Excess-Material Girl

Clothes shopping. I'd call it a necessary evil but I do actually find some enjoyment in it, so I'd say I have a love/hate relationship with it. Finding the perfect top/skirt/dress etc, is a difficult mission, but when you find it it's a particularly special moment, one that has the power to put you in a great mood for the rest of the day. I have two big weaknesses; one being food, the other being money-spending. I can barely go a day without spending something, anything. Anything at all. From a Mars bar at the vending machine to a scratch card at the Coop kiosk, I don't feel complete until I've made a transaction at some point during my day. I swear to God I once had a minor panic attack when I realised I'd come home from work minus a carrier bag. I had to run across the road to buy a Wham! bar. Some people are addicted to alcohol, some people are addicted to drugs. My drug is spending. Years ago when I lived in Wales I struggled financially and, consequently, emotionally, as unemployment was high and everybody around me was Welsh. I couldn't shop. I could barely afford bread. It was a depressing time, in more ways than one. I learnt to be very frugal, so once I'd moved back to England and found my feet again I had developed a sensible approach to budgeting and spending. But once I realised I had money left over at the end of the month again my shopping addiction was reinstated and I was back to my normal self again; broke and happy instead of broke and miserable.

Now I've moved in with Darren I'm more careful with my spending. Sort of. The temptation to spend never leaves me. At lunchtimes now I have to go sit down by the harbour and lose myself in a book, or dream about which boat I'm going to buy with all the money I don't have because I can't stop buying Mars bars and scratch cards. (On a separate note, did you ever notice how boat-owners look nothing like you imagine them to look like? I see a huge sparkling white boat and expect Leo DiCaprio or Betty Grable lookalikes to come striding down the jetty. In reality it's more like Leo Sayer and Betty from Coronation Street. Anyway, I digress....). I have responsibilities now; we have a future wedding and a house of our own to think about. I've always wanted to own my home rather than rent, I had ideas of what the décor would look like since I was a kid. But evidently the dream home was always crushed by my burning desire to have matching shoes and bags. I deeply regret this now, but what's done is done. I've finally found a job I enjoy and I have an opportunity to get saving. I also finally have a partner who's pretty good with money, so we're able to work together at saving. Plus I'm quite good at hiding receipts.

The reason why clothes shopping is a love/hate thing is because of my weight. My weight is up and down more than a schizophrenic off their meds. Although lately I've found my weight is staying very much up. I love food and I hate exercise. I'm in a no-win situation. My biggest bug bear is my stomach. I can't lose it no matter what I do. I'm currently on a bit of a health kick, so watch this space, but for many years I have had issues finding the right size clothing because of my belly. I float between sizes 14 and 16, but I'm now starting to creep into an 18 in certain shops. I once had to do a photo-shoot and the fashion lady told me I was definitely a size 12. I insisted that I was, at the time, a size 14. But she insisted I squeeze into a 12. I came out of the dressing room and was greeted by a smug smile. That smile wasn't so smug when she noticed after the shoot that I'd broken the zip trying to get it done up. It fitted me ok as long as I didn't move. Or breathe. Why am I different sizes in different shops?? It's incredibly annoying. It's even harder trying to buy clothes online. I don't even bother looking at trousers online. I wonder sometimes if certain clothing manufacturers hire blind people in their factory, to make their equal rights statistics look good. Trousers are either too tight around the belly and fit ok in the leg, or fit fine around the belly but have a huge excess of material around the legs - making you look as if your hips are bigger than they are, or giving you a saggy crotch that looks as if you're hiding an extra appendage. My biggest dread is having to buy jeans. They are the bane of my life. I fucking hate low-rise jeans - why on earth would you want the world to see your butt crack every time you crouch down? I don't own a comfortable pair of jeans at the moment, but I'm hoping that changes when I lose the belly fat. I can never wear a pair of jeans if I'm going somewhere that involves sitting down. I feel as if I'm being garrotted. The last time I made that mistake I honestly thought I was going to cough up my spleen. Then there are shops like Miss Selfridge and Topshop, who only now seem to cater for tarty students and hipsters. Ask a sales assistant for a size 18 and they look at you as if you've just admitted to window-licking. You may as well just ask - Do you have this in a size "might-as-well-be-wearing-a-fucking-tent"? It's embarrassing. It's bad enough to be in a dressing room full of walking bags-of-bones moaning about how "fat" they are. Oh forget it, I'll go see if Go Outdoors has a sale on.

Fashion "experts" say "wear a big statement belt and it'll disguise a big tum". No you twat, it doesn't. It looks like a big fucking tum with a big fucking belt accentuating the fact that you need a big fucking belt to hide the big fucking tum!! I tried it; I look like Tweedle-Dee. There is practically nothing you can do to hide a fat belly. Wear loose clothing and you look like an overweight person trying to hide fat. Wear black and you look like an overweight person wearing black. You can buy all the "tummy control" underwear in the world, but don't you realise the fat has to go somewhere..? It doesn't just disappear into space; the underwear just pushes the fat from one place to another! I tried wearing a pair of those control pants a few years ago and it looked as if I had a spare third boob underneath my cleavage.

When you finally manage to find an outfit that you actually feel good in you feel like you could conquer the world. Just you and your black halterneck jumpsuit with zebra-print belt. The feeling of spending money on something fabulous is exhilarating. I love walking through the city armed with shopping bags full of exciting things that I'll want to wear all in one go, as soon as possible. It's just those nagging things that make it soul-less, like bored 17 year old sales assistants who chew gum with their mouth open and can't look you in the eye when they serve you, or weight issues making clothes shopping an often traumatising experience. At the moment I'm sticking with DVDs and shoes, they're more forgiving.

I may not have any life savings, but I'm incredibly proud to say I have a pair of shoes to match every outfit!

Roll Up Roll Up

Bra removal. Probably the most satisfying part of a working woman's day. It's a feeling akin to stepping into a warm Bath after a long day on your feet, or getting out of a hot car at the seaside and feeling the seabreeze on your face. It's right up there with peeing after a long wait for the toilet, and that first bacon sandwich after a month of dieting. Bras are evil. A necessary evil. Nobody likes saggy tits.

When I buy a sexy bra I imagine it's going to make me look like a Victoria's Secret model. I'll put on that red satin deep plunge D-cup beauty and become instantly 2 stone slimmer. In reality I look like a sack of Maris Pipers, wearing pretty underwear. All the same, I know the right bra to make my cleavage look awesome. I'm fairly well-endowed so I've no real need for a booster bra. But then again, that's like saying a woman with nice hair has no need for a brush; you're blessed with a great asset but who's to say you can't make that asset even better. A booster bra is like makeup, it's an enhancement worn to make yourself feel good. Going out to a busy cocktail bar? Want to get served quick? Get yourself a boost! I know feminists everywhere would be a throwing their hairy armpits up in the air and declaring me a embarrassment to women, but at least I'll be an embarrassment with a nice cold drink. Of course at the opposite end of the scale, having people talking to your tits can become a little tiresome. When you have big norks it happens whether you show the cleavage or not. Jeered if you do, Jeered if you don't.

I wonder if that amazing feeling of setting the puppies free would be as amazing if I were a teeny size 8 frame..? Any woman of, how should I put this. ..cuddly, frame, will know that under-wired bras are the most uncomfortable items when you have a belly like Winnie the Pooh. I have more rolls than a Greggs delivery van. My stomach is more cheese board than washboard. Yet still, I can't stop bloody eating. Do I want to look gorgeous in my new Ann Summers bra? Of course I do. Do I want to sit down at my desk and not look like a pile of spare tyres? O for course. But I'll tell you what I also love; food. Damn food. Damn Walkers crisps and Snickers. Why can't salad taste as good as egg fried rice? I want to look good. I want to feel good and not hate myself every time I accidentally make myself a bacon and egg sandwich. As much as I love that bra releasing feeling, I'd rather stick to the warm bath and seabreeze and look like Winnie the Whoo. ..not Winnie the Pooh. I believe a diet and exercise regime is in order. Watch this space! If you're lucky, I'll show you my new bra. Minus the cheeseboard.

Sandy and Settled

I love living near the seaside. I'm lucky really because, man...have I lived in some shitty towns. The less said about Neath in Wales the better; I've never seen so many Red Stripe drinking chavs on benefits in one single town. Walthamstow, Romford, Ipshit...I mean Ipswich, Norwich. All have their own character and I do have some lovely memories, but they don't come close to the luxury of living in the countryside with the beach just a ten minute drive away. It's relative peace compared to living in Norwich and Ipswich, and definitely more laid-back than East London and Essex. I have found that over the years I've become less "towny" and more "greeney". I want to look out of my window at 10pm on a summer evening and see green fields and trees, pretty flowers, wildlife etc - not some bloke in fake Prada puking up my Begonias, or a "Wag" wannabe in gold lame screaming at her boyfriend/pimp for not holding her shoes. When I was younger I bawked at the idea of moving somewhere more than 3 yards away from a shop. I found the nightlife about as exciting as pottery. I cried out in despair "What do you mean the clubs close at 1am"??? Upon watching the local news I found it hilarious that the breaking news of the day was that an old lady lost her handbag in Tesco and somebody found it and gave it back to her. If we were still living in Walthamstow it wouldn't even be considered newsworthy if the old lady had it stolen and was punched in the face. It would be a way of life. Now I'm older and I long for news stories to be lost handbags, rather than the depressing stuff we have to hear about. I would also prefer a hot chocolate and duvet/film night over a night out clubbing, any day! Of course I enjoy going out and having the odd cocktail or three or ten, but at the end of the evening I'm dying for a cup of tea and a change out of my heels to my slippers. Netflix and chill eh?

Lowestoft beach is something I took for granted, I realised this when I moved to the boil on the arse of England that is Neath. All the time I'd lived in Lowestoft before I moved to Wales and I was surprised by how little time I'd spent appreciating the beautiful beach. I now live in the countryside and a little further away from the beach, but still within a nice driving distance, and that's where I spent my afternoon today with Darren and his son. I will say, as much as I lament, seaside towns have their drawbacks. Namely; tourists. Every single car park through July and August is bloody rammed. They all walk around, glassy-eyed and mouth-breathing, wearing clothes far too inappropriate for their body shape and sporting a shiny shade of pink across their whole body. They spend twenty minutes deciding which ice-cream flavour to buy and spend even longer  telling their fifteen children to stop chucking chips at the seagulls. Fuck off back home, towny wankers.

Lowestoft beach itself is pretty nice compared to most. Although I do remember it being much sandier when we first moved to this town. There are so much more stones! You want to venture into the sea for a dip, you don't want to soak your shoes, so you remove your shoes before tiptoeing gingerly across the shingle. Each little pebble feels like it's slicing it's way into your soul, getting seemingly sharper with each step. You are aware that you look like you've shit your pants, the look on your face is that of a person who feels like they've shit their pants, and your feet are screaming out for Savlon. You finally reach the sea after what seems like the longest walk ever, and you spot a brat peeing into the waves. Back through the walk of pain again. Why is there always some little gobshite chucking sand around you when you're trying to sunbathe? Or some twat with a football? There could be nobody else on the beach, not one single soul, and this twat will somehow manage to get the ball to land right on your face. You are not David Beckham; you are a wanker. Go find a football pitch and practise your poor skills there! Frisbees make me nervous. Especially when kids throw them. Kids throw like 'tards. I think as a general rule footballs and Frisbees should be banned from beaches. Kids should have a special section of the beach where they can't bother the sunbathers, who don't want to be covered in sand and dripping ice-creams. I have the over-whelming urge to stamp over their sandcastles. Seagulls are another obstacle. Those beady-eyed little tossers watching your every move and sizing up your ice-cream/chips/doughnut. I witnessed one actually dive-bombing a chip-eating tourist once. Although admittedly I did find that rather amusing. If they're not bullying you like a gang of thugs they're emptying their bowels down your nice beachwear. Cunts. There's no other word for them.

Despite my issues with beach life I still prefer it to concrete, Red Stripe and rising crime rate. It's worth the sore, sandy, clammy skin and knotted hair. All these hours later, even after a shower, I'm still finding sand in my scalp and ear. You could probably build a sandcastle with the amount of sand that came away from me in the shower. I'd probably knock it down though.