Take your eye off your iPhone

On my journey home from work last Tuesday 20% of me ambled along The Old Kent Road. The other 80% of my focus was taken up by a lengthy Whatsapp conversation I was having on my  iPhone. Only when I was 10 metres away from her did I register a woman’s voice saying ‘excuse me, hello?  hello?’. I glanced back in her direction but I was still only 40% there, so my legs continued to up the distance between us. I knew the decent thing to do was to turn back and resolve her enquiry, but by the time I was 80% with her the gap between us had grown so large that returning to her seemed too awkward, so I walked on. A work colleague told me of times he has seen me as I walked to work engrossed with my smart phone. He informed me that on several of those instances he yelled ‘Laila! Laila!’ from his music wielding car whilst repeatedly beeping. He even pulled his car over with the intention of offering me a lift, but I only had eyes for my iPhone. I don’t generally pay and mind to people shouting from cars, but this seemed like something I should have at least noticed. I did not. I had a vague memory of a noisy car half way through my journey – but that was all. His version of events are all I have to go by: I was so engrossed by my phone screen that I did not even look up. He gave up on attempting to alert my attention and now drives on when he sees me walking. He went as far as saying that my lack of awareness is dangerous, and he understands how I got hit by a car now. For the record I was hit by a car a few years ago – but on this occasion I was not holding my iPhone.

I even get distracted when within my phone.  Earlier I was sent a link to an event via Whatsapp and asked ‘Do you want to come to this?’. I imagined this scenario being played out if my smart phone applications came to life and I would be asked in person. I  run over to the calendar on my desk to check my availability. On the way there someone says ‘you have a new letter’ (email) so I drop the calendar and go to open the letter. The letter turns out to be junk mail – so I write a letter back to tell them to stop mailing me. During this process I notice a previous letter that  I had opened but shoved back into the envelope  – a friends document I was meant to read over but got distracted and placed it in a pile with all my other letters. My iPhone provides me with many useful shortcuts, yet also with constant distractions that fragment my moments like items coming to the end of a supermarket conveyor belt – jolting the flow. I wonder how many things and people I unintentionally pass by, opting to instead stare at my little computer who talks and thinks for me.

Don’t be mistaken – I love my iPhone in many ways. It can do so much for me. If I am bored it can sing to me, or connect me with dozens of friends. If I can’t sleep it will stay up with me. If I am lost it will navigate me. If I forget it reminds me. If I don’t know, it will google for me. If I am late, it will excuse me. It banks for me, hell now it can pay for me. I asked myself if my iPhone was a person who did this for me – what would I make of them and the help they brought me? How much money had he made it so quick and easy for me to spend? How many times had I relied on him alone to entertain? Was it really helpful when he kept me up late at night, and then hung out with me first thing in the morning? How much of his help was truly necessary? How many times did he interrupt my day – sometimes just to show me a silly video or tell me a pointless news alert? How much time would I actually have spent with him? The final two questions were ones I could answer – thanks to an app I downloaded called ‘moment’. I tracked my phone usage from Friday to Thursday of the past week, and added up the figures. Are you ready for the results? In one week I used my phone for a shocking 35 Hours and 42 minutes. This equates to 5 hours and 6 minutes of screen time (excluding phone calls) per day – this is almost one third of my waking day! Further, I picked my little friend up 336 times that week, averaging in at 48 times per day, which is every 20 minutes! To put it another way – If I was to use that 35.7 hours per week to learn a language – I could obtain fluency in just 94 days. If I were to use it to read I could have read 3 books in a week. Even a pilot license can be obtained with a minimum of 40 hours of flight time – almost the same as a week of my smart phone usage! With this in mind, I have set myself the precarious challenge to take my eyes off of my iPhone (see what I did there) for 48 hours to see what may happen in it’s absence. How will I cope with moments of boredom? Who will I turn to if I am lost? Will I lose out on social connections or events?

When selecting which day to start, my dependence was more deeply demonstrated – I can’t do Friday as I am meeting a group of friends – I need the Whatsapp group to talk to them and google maps to navigate me. I can’t do Saturday and Sunday as it is the weekend – everyone needs to be contactable on the weekend! I can’t do Monday as it’s the bank holiday so the weekend rules still apply. I cannot do Tuesday as I get a free Caffe Nero coffee using my O2 priorities app. It is ridiculous. I could keep going and reel off reasons why Wednesday and Thursday are no good too, which would bring me back to the weekend. So I am going to be so brave as to begin as soon as  I press publish on this post. Once I press that button I will remove my sim card from my iPhone 5s and insert it into a throwback Nokia 1110. It has texts, calls, ‘Snake’ and a torch.  God help me. I will  temporarily rescind membership of my 11 Whatsapp groups, and remove access to my 71 apps, 5 email addresses and 92 notebook entries. My Whatsapp status will switch to “#eyesoffiphone”, iMessaging will be deactivated and I will descend into a mysterious smart phone free existence, which was our lives of not so long ago. See you on the other side.

Introvert, Interrupted

There was no reason for me to be late for work that morning – well no good reason. Disappointed that the Bank Holiday weekend had come to its end, I convinced myself that researching current rental rates in the area and zooming in on random camera roll pictures, were pressing matters. An hour soon passed, and like a slowly stacked ‘Jenga’ game the inevitable tumble in my timekeeping arrived. The lateness was relevant, as it meant I had to jump on a bus rather than walk into work – today I would be providing a  different answer to Orange Man’s ‘Did you walk in?’. Flicking on Spotify, I checked out Kendrick Lamar’s new album and lost myself in the lyrics of ‘Fear’. Kendrick’s morbid single spoke of a life shared with fear, from a child growing up in a verbally abusive household, through to the liberation from it in death.  Mentally wondering around the lyrics and exploring their meanings, I mismatched my static exterior. I held a sedative stare in the direction of the bus window, which I wasn’t really looking at. My snap back into the morning came when my Routemaster bus spoke ‘Bricklayer’s Arms’ – the stop I was meant to get off at. My engine took longer than the Routemaster’s to restart, and I missed my stop. This trail into thoughts is something I used to think of as a sign of my poor attention, but am coming to see as a treasurable trait.  Can you imagine the TV show ‘Scrubs’ without JD’s similar trail offs that we so fortunately get a voice-over of?

A few weeks ago I recognised myself passing judgement on the similar absences of my niece. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked the 5 year old as she sat softly on her little red chair. Her delicate features joined together to form an ambiguous downward gaze met by slightly pursed lips. ‘Ummm – nothing’ came her reply.  She was looking at her little fingers as they twiddled with a skunk ‘Kinder Surprise’ toy. Her expression held a hint of confusion, at which I realised I’d wrongly presumed that her calm reflected discontent. She was not crying or looking necessarily sad, so why should I take her silence to mean sadness? Subtle as such comments are, they can lead one to believe that there is something wrong that they haven’t yet worked out, or even that there is something lacking in their character if they aren’t constantly talkative. Was asking her this loaded question an unfair trickle down from the extrovert friendly world we’re encouraged to grow up in? The innocent statements which bypass less social options; ‘come on join in, everyone else is playing together’, or ‘go and say hello to everyone – show them all what you showed me earlier’. By stopping my fellow little introvert and asking her this question, had I belittled what may have been valuable and worthy moments of contemplation and imagination? Her pauses may have been just as nourishing to her as interacting with others is to an extrovert if she processes things internally. Or she may have required some recharge time. Or she may have just wanted to stare at the Kinder skunk in peace!

I believe the small comments we tell children can massively effect their ideas of what they can and cannot do. Being told at a young age that my voice was too quiet to be the lead in a school play, stayed with me – and I am aware of how minor a comment this is. Children can be misled into thinking such things are not made for the quiet kids, when in reality they may just need a little help in feeling comfortable, or time to approach it in an introvert friendly way. From this platform they can offer their skills with an added depth only obtainable through solitary thought and observation. By no means a limiting trait, introverts can show bravery as in the softly spoken Rosa Parks, and creative mastery as with the bashful Michael Jackson. This is despite some of their most memorable acts appearing to be typically extroverted. Seated on the opposite little red chair was an ideal example of an extrovert – my two year old niece. Her most used phrase that afternoon was Frozen’s ‘let it go’ – which made my side plait an instant winner. She possesses a social braveness that I would struggle to compete with. If you’re in the room with her she will find a way to get you to giggle, and with a toddler’s speech limitations this all the more impressive. Neither state is right or wrong. And neither need be subtly denigrated. Both my nieces are wonderful children, and that afternoon I was reminded to delight in all of their qualities.

Returning to my day at work – now in the office I went to the printer to print something (who would have guessed). There was a sign on the notice board saying “communities stop terrorism” – followed by a short blurb about how one should always report anything they suspect. Cue another trail off into thought –  ‘communities may very well help alleviate terrorism, but maybe they could do this from a place of love and goodwill. Hasn’t this poster turned the community concept on its head by using it in a more divisive “fear your neighbour” kind of way?’ – my thoughts purred. Still staring at the sign – a colleague’s voice interjected “I was standing here for ages saying hello!” – and then I spotted my warm letters awaiting collection. I guess this is why I am told I appear away with the fairies a lot of the time, when in fact, I don’t need to be away with any fairies –  I’m having a great time with just the thoughts in my head!

MC Sober In The Place!

I walked towards the non-female looking female bouncer, who revealed her golden tooth as she instructed me to open my bag, and step aside to be body searched. I was entering a UK Garage night in Elephant & Castle, and it felt like it. On the other side of the search area the friends of those not yet inside the venue waited longingly, like mothers for their kids on the first day of school, but in this case ready to party rather than put the chicken nuggets on. I went through the motions of unzipping my bag and taking my passport out to be scanned – repeating to myself that I must reapply for my long lost driver’s license, which is probably being used on the black market somewhere. There was a slight difference in my club entry routine this time, for I was totally sober. Half an hour earlier I had downed a strong coffee, accompanied by what became lumpy soya milk once it met heat. I was hopeful that my beverage would give me a buzz similar to that of the coffee patron that my friend sipped, but it wasn’t quite the same.  ‘With a little bit of luck I can make it tru the night’  – I thought – yep still cheesy when sober.

The club was nearing capacity and the tail of the queue we had just escaped from now crept all the way to Elephant and Castle Underground station. Entering the main room, I realised  I was not quite ready for this night: I felt a niggling panic building up in my belly. I wanted it to leave me, yet I also knew that this was the feeling that I had come out tonight to sit (or dance) with. This was a night for a totally sober Laila to experience: what was clubbing going to be like alcohol free? Garage seemed to be the perfect genre to undertake my experiment with – up tempo with a beat you just want to bop your head to, nostalgic and a little comical at times. It was a good recipe to have me on my feet and  laughing through the night. Having ordered a tap water from the bar, I joined my three friends and headed into the swarming dance floor. A man on the stage was playing a guitar version of Stormzy’s ‘Shut Up’ which was right up my street, and got my energy levels up far higher than that soya coffee drink had. We wondered around, and headed to a room upstairs soon after. As we walked I noticed the things that people said, looks that that they passed, the stickiness of the walls – things that my usual vodka tinged eyes would miss. This room was lively and energetic, but not quite full – so as we danced to the more ‘house’ style tunes I felt myself beginning to resemble a rather sturdy tree on a day of low winds. The more I thought about my dancing, the more awkward my body made it. I remembered a magnet on my fridge that read – ‘sometimes the heart knows what it wants and the mind needs to shut up’ – which was a strange sentiment for a house warming gift  – but it rang true in this situation: the thoughts were taking away from my experience and desire to dance. I began to sing along to the music a little, and let go. My friend, perhaps sensing my internal dialogue or tree like stature, looked at me with a Disney like smile and said ”be free”. Free. This is what I used alcohol to feel in these situations – when in reality it may have been enslaving me to the idea I could not be so with out it.

I enjoyed jumping around and room hopping in the hours that passed. I seemed to channel my inner rude boy when certain songs came on, and in those moments I laughed lots and felt carefree. An undercurrent of self consciousness stayed with me, and in its stronger moments it was accompanied by the return of the tree like stance.  After two and a half hours in the venue I was dumbfounded at how I had ever danced in aptly named ‘killer’ heels for so long before, and I left my friends to hunt for a seat. I headed back through the ‘house’ room upstairs, passing through it to reach a room at the back and was interrupted by a man who obeyed the DJs instructions to ‘grab the girl you like and talk to her – don’t let her walk on by’. So cringe. I only had eyes for the cushioned red  benched chairs that I could see through the doorway, ‘Yes cushioned!’ I thought – and upped my pace. This room had something of a misfits feel about it. There were more seats than people. The DJ booth had two pretty blonde DJs behind it, who looked so into their music that they didn’t look up to check their crowd. A Swedish looking man with luminous glowing glasses who I had seen earlier, swung in the centre – one hand taken up by a beer – the other in the air. Some 40 plus ladies with chests fighting their way out of their tops, had a booth on the left of the room, and the right was filled by a group of young guys who were all seated and looked as tired as they were eager to stay out. I selected a seat next to these guys, deciding they could be eavesdrop worthy. Not-a-single-drop-of-alcohol sober Laila had not been out to a club in over 10 years. This was a huge moment. I felt ready to leave but decided to sit with my misfits for twenty minutes.

I read an article on my phone at one point – and found it more enjoyable than jumping around any more would be. As much as I love music, my love of it was not enough to sustain me for hours on end with no alcohol. As for dancing – I always had to be coaxed into it at family parties growing up – I didn’t and still don’t like the feeling of attention that can come with. I flourish in small group interactions, sharing deep ideas, jokes, and stories yet could do none of those things in a club environment. So I questioned – why had I spent so much of my social life of the last ten years in places that, without drinking, I probably do not enjoy for more than a couple of hours? For some people I was known to always want to stay out until the end –  but that night I sat there happy, but wanting to go home. Which one was the real me ? Did alcohol free me from apprehensions and insecurities to enable me to realise my true self? Or did it skew my judgement and make me push myself to be an extrovert that I never quite filled the boots of? I remember my first taste of alcohol as a young shy teenager had me thinking ‘finally – a cure for shyness’. Had I carried this through with me into my adult life, and used it to try and be something I am not? Had I used alcohol to connect with the world more, but in the process disconnected with myself? These were not matters I was going to resolve in this room, but I was very grateful for the clarity I held to raise them.

Having found my friends and handed in my non-lost soberly stored cloakroom ticket, I said my goodbyes to the two pals who stayed out. During the walk to the third friend’s car she summarised perfectly the feeling I felt in having had a good time, but it having been just enough; ‘It is like you’ve just watched a really good film – you wouldn’t want to watch the film all over again, as you have just watched it’, she so aptly spoke. She gave me a lift home and we shared some words about affirmations and mindfulness after I reminded her how much I loved her ‘be free’ comment earlier on. I felt a happiness in the connection that I would not have the same certainty over with alcohol – there were no sloppy words or over inflated statements. I felt satisfied with the night, but deeply aware that the things I thought I loved may be more things loved in small doses. It reminded me that I am an introvert and that I should not fight that, but embrace it. I might not be as loud, crazy or funny when sober – but the flip side is I may be more true to who I am. I will likely salvage some of the qualities I sacrifice when drinking lots – such as being caring, considerate, and thoughtful. My only concerns past a certain point of drink were only for those friends who wanted to continue the party. I am sure that such character deviations are what contributed to the avalanche of ‘beer fear’ that would befall me the following day; almost as punishment for the betrayal of the soul. My final observation that night, was that I did not give sober Laila enough credit. After all, my cheesy jokes and away with the fairies ideas are always present. As one friend put it – ‘we would not miss it if your drinking was no longer present, we would only miss you if you were no longer present.’ So watch this space, MC Sobers in the place.

Perfect Porridge

I walked relishing the final moments before I entered the spinning glass doors, slicing my way into my office building. My hand dived into the darkest depths of my handbag, touching sticky gum, an item I imagined to be an earring, and finally meeting a card that felt like my work pass. No, my groping was inaccurate; it was my Halifax Clarity Card. My search was conducted whilst edging closer to an electronic barrier, guarded by a short, smiley guard who I ashamedly only speak to when I need help getting in. ‘Hi! How are you? My pass is in here somewhere. Can I-?’ I stopped my sentence as he completed my unfinished request by opening the gate. I was in. Now to power walk to the clock in machine – I always use the ground floor edition to add valuable minutes onto my Flexi Time. The more time I give them, the more time they give me back. Having checked in, my haste lessened and I toddled up the stairs to the floor on which I would spend my next 7 hours 12 minutes.
‘Morning’ – I say to the people seated around me. Orange Man begins with his usual question of ‘Walked in today?’, and I reply with my usual lacklustre ‘Yeah’. My citrus treat is brought over shortly after, and tucking into it somehow breaks up the morning. Deciding I needed more in the way of nourishment, I popped down to the ground floor kitchen- packed with a dozen microwaves still holding the stench of foods warmed up the previous day. Opening and closing a few to select the least pungent, in went my oats and soya milk, with the backdrop of a BBC News story about yet more NHS failings and a baby’s preventable death. Punching in the ‘high’ setting for 5 minutes, I turned to the TV screen, where the presenter communicated her deepest sympathies to the mother, whilst offering just an 8 second slot to speak. The presenter asked the grieving Mum to confirm whether campaigning had brought her ‘closure’ – reminding her that ‘we are low on time if you can make it brief’. A man wearing a patched jumper and untidy jeans that you might wear to paint the house with, sat on the far side of the room reading ‘The Metro’, casually eating his cereal. He didn’t look much like an office worker, but with 1000 people in the building, and me only just about knowing the names of all my 10 team members – who was I to know? Maybe he was a member of the public who just came here to eat his cereal in peace. I quite liked that idea, so I smiled in agreement with it.

My daydreaming came to an end when I remembered that I was meant to be porridge watching. ‘2 minutes, stir, then stop and stir in 30 second intervals’ my workmate had told me the other day explaining his Goldilocks style ‘just right’ porridge. Opening the door with a click, an oaty soya pool layered the entire microwave dish, and I realised I had spilled it again. Foolishly grabbing the scorching cup I jerked back in pain unable to hold it, while it freefell to the ground. Half of my porridge now sat on the floor surrounded by a partly smashed mug, and the other half lay on the microwave plate. Man, Goldilocks had it made – where’s the 3 bears when you need them? The casual breakfast cereal man did look over for a second, but returned to his paper promptly. Perhaps I was drawing too much attention to his secret breakfast hideout. The clean up operation saw me waste a roll of tissue and a good 15 minutes. Returning to my desk like a King from war without his army, I bore no cup of perfectly made porridge to smugly show Mr Goldilocks. Unaware of my porridge dramas my never-miss-a-trick manager enquired; ‘where have you been?’. ‘I was making porridge’ – I began to tell the story, but decided to tail off as his eyes portrayed either a lack of interest or belief in my story, and they returned to the glow of his computer. The porridge pro informed me that in addition to his previous instructions, I should have left half of my cup empty to allow space for the oats to rise and fall.

Mr Goldilocks- as I previously named him, is more suited to the name of Mr Enthusiastic. It is funny that Orange Man and he sit on the diagonal right and left of me as this mirrors the polarities in their lust for life, or lack of. I once went to the Pub with the work guys on a summer afternoon – an old school Bermondsey pub where I have learnt not to ask for Herbal teas or a pretty cocktail. Deciding on whether to leave the guys or stay a little longer I pulled out a 50p coin – announcing that ‘heads’ meant I would head home, while ‘tails’ would mean I kept my tail there (a tactic I use often when I can’t decide on what to do). Mr Enthusiastic grabbed the 50 pence piece and true to title said ‘Is that a 50p coin?’, as he span it around, marvelling at what must have been a slightly differently embossed edition. With this small example in mind, you can imagine the welcome energy his presence offers on my office days. Back to the day in the office – arriving later, came another workmate – my Simpson’s pal. Sitting beside me and opposite Orange Man, he laid his backpack (which seems to contain almost everything you might need on your office expedition) onto the desk, and began the time intense process of logging into the work system. The name Simpson’s pal makes sense once you hear the guaranteed laughs all Simpson’s jokes I send his way emit – usually with one hand hovering over ‘The Simpson’s Tapped Out’ iPhone game. I stopped playing this game when my iTunes statement revealed I bought far too many imaginary donuts with my non-imaginary money.

Auto-pilot cruising through another office day, a reminder that I was set to move into a new career airspace flys my way, as my big boss approaches. His softness in voice was mismatched with a sternness in walk and expression. I think this was the second time we have spoken in 4 years. That, along with the fact I was typing a blog about ‘Alien Eyes’ while he approached, saw me revert to the look of a little kid caught with one hand in the cookie jar. My general parent/senior person apprehension portrayed itself as I sat up in my seat, minimised my word document, and widened my eyes to show an intense, and definitely over the top, concentration. He asked me if I wanted my redundancy application to proceed to the head of department. ‘Yes I would like it to – I still get the 7 days to say yes or no once it’s approved, don’t I?’, I said in a way as to not show all of my cards. As he walked away I questioned what my cards actually were – did I even have any cards? What was my plan? But then I remembered a phrase I liked from my mediation exercise that morning – ‘if you don’t make space for the things you want, you can never get to them’ which reminded me of the lack of space I allowed my rising porridge that morning. So I’ll clear the way, give myself the creative space required, discover what will decorate my future cards, and get to making my perfect porridge – no timer needed.

Alien Eyes

Have you ever tried looking at the world as though you were an Alien? Stay with me. What I mean is, rising above the labels and stories we constantly link onto our perceptions, and just watching the world around you. As I strolled to the peak of Greenwich Park in an unexpected heatwave last Sunday, I felt myself detaching from the tourists and locals around me. They were clambering for their smartphones and weaving their way onto the hill’s edge, in an attempt to capture a moment that they didn’t quite seem a part of. A metal fence sat as a barrier between the watchers and the beautiful flourishing landscape below, which was dotted with patches of little people who I likened to ants – in size rather than behaviour. Some were running, some sat, some were laying down. I wondered what an alien would make of this. Would they query why some sat there as their skin went from ivory to a pain inducing lobster red – apparently through choice? What would they make of the sunglasses and hats worn, masking from the sun they sat in full view of? What would they make of us sipping substances that revert us to a state similar to that of the younger offspring around us? I kept going with this line of thought, and recalled a book in Buddhism that stated it can be useful to view the world in this way so as to not get so caught up in the rules that we have created since birth.

In my alien like stare one of the watchers approached me, who my brain soon informed me was the friend I was with. Breaking out of my daze I walked down the large hill and exited the park, heading towards the overpopulated riverside. I felt like the Alien would query the waste of energy that walking around for hours was, presuming they would not understand the benefits of it. I thought that they would feel the same way about the people sitting in their balconies I spotted; probably there for hours on end for no apparent purpose, in their little cubes of homes. Looking at the block of flats in this way, it looked more like prison cells, or little Lego blocks, each designated to twos or fours of people, captivated by a laboured for choice. I imagined the Alien on a rush hour commute saying – ‘the Earthlings have a negative temperament as they force their way onto dusty metal moving capsules that barely have space for them – yet they proceed anyway. It is possible that they are being instructed or navigated by the devices they obediently stare at, raising the edges of their lips upwards at times. When they cannot reach the device through overcrowded capsule conditions, their states seem to deteriorate, but appears partially restored upon reunion with said devices.

I thought about what the Alien would say watching a drunken night out; ‘they put into their body this liquid which is possibly the same as that viewed in the park. They increase in auditory volume, yet decrease in mental faculties. Some appear unwell and eject foods consumed earlier, which upsets their companions. A strange smell accompanies this. Others show motor skills affected – they fall and injure their bodies. Again the volume increases, but the speech is slow and they say things that they only said a moment ago – again and again. They seem to be stuck on a loop. The materials they covered themselves with, and seemed eager to arrange perfectly hours before, appear stained and dishevelled. One has now used his limbs to hit the face of another, but the only origin of the conflict I can trace was a meeting of eyes and a stolen ‘chip’. Many become semi immobile following these gatherings; they appear to fall into a state of sickness and melancholy, sometimes for more than one Earth rotation.’

My Alien Eyes exercise, peculiar as it may be, is to me a refreshing way to look at the bizarre practices of our world. It’s a way to view the planet as though I am not quite a part of it. If we view the world as a mill repetitively turning, commute upon commute, night out upon night out, same upon same upon same – restrained by the ‘shoulds’ and ‘have to’s’ – with little thoughts of the ‘why’s’ and ‘what else?’ – then run of the mill it will be.

The right kind of happy, with a season of SAD

As spring time enters, that briefly mourned hour in bed that we lost is soon compensated for with daffodils, blossom and an invigorating splurge of sunshine. I scraped my plate clean of the creamy pasta sauce I concocted last night, looking out of my window to find daylight at 7.28pm. ‘Summer is coming – and I cannot wait!’ I thought to myself in anticipation of picnics, festivals and an ‘anything goes as long as it is outdoors’ attitude. It seems as though this whole city suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder (or SAD, as it is quite fittingly abbreviated to) – with the weighty frowns illuminating with the changing of the season. With a few sprinkles of sunshine Londoners seem markedly more sociable, less prone to commuter rage, and more willing to migrate to pubs, stripping their layers on a disproportionate level to the increase in degrees. Even the foxes I passed on my stroll home seemed to have a spring in their step.

 

‘You seem really happy today’, my Clarke Kent looking colleague said, hiding a ‘what is your secret?’ question. ‘I think it is the sunshine!’, I proposed – rolling my eyes towards what was more a glass wall than a window. Seeing a Southern train slither past with no sign of a sunny backdrop, Clarke Kent and I spotted my error, so I laughed and said ‘hmmm, I guess I just love spring and summer time’, excusing my positivity. Casting my mind back to Sunday, I met an awesome guy called ‘Tommy’ at a Zorbing centre. He was smiley and enthusiastic – in a genuine rather than sickly sweet way. ‘Were you always a smiley person, or does this job make you a smiley person?’, my friend and I asked as his face selected the perfect level of twinkle. ‘Well you have to look at the bright side don’t you, and not dwell on the negative? Smiling makes me feel good, which makes me smile more.’ His reply made me aware of my own facial parts which were now working hard to eradicate all signs of a resting bitch face.

 

About 6 months ago I met the positivity that was up a few notches from Smiley Tommy. His name was Nathan and he ran a seminar about unleashing your ‘inner genius’. I know, I should have known by the title, but I have a curious mind so found myself seated in a large hotel conference room one Saturday morning, ready to learn. Nervous about walking in alone, I cringed for the ladies at the makeshift reception made of school like tables poorly disguised by a tiny cloth. Behind it sat a plump attractive lady whose sticky name badge read ‘SALLY :)’ – only adding to the school hall vibe. With a bubbly tone sure to burst, spill and waste an entire bottle of Prosecco, Sally beamed ‘Hi! You must be here for the exciting talk! I love your hair!’ ‘What the f*** am I doing here, this isn’t for me’, I should have said. Instead, entranced by this cult of optimism, I stated my name, bid Bubbly Sally goodbye, and headed toward the huge hall where the life changing show was set to begin. Tactfully selecting a seat toward the back, I sat next to a stocky, wide eyed man who introduced himself as ‘Ben’ and shook my hand excitably. Ben was a good talker, so I did not have to be. He had been to Nathan’s seminars before, and was in awe of him so much so that he had already signed up to a heftily priced life changing course. Apparently the free life changing seminar’s content could only be properly unleashed by the costly follow ups. Yep, Laila was back – my ‘pull the other one’ eye rolls commenced.

 

Ben had been to prison, and he asked me not to judge him. He had been being a good Samaritan by dropping an extremely drunk friend home, when he accidentally hit her brother’s van parked outside of her house. The drunken girl had told him to carry on and go home, ignoring the large dent, but the next morning the police turned up at Ben’s house. He was breathalysed and told that he had been reported by the girl for criminal damage and drink driving. I had only just met this guy and let’s face it, I was judging away. ‘Is he telling the truth? Would you really go to prison for that? Why is he telling me all this?’ This merry-go-round of questions was halted when our ‘happiness Guru’ – Nathan (cue another eye roll), announced that he was about to begin. Nathan was a slim, tanned and good looking South African. He soon revealed that he had listened to cues from the Universe to get him the wealth and success that he had today. He smiled lots, and smugly told us how we too could be like him. I already hated him a little bit, and myself for having attended this prey on the lost in life. He asked a series of questions – ending with ‘Who agrees? Raise your hand!’ – to gain a sea of hands to massage his ego. Ben soon noticed my lack of participation. Leaning toward me with one arm stretched up to the ceiling, he whispered – ‘Laila do you not agree?!’

The interval break could not have come soon enough, and I felt a pang of guilt knowing I did not say bye to over-sharing Ben as I headed for the exit. I felt the desperation and pessimistic hopefulness of the attendees around me, who my eavesdropping revealed believed Nathan would be providing life’s solutions. I wondered if these people, by placing so much hope in another human, had already denigrated themselves and externalised what was an internal problem. By setting happiness and success as a distant goal to strive for, had they overlooked the happiness that was already in the present – assuming it was only attainable after Nathan’s snazzy workshops? Had they presumed that sadness was not part and parcel of happiness – missing that just as the seasons change so do our emotions? Within us and right now – this is where and when happy Tommy chooses to find his joy, and where if we dare to take a look, we might each find our own – and it won’t cost you a penny.

Doppelganger Dating Part 2

Over the weekend I mulled over whether to attend the aforementioned doppelganger date, and crux time hit today when I received a message from the look-a-like saying ‘Are you still up for Wednesday?’. Initially scanning my brain for a pointlessly passive let down reason such as being sick or busy, I paused for a moment to avoid rushing the reply. The beauty of the modern messaging age meant I could avoid a phone call – which would have forced me into a stuttering, untactful version of – ‘No I can’t come BRO!’. With that in mind, I maximised use of the time that Whatsapp allowed me, adoring the auto-preview feature and my newly removed blue ticks. In addition this gave me a chance to practice the assertiveness I have been attempting to of late.

My typing standstill stretched to 6 hours, when I opted to make one last check before reply time. The perfect judge stood right before me, never having seen the potential date nor my brother before; my relatively new housemate. ‘Does this person……look like this person?’ I inquired showing each of their pictures. ‘Yes very much so’. Her instantaneous reply left me sheepishly laughing at my blindness, in this apparently obvious miscalculation of the eyes. There was no way I could now go – the judge and jury had spoken. This was worse than an Usher ‘you remind me of a girl that I once knew’ – for in my case it would be ‘I see my brother’s face whenever I – I look – at you’ – not so catchy.

‘Something has freaked me out a bit and I am going to be honest’ I began my message with, again thankful for the option of this unspoken format. I explained my friend’s reaction to his picture – of course following with the famous (by my usage rates anyway) – covered eye ‘see no evil’ monkey face. ‘Well if that doesn’t completely kill the mood – your brother must be one very good looking guy’, he typed back with a jocular tone that alleviated my guilt but not my uneasiness. ‘I do not even know how to respond to that one now!’ I ended with, departing from the monkey face and leaving a string of full on laughter emojis – because you really do have to laugh.

Doppelganger Dating

For the majority of my life I totally adore having no-one to answer to, worry about, or impress in anyway, bar my friends and family. Then there are those niggling moments when I state my singledom with a response befitting a declaration of a terminal illness. The sympathetic nod, the noticeably false upbeat change in tone and reassurance that ”you will find someone when you least expect it”, having made the presumption that I have actually been searching. Desensitised by such talk for the most parts, there are moments where I visually intrude on a happy looking couple sharing a moment, and wonder if that is something that would be a bonus to, rather than a drain on my life. Logically, based on the information available to me I believe that most couples struggle. That it is all hard work. And that there are larger partner-related peaks and troughs in life as a result of being so intertwined with another entirely differently wired, complex human being. I sound like a great person to date, right?!
Despite this awareness, the romanticism that I have a lot to take up with Walt Disney for, is still in me and rears its fluttering lashes periodically, spurring me on to go on a date or two. Getting ready, realising this was an occasion to pack my lazy-with-appearance tendencies away for the night, I prepared myself for a date. Already dreading the conventional questions and awkward goodbyes, I briefly closed my eyes and shook my head as if resetting my Sega MegaDrive and putting a fresh, positive, date-friendly cartridge inside. I meet my date; friendly, sweet, and quite nervous as can be seen by the rate at which he is speaking, but so far so good. In my element we shared numerous bowls of hummus, alongside a few high on the fruit, low on the alcohol, cocktails. Telling my favourite stories, usually involving trips away and friends, I regularly stopped myself from speaking – aware that I usually pretty much like anyone who loves my stories. I once went on an amazing first date with a Norwegian guy, loving every minute, but by the third date I came to the self centred realisation that I loved how much he loved listening to my stories, rather than anything within him. But back to the date in question; as he sat opposite me, he raised his arms to his chin, took a slight lean back, yelling ‘Stop’ in the denouement of a story of his own he had to tell. A child like slightly nerdy laugh left his mouth, and I looked back at him pausing for a moment, and can understand why he asked ‘sorry was that story too much?’, such was stunted look on my face. I wanted to press pause, to file the deja-vu like feeling that swept upon me, yet also was keen not to make my date uncomfortable. ‘No the story was great’, I reasurred – with eyes that did not match my tone, realising what it was that felt so wrong. Uncle Wally. He looked like Uncle Wally. He laughed like Uncle Wally. I was dating Uncle Wally! How could I have not seen this before.
Uncle Wally was a non blood relative who, before he left the circle of trust, would make appearances at BBQs, Christmases, or just causal family weekend get-togethers, offering a goofy laugh and always an empty wallet. He was one of my Dad’s old friends, and one of those friends you know you would not be friends with if you were to meet now, but you are for old times sake. A pivotal moment in his character portrayal was when on one Xmas an overextended game of Monopoly resulted in him slapping my then 8 year old brother’s hand as he helped himself to his £200 upon passing ‘Go’, yelling ‘CHEATER! I am the banker!’. My Dad had been asleep, only interrupted when we prodded him to pay up some money or roll the dice, depending on where his ship game-piece had landed. Awakening to the sound of Wally’s shouts, and adding to the bizareness that this “Uncle” was, my Dad bewilderingly told him to calm down. Wally was only further enraged, accusing me and my brother of cheating on a mass scale. Simply put, this is not someone who I would ever want to be reminded of on a date. But my actual date was a lovely person, all that aside. Trying to let my optimist reign, I went on a second date to The British Museum, ”Oh wrong floor! When will we find the Magna Carta it’s some where here!’ my date said with Uncle Wally’s chuckle. No, I could not shake it. I left him, distracted by some handwritten Beatles song lyrics encased in a glass cabinet, headed straight down the corridor and into a cubbyhole to my left. Texting my friend, that I felt guilty but wanted to leave, I looked down at the large book below me, it appeared I had found the Magna Carta room, and looking to my left – so had Uncle Wally Junior. We did not meet again.

In the midst of another ‘I should try dating again’ moment a few days ago – I scheduled in a meet up with a guy I felt had a wholesome vibe about him. Showing my friend his picture whilst updating her on my weeks plans, she glanced, eyes widening for a moment, lip slightly bitten, and promptly passed my phone back to me, providing only a ‘mmm’ as her feedback. Concerned by this more than micro expression of a reaction, I probed ‘What? What? What is it tell me?’ What?’, but on my final ‘what?’ I had a terrifying thought of what it was she was withholding, hoping I was wrong.’He kind of reminds me of your brother’. ‘No!’ I hit back, but there was a lot of truth in her observation. ‘They say a lot of people marry people who look like their parents’, she offered in consolation. I wondered if I could ever shake this association from my mind, but figured it would be like seeing an alternative view in a visual illusion – once aware of the new perspective, it cannot be unseen. Now stuck in a disturbing kind of limbo, I sat presuming the date with this doppelganger had to be cancelled.