it is the ‘Ultimate Dance Workout’.
These are the girls who are teaching and encouraging me on my path to fitness:

I think they might be robots.

Nevertheless, I do actually do my Workout DVD quite regularly, and (now I’m showing off a little here), I have progressed onto ‘Powermix 2’. However, any amicable feelings for Dominique and her girls (robots) always deteriorate about fifteen minutes in. As I drag my gasping, sweating body towards a glass of water and multiple inhalers, Dominique reminds me to “keep breathing”.
In dedication to fitness, I can get over how awkward these girls’ tight little hotpanttyleggingshittylittlecroptops are , however I reach a whole new level of awkward when Dominique tells me to “get into a nice deep squat”.  

You can squat off, love.

On Wednesday my friends persuaded me to go to Zumba. If you know me, then this is just ridiculous. I struggle to walk from A to B without finding something to trip over (usually my own outrageously large feet), let alone participate in a crazy mash-up of samba, tango, belly dancing, mambo and salsa!  But I went, and I was fully loving life. It’s fun, chilled and the session I went to had a fantastic range of ages and ability. But I can’t help thinking that what made it so fun was that I was with my friends who fully appreciated it when I completely made-up an entire new move.
Nevertheless, a whole new (and quite justified) excuse was born: I will not go to Zumba alone.

So that’s my attempt at keeping fit and because this article has been ultimately pointless, and a bit of self-justification that I'm not completely lazy, here are my top three tips to keep fit and look and feel yummy J

1)      It doesn’t matter what size you wear, as long as it fits.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said this to women at work. Sizes are just ridiculous nowadays. Not only do I wear different sizes from shop to shop, but I wear different sizes within one shop. If you have to go up a size, it doesn’t matter. Wearing a size that fits is better than wearing something which is grabbing your lumps and bumps.

2)      Don’t go mental with the whole fitness thing.
Coz this chick:

Looks ridiculously like this guy:

Just a thought, ignore your BMI. It’s an outdated and inappropriate way to check your weight because the measurements cannot distinguish between lean and fatty mass… which means if you’re super hench then it’ll think you’re overweight.

3)      Do what makes you happy.
I know this is cliché, and also far more easily said than done. Only ever change for yourself.


Harriet Baker

The Single Girl’s Guide to Being a Pathetic Single Girl

It has been said that hypocrisy is great fodder for comedy and I’ve got a massive issue with people who make Facebook statuses which are so clearly directed at somebody. Said ‘somebody’ will almost inevitably see it before spending the next week contemplating how passive aggressive it will be to ‘like’ the status in question.

Today a girl I went to school with (not too sure I’ve ever actually spoken to her in my life… might delete her off Facebook now…) made such a status which, although I doubt it was, seemed like it was aimed at little old me. Unfortunately she has now deleted the status (probably couldn’t cope with the passive aggressive ‘liking’ that ensued) so I cannot recreate it here with fidelity. Basically it said how people who post Facebook statuses about being single just look desperate and pathetic.

Ouch.

I spent the next half hour Facebook stalking myself to see if I was that girl… Luckily I don’t think that this was me, the only reference towards my singlepringledom being my verbatim statusing of this hilarious exchange between my parents:

Mum: "You don't want to end up left on the shelf, Harriet".

Dad: "She won't be left on the shelf. There's plenty of blind people."

Nevertheless, pathetic paranoia has set in…

I never really realised until a few weeks ago, but I self-deprecate like Susan Boyle on Britain’s Next Top Model.*

My main points of self-deprecation are:

1) My relationship status… case in point: this series of articles.

2) My weight

3) My intelligence, or lack thereof – see, there’s an example right there.

I would count belittlement to be a prevalent personality trait in many Britons. Nevertheless, be it with the intention of humour, attention seeking or out of a genuine sense of self-loathing, at what point does self-deprecation actually just become pathetic?

Now, I have had this article on the go for a good three weeks now and I haven’t quite got an answer to my question, so I am handing it over to the wonderful readers of The Pessimist Chronicles…

What would you prefer in a friend, lover, co-captain, hamster or any other relationship…
self-confidence or self-deprecation? (Sorry, no middle-ground allowed)

Harriet Baker

* That was mean, sorry SuBo L Here’s a picture of an insanely happy fish to make up for it.

Introducing... The Single Girl's Guide to Being Single

With Cadbury’s endorsing the Olympics, I have been forced to consider just how terrible I am at sport. Nevertheless, if there is one thing I can guarantee, it’s a gold medal in being single.

Sure, the first cut is the deepest and at first I was afraid, I was petrified, but I’m an independent woman (some mistake us for whores), and I don’t need a man to make me feel good; I get off doing my thing.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a series of intense, man-hating articles (Will Green has already told me such literature is not welcome here). Instead, I plan to enlighten the wonderful readers of The Pessimist Chronicles on the various boring, embarrassing events of my single life which, as many friends have told me, only ever seem to happen to me. At the same time I hope to provide a little guidance (or at least a paradigm of what to desperately avoid) for all those single pringles out there. J

It was not my intention to write any more than an introduction to this today, but with the lovely, sunny weather we have at the moment, it seems the perfect time for the first official, although very succinct installment of The Single Girl’s Guide to Being Single…

The Single Girl’s Guide to Shaving in the Summer

Last weekend, an entire hour of Ryan Gosling dreamtime was cruelly snatched away in preparation for summer. The sun seems to be smiling down upon us earlier than usual this year, and so it is time to buy this:

Whilst my wardrobe is looking very happy and Topshop’s profit margins are up, my routine longs for those cold winter days where my stubbly stilts were hidden beneath thick leggings and uggs.

(Now, to any guys reading this, avert those judging eyes. You complain about shaving that little bit of fluff from your face… try, just for a minute, to contemplate the surface area of a girl’s body that you expect to be de-haired)

So, the sun caught me by surprise this week and, whilst in the shower I was confronted with a tricky decision:

a)      Spend a good ten minutes shaving my legs and sacrifice my morning bowl of Frosties, or

b)      Wear leggings and feel like this guy for the rest of the day:

And then it hit me like a low-flying pigeon… only shave what’s going to be seen! (I would advise shaving an additional inch or two higher than necessary, especially if – like me – you lift your trousers up like an old man before you sit down). So, with my beloved chinos as my outfit of choice, I honestly just shaved the bottom half of my calves (which, alone is a substantial surface area…), thus preserving self-confidence, social expectations and my bowl of Frosties.

Genius. You can thank me later.

Harriet Baker