When you’re younger, you always have this image of who you want to be when you grow up, but then unexpected things happen and you don’t quite turn out to be the person you thought you would. Or maybe you do. It’s still a while until I hit 25, but I often wonder if younger me would be disappointed to find out that I still really don’t like coffee.
|Me at 16 in my bedroom, serving some real blurry photo teenage fashion blogger poor quality image vibes.|
I really wanted to have a mild London life by this point in time. Some kind of job as an artist or at a publishing company or a magazine and spending some time after work in cafés quietly drinking a coffee and reading. Well, that didn’t happen did it? Partially because that life simply does not exist. A mild, quiet life in London? Clearly I’d been watching far too much of 101 Dalmations. Not in London for sure but probably also not anywhere.
|The only record of any kind of hot beverages drank during my time in London.|
I lived in London while I studying for my masters and I did love every second, I felt like I’d achieved my dreams, but it was most definitely not the mild Kensington Gardens life 14 year old me had planned. Though, I did live nearby-ish. I had classes, studying, essay writing, vague attempts at extra curricular activity, about 20 hours a week of really anti-social hours for minimum wage, extra work during holidays and then housework and all that adult rubbish. I barely had a social life at all, never mind time to be sat around in coffee shops wearing a beret, nor would I have been able to pay for such haphazard beret based luxuries. When I write it down like that, the fact that I survived that seems impressive, yet for some reason in my head I’m like “yeah, but it wasn’t the life you pictured when you were 14 so did you really succeed? There are 17 year olds who write for Vogue and you write blog posts at the dinner table where you did your homework as a child.” Ouch me, that’s harsh.
Truth is, we don’t often turn out the way we expect and I don’t think 14 year old me would be disappointed in me at all. It’s okay baby me, I’m still incredibly pretentious like you wanted I just drink loose leaf tea instead of coffee. There are some thing about yourself that you absolutely don’t see cooking up to be honest. For instance, I love shopping for other people? Yesterday I went out shopping with my cousin and I think I must have handed her about 5 different cute outfits like “go try this on, put these together, go try this” and I have so many friends who insist that I come with them and style them because I always pick out things that they would never look at. I know that I have a very shallow view of what being a personal stylist would be like, but if it’s anything like forcing your friends to try on clothes and then being really touched when they feel great about themselves then it seems like a fair deal. Meanwhile; here’s some photos of what I wore taken on my phone camera because I forgot to put an SD card in my DSLR…..
Just realised I am wearing a couple of big names in the picture above; I am not rich at all and these were super big special purchases for me. I buy them all on sale or scrimp and save for months to get anything like that. I never pictured in my whole life that I would own any kind of Vivienne Westwood orb necklace. I also never pictured that I’d be spending my Thursday nights rushing from my Spin classes to a bingo night in one of Liverpool’s trendiest venues. But that’s exactly what I do. Bingo! The literal Mecca of the aged and dull and yet put two ridiculous white guys, one dressed as a very unconvincing old lady, on top of it and suddenly it’s the most popular night of the week. Let me attempt to explain, in the best way that words will allow, what takes place at Bongo’s Bingo.
The prizes are awful, apart from cash cash money money for a full house, and yet for some reason you really want all of them. Last night’s prizes included, for one or two lines; a plastic windmill, One Direction board game, discount chocolates and foam hair rollers. A prize of particular note include Coco Pops or Koka Noodles which are presented to the song “CoCo” by O.T Genesis. I have recorded this process to watch on my phone for when times are rough because it makes me laugh so much to see two men performing a worship dance to a box of Coco Pops. The other best prize of the evening is a piñata, which has its own theme tune and everyone in the room has to put their hands in the air and chant “Si! Si! Si” over and over before we are even allowed to see it. After game 6 there is a rave. If there is a false call you must shout “DICKHEAD” as aggressively as you can at the offender. The caller has a strong Northern Irish accent, so whenever he says the number 8, you must call back with your best Irish 8 in response. 4 or 44 means you have to knock on the table. 2 little ducks, you better quack. Legs 11 will illicit a wolf whistle. 69 generates cheers. Abusive tweets are to be sent to Gala Bingo during the breaks. If two people call for cash, they must go up against each other in the area of the dance off to determine the victor. It’s all very surreal, to a point of ridiculousness where you can’t help but love it and have a great time. My expectations of what a Bingo Night entails were definitely rocked, and imaging the marketing meeting for this event makes me laugh quite a lot. But there you go, enough dirty jokes and you can make any old, old thing fun. It’s good when life subverts your expectations.