Just before Christmas last year, I took an uber home from Oxford Street with two girls I had never met before. I never saw either of them again. Alas, this is not a story of the universe conspiring to form fateful, undying friendships.

I had finished work in Soho late, which wasn’t unusual. The underground was closed, so I walked to the bus stop outside the flagship Urban Outfitters to await the trusty N8, which would take its sweet time along the way, but would deliver me essentially door to door. Only on this particularly chilly night, the next N8 wasn’t due for another fifty two minutes. I checked citymapper and prayed, fleabag style, that one would ‘magically appear’, cresting the hill like a red behemoth beast. But it didn’t. It was already past one and I was due back at work at eleven. Just as I was about to despair, salvation came in the form of two similarly stranded girls, also bereft by the lack of N8. We decided in the style of true sisterhood to share an uber. I was the only one with battery on my phone, so I booked us a car and within minutes we were on our way. Uber being relatively new to me at this time (I held out, living in london without it for 3 years, because i reasoned -since proved correctly- that it would drain my bank balance) I didn’t know you could set a location with multiple stop offs, so set the destination for my address with the other two reasoning they could leap out whenever they spotted they were on home ground. Our driver, Andreas, was charming and courteous from the off. He called us, to say that he was waiting down a smaller side street, so we wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding traffic when getting into the car. He let us charge our phones, providing cables and usb sockets. Asked whether we preferred music or quiet. He was intrigued to learn as we chatted a little, that we were not in fact, friends on the way home from a night out. When we explained our situation and how the three of us had come to be sardined in the back of his car, he laughed, and seemed charmed at the idea of girls clubbing together to stay safe. ‘You’d never see three lads do that’. He was probably right.
Without any of us asking, and without charging us on the app, he quietly insisted on taking each of us to our respective addresses, even allowing the last girl to rebook him on her own freshly charged phone, for the last leg of her journey.

As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I felt giddy and alive. Lying in bed, I mused on what a strange, benevolent night it had been. I would be knackered come morning, and yes the N8 would have been cheaper. But my faith in humanity, my belief in the power of good, was soaring. A stranger had gone out of his way, spared his time, probably put himself out of pocket, all to make sure three young girls got home safe.
It may seem like a small event now, inconsequential, as so many things do given our current situation. But it got me thinking; how many of our lives are different because of an act of kindness by a stranger?

It turns out, writing during this outbreak, is pretty tricky. Something I began writing two weeks ago is now not only irrelevant but inappropriate. The narrative has changed. Two weeks ago, we were laughing about this. How awful that seems now.

I’ve put pen to paper so many times to write about solidarity, friendship, the heroism of the NHS workers. But with the state of play shifting day in, day out, I don’t feel I can do any of these topics justice. It doesn’t feel right.

One thing that seems to be a recurring theme amongst most people. Is a feeling of helplessness. Of wanting to help, wanting to do something, but not knowing how or what. I am no doctor. I am no scientist. I don’t know what will happen over the next three months. I could tell you to stay positive, or to drink water, find a new routine. I could tell you to wash your hands. But who am I to say any of those things to you?

So what I choose to say instead is this: If ever you have depended on the kindness of a stranger, return the favour now. Stay home. Strangers everywhere, people you will never meet, need you to stay at home. Until far too recently, we as a country had no idea how important this was. But we do know now. And whilst the consequences of ignoring this quarantine might not be immediately visible, they exist, and they are devastating. But we are not helpless. The greatest kindness, we, the general public can do for those most at risk, is to put aside our personal wants and desires. And simply: Stay At Home.

Love,

The Buzz Girl

xx

P.S. Should you feel compelled to do something…

https://www.goodsamapp.org/nhsvolunteerresponders

London is one of the most multicultural cities in the world. Approximately one third of londoners were born outside the UK. Across the streets of london, over 200 languages are spoken, by as many different races of people. So it’s surely no surprise, that after the election last month, morale in this city, was low.

So far, I’ve refrained from making this blog political. However, post election, in anticipation of brexit, I’ve realised two things 1) there’s little harm it can do now, 2) I don’t really care about the kind of people this is bound to alienate.
The phrase ‘Get Brexit Done’ was used so much in the lead up to the general election, it became a buzzword. How easily, and often people bandy this term around, is conclusive proof to me, as to just how many people view brexit as an abstract, distant concept that won’t really affect them. I see a different truth.

I work in a restaurant in Soho. I am one of three British members of staff, in a restaurant of perhaps 25. If anyone interpreted that last sentence as mere proof that ‘the foreigners are stealing our jobs’ stop reading now. Go for a walk. Evaluate the life choices that made you into such a prick.

In the last few weeks, the majority of my colleagues have been applying for their ‘settled’ and ‘pre-settled’ status. I wasnt born in london either, and it seems uncomfortable and incongruous to me, that some of these people have worked in this job for double the length of time that i have, they’ve lived in london for far longer than me, some of them longer than I’ve been alive, and yet they are the ones having to prove their right to be here. They are the ones subject to scrutiny. It angers me.

Maybe it sounds cheesy, but we are a family. A mismatched family of brothers and sisters that all found our way from completely different places. I cannot tell you how broken hearted I would be if this ever changed. How dull a place it would be, if this were not the case.

There are many who say that brexit will have little to no impact on those already living here. Again. I see a different truth. Already I see prejudice creeping into places where it has no business. To the man who jeered at my Romanian colleague ‘look out, brexit is coming for you’ when he couldn’t give you a discount on that bottle of wine you clearly had enough money to buy. You disgust me. You are everything that is wrong this country. I hope it choked you. If only this were an isolated incident. But it isn’t.
Between 2015/16 and 2017/18 the annual increase in racially motivated hate crimes was 27.5%. Nearly double the average variation of 13.6%. Coincidence? I doubt it.
And as for ‘Getting Brexit Done’. I wonder if the people using this phrase really understand what it entails? I can understand that if you live in a remote area, lacking in diversity, perhaps it isn’t immediately obvious as to how brexit will impact your life. Trust me though, it will. When you live in a city, it becomes painfully obvious only too quickly. What’s worse, is there seems to be some unspoken consensus that however detrimental a no deal brexit might be, at this stage, as long as its done quickly, its probably the better option. I know of no historically significant event that was made better by rushing, and I fail to see how this could possibly be any different.

I’ve often been told, that travel is the best education anyone could receive. I’m sure it’s true. And the reason for this? The people you meet along the way? Meeting these people, in this beautiful behemoth of a city, from so many different places, has been an education. Learning about each others lives. Realising how different and how totally the same we are all at once. Laughing together, getting pissed together, arguing together. During Ramadan, we were all of us counting the minutes until sundown, and those fasting could finally eat again. Slowly, gradually, I have built a repertoire of curses in multiple different languages. I remember one glorious day a few months ago, three of my spanish speaking colleagues translated the Macarena for me. My profound love of the Macarena stems from murky school discos where it was the only song I could muster enough courage to dance to, (you can’t go wrong). Turns out, back in 2002 they were dancing to it as well. These may sound like small things. Because they are. But small things are everything.

When I first moved to London, I fell in love with it in a way I hadnt anticipated. I felt there was a place for me here, a life for me to lead, full of colour and opportunities. I belonged. I can only guess that London is, in part, so multiculturally vast, because so many people share this love.
I feel bound to these people far more than I ever did to people growing up in my hometown. Maybe because unlike where you are born, we all chose to be here. In London, we are where we want to be, where we should be. To echo Derry Girls, being a Londoner isn’t about where you come from or what language your mother tongue is. Being a Londoner, it’s a fucking state of mind. It’s a way of life. A heartbeat. It’s understanding that a minute is a pretty long period of time when there’s a bus to be caught. It’s realising that Winter Wonderland is shit, but going every year anyway. It’s understanding that you never, ever, use district or circle line unless you absolutely have to. We all breathe that polluted air. We all fear bank interchange. We can all do the Macarena.
Let’s keep it this way.

Love,

The buzzgirl xxx

For the vast majority of my twenties so far, I’ve been single. And no. This isn’t going to turn into an open discussion regarding the shortcomings of my various exes. However, I do believe one of the things I found most difficult when my first relationship ended a few years ago, was that in him, not only had I found love, I’d also found a fellow adventurer. A partner in crime. In simple terms, I’d found someone to do stuff with. From Gin tasting, to walking aimlessly through London parks, or simply going to the pub. It’s as though when you have a companion you don’t need a reason or an excuse. Because you are each others excuse. When the relationship ended, so did my enthusiasm for being out and about; and for a long time I used being single as an excuse for being anti-social. For being lazy. I did extra shifts at work, or I went home and watched Made In Chelsea with a family sized bag of Maltesers. I did the worst kind of stupid and got myself into a terrible relationship, simply because I was bored and sick of being alone. I then stayed in that relationship despite knowing it was unhealthy just because it enabled me in terms of having a life again. Its for that reason and one other that I don’t regret any of it, terrible as it was. It taught me brutally and unreservedly that being in a relationship with someone you don’t love and to whom you are incredibly ill suited is far more lonely than being alone. 

 I’ve always been instinctively hedonistic. But when you’ve been burnt a few times, there’s a safety to be found in the shadows. It’s a toxic safety though. Latent. Insidious. And in the longrun it’s more destructive than you could ever imagine. 

 In the immediate aftermath of my recent breakup. I found myself examining the bones of our would be future. Immediate and long-term. The cat we would never get, the flat we would never furnish. The painstakingly planned trip to China. Instinctively I began the work of dismantling it all. And then a thought struck me. What if I didn’t? What if I did the things I had planned and longed for with this man, but what if I did them alone? I found, to my surprise and curiosity that I wasn’t sad. I was hungry. This time around, the circumstances were different, or maybe I was different. 

 And so I went to China. I went to many places, sometimes with friends, but often alone. The first flight I took alone, I hyperventilated on the runway. For a time, I relied on my phone as a constant companion. A screen I could stare at to escape the scrutiny that existed only inside my head. Gradually, faster than I had anticipated, it got easier. I sat at bars in unknown cities without depending on social media to keep me occupied. The grappling agony when asking for a table for one subsided. I stopped caring whether people thought I was a sad loner for eating by myself. Truthfully, pretty much nobody thinks that anyway, and even if they did, what do I care? In all likelihood I’ll never see these people again in all my life. Sometimes I took a book. Other times I just watched the ticking over of my surroundings. I had conversations I would never normally have had. I met people, most nice, the odd psychopath.  I can’t remember the exact moment, but somewhere along the way, I realised to my infinite joy, that I wasn’t meant to share these moments with anyone. They were mine alone. There is so much empowerment to be found in going solo. I look back on this past year, and I am proud of the memories I have made for myself.  

Lying on my back in the blue lagoon watching the 3pm Nordic darkness draw in, sharing apple cake with two beautiful befriended Mexicans, sweating and swaying in the crowd of a berlin nightclub to the sounds of a rapper I’ve never heard of. Going solo is wonderful. 

 This is not to say I dont get lonely. I do. I get desperately lonely. Loneliness is the bitch that will drive you into the arms of a tinder hook up, chasing the fix of false intimacy. Loneliness will have you expect so much, too much, unfairly of friends. Loneliness is a funny anecdote without an audience. But the difference now, is that I know: loneliness will pass. To be lonely and to be alone are two very different things. I am the latter. But I refuse to be the first.

It seems to me there is such a lot of negativity surrounding being single. A stigma, of sorts. And there shouldn’t be. Relationships are tricky and rewarding, but so is being single. To give your heart to someone takes courage, but so does claiming it back. People talking about feeling it when something is right, but they don’t talk about admitting it when it’s not. Despite the heartbreak, and the dark times of the last few years, I feel so grateful for this solo period of my life. Without these moments I wouldn’t know the things I know now. I wouldn’t know (Despite occasional doubt I feel obligated to confess) that I am enough. If to the end of my days, I am this. Myself. No more, no less. I am still enough. So book the flight. Go for dinner. Shave Your head. Grab that drink. See solitude as the opportunity that it is, and not a fate you are resigned to. And remember. You are enough.

Love,

The Buzzgirl

xxx

Gender based prejudice is so socially ingrained into us, even the best of us don’t realise we are part of the problem. I learnt recently of a comment made by a friend, upon learning that I had slept with a co-worker, the third in a year.
I bet I’ve already baited some of you into proving my point. Three? In a year? Slut? Depends on your definition. To me, words like slut and slag are socially engineered (made up) words designed to hold women to different standards than men.
‘Wow, she’s working her way through’.
This comment, though no doubt made in passing, without realisation that I’d ever hear about it, is a perfect example.
And I suppose it’s fair enough. But how many women would a guy my age, or thereabouts, have to sleep with to earn the same comments, and the same judgement.
It infuriates me that people view sex as a characteristic of someone’s personality and not just a physical act. Previous comments include: ‘Wow, I didn’t realise you were that kind of girl…’
Didn’t realise what though? That I have a vagina or that I sometimes like to use it. Am I really a different person, in your eyes, because I like to have casual sex sometimes? Or worse ‘You’ve changed’. No. I haven’t changed. You made an assumption about me that proved incorrect, and now you’re punishing me because the truth doesn’t fit with your preconceived perception of me. I haven’t been deliberately hiding a secret side of my personality, I just don’t broadcast my private life. Because it is that, private.

I’ve realised that when I write for this blog, I often fall into the trap of hiding my emotions behind fancy vocabulary and contentious arguments. A method of self protection, probably. But the truth is, when I heard those comments about me, I felt really bad. I felt like I had failed. I felt dirty. I felt like a fuck-up that no one decent would ever want. I felt shit, basically.

I’m not ashamed of anything that I have done, sexually or otherwise. And shaving my head has definitely forced me to care less and less about what other people think of me. But I am a human being. I have feelings and emotions; I’m soft in the middle and my blood runs red. When you make that offhand remark I laugh along with you, because I’m one of the crew, she can take a joke that one, she knows it’s only banter. It’s true, I know you don’t say these things with malice. But it doesn’t stop them hurting.
If you’ve made a comment like that to me, or about me, chances are I’ve probably cried over it.

Make no mistake, this is not a ‘male problem’. Often, women are just as quick to judge other women. The trouble is, until you are on the receiving end, no one tells you how rotten it feels to be besmirched.

And I know I’m not the only affronted party. The last thing I want is to be non-inclusive, or to portray myself as the innocent martyr. I’m sure I have perpetrated comments of an equally harmful nature. I confess, as a teenager I used phrases such as ‘man up’ and ‘that’s so gay’, not realising what a harmful rhetoric this was. I understand that these thoughts and phrases are so latently interwoven into our vocabulary and our ideology, that they seem okay. But they’re not. Suicide is the single biggest killer in the UK of men under 45. In 2018, 84 men took their own lives per week. Considering how taboo the discussion of mental health is amongst males, imagine what the remark ‘man up’ could do to a bloke on the brink of mental collapse.

I accept to an extent that we are socially programmed to think the way we do. That decades –centuries– of double standards and unrealistic gender expectations are, in part, to blame. The sad truth is that this is the world and the society we live in. But we do have the power to change this. And we must.
I saw a glittering, shining light, at the end of the tunnel the other day. I was exchanging views with a friend at work, and he suddenly said to me: ‘Babe, I’ve no idea how many girls I’ve slept with, and do you think i ever ask a girl that question? It’s not important to me.’ I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear those words until he said them. But I did. I needed to know that people like him exist.
In my heart of hearts I know that it’s nobody’s business how many people I sleep with or don’t sleep with. But I want the world to know that too. I want to live a life where I am judged on the content of my character and not the intimate details of my private life. So, please, the next time you open your mouth to make a comment, or a joke pertaining to this: think about what you’re saying, think about the wider repercussions of your words. That is all I ask of you.

Love,

The BuzzGirl

Quentin Crisp once said, ‘Fashion is what you adopt when you don’t know who you are‘.  For me, it is- it has always been- hair.

From the day I realised, aged 13, that two and a half week’s pocket money could buy me a bar of Lush Cosmetics organic Henna (available in 5 shades), fucking with my hair became an obsession.  From ages 14-19, in photos, I am limbs, who-nose, FRINGE. It was my sight inhibiting, forehead-acne inducing, armour. From home bleaching disasters to lopsided bangs, I’ve done the lot.

I’ve never been able to escape the belief that when I finally find the perfect do, I’ll suddenly know who I am.  As Phoebe Waller Bridge recently epitomised, Hair Is Everything. (Anthony)

I know I’m not alone.  If you ever see a female over the age of 11 years dye her hair an alarming shade of red, or worse, shave a cross section of her scalp, leave her be.  Some serious shit is going down.

2019 has been interesting.  Shit has gone down. I am four days into a somewhat impulsive but #NOREGRETS buzz cut.  Here are my thoughts so far.

1. Your head gets cold.
2. People spontaneously burst into renditions of Sinead O’Connors ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’
3. Male co-workers subconsciously start including you in the mysterious male handshake business.
4. Inevitable lesbianism remarks.  
5. Total strangers tell you you look like Annie Lennox. (100% a compliment)
6. You develop a complex about the size of your ears.
7. Each of your work friends tells one of a repertoire of four jokes, and each thinks they are original.
8. An elderly relative prays for your soul.
9. You join the secret worldwide clan of short haired women.  You smile at each other conspiratorially on the tube and some small part of you finds the sense of self you were looking for in the first place.  
10. Hair ruffles.  Without permission. Without warning.  

Conclusion so far: It’s not the answer. But it’s something. What?

Dunno, but I’ll keep you posted x