Not sweating the big stuff

I was in central London on Wednesday, just a few days after the recent terror attack. As someone who’s been eye-to-barrel with a loaded gun, I’m understandably a little shaken when something violent like that happens. The sight of small children playing cowboys with water pistols can sometimes set me off. So before I ventured into the city I took a moment to prepare myself for the journey. I watched the news and focused on images of police officers and soldiers protecting the city – particularly the ones with guns.

I was really afraid of going in. Afraid to go on the underground. Afraid to travel on the buses. Afraid to be in busy areas filled with people, people who might be plotting something awful. Afraid to see a cloud of anxiety dampening the energy around one of the world’s most awesome cities. A city that represents the peaceful merging of multiple cultures.

When one of my colleagues suggested we meet on the platform in Guildford and head into Euston together as a team, I jumped at the opportunity. I usually avoid group activities. I’m vehemently independent, so much so that my actions can sometimes come across as rude. Though I’m an extrovert, I’m a little different to most. Sometimes I need more space to feel like I can breathe. Sometimes I need to think more than speak and listen. And often this means I don’t want to be in a group of people when I’m feeling uncomfortable.

After rushing around, believing I was late and had missed our train, I found myself on the designated platform half-an-hour early, mentally preparing for a challenging day. My colleagues found me in line desperately ordering coffee from a kiosk that didn’t accept cards (balls!) I then sent them scrambling for cash while all the suburb-to-city-caffeine-depraved commuters behind me made tut-tut noises under their breaths (yup – I was that asshole). I then took one sip of the murky, brown brew and then chucked it – it was truly terrible.

After all my rushing, squabbling and weirdness, I realised that I was the only person who was the slightest bit anxious. My colleagues were all cheery and completely relaxed; chatting about boring stuff like what new digital things they’ve tried recently. The voice in my head was screaming ‘Really? We’re going into a city where people died at the hands of terrorists four days ago and you’re chatting about memes and holidays and mundaneness? We could all die!’

That’s the thing about the English. They don’t panic. They don’t make a fuss. They go on. When their cities were bombed during the World Wars, they suited up, drank their tea, made biscuits from whatever rations they had and went about their daily lives like nothing of particular importance was happening. My granny sometimes spoke about calmly heading down into the underground when the sirens sounded. Those times must have been terrifying but they didn’t stop her from living her life. She fell in love, travelled, got married and ‘went on’ during the war.

More recently when a talented young, American pop star returned to head-up a benefit concert for fans injured in the Manchester Terror Attack, the English showed up in their masses and had a brilliant party. (btw I salute you Ariana.) When three idiots ran around Borough Market stabbing people in the name of religion (an act that seems far removed from the religious ideals they claim to uphold), Londoners banded together to help each other.

In my years in the UK, I’ve encountered only three things that can upset the English – obscure tea (anything that’s not English Breakfast, Ceylon or Earl Grey), bad biscuits and the weather. The first two are rather rectifiable and don’t cause too much offense. But the third is a bit of a pain – nothing brings the city of London to a standstill like three tiny flakes of snow falling on the train tracks. Nothing! This just goes to show that the despicable creatures who aimed to create havoc are weaker than a few flimsy flakes of frozen water.

My trip into London was almost-disappointingly uneventful on Wednesday. We even went ‘up the pub’ for a few pints and some Pimms after finishing our meeting a bit early – as you do. The city was its usual bustling, chaotic, orderly self. If anything, people on the tube were a little friendlier and slightly more polite than usual. I recognised the usual London I know and love.

In my initial months in the UK, I found the excessive, conversations around which tea biscuit is best and whether Jaffa Cakes are classified as cakes or biscuits (a conversation that starts politely but can set off rather vicious debate), and the lack of challenging views around politics and world affairs, rather frustrating. And I’ll probably never fully get it. But what I’m totally learning to subscribe to is the concept of not being flustered by anything that you can’t control.

We can’t control the attempts by some to diminish our order, our happiness and our democracy. So any attack on us will be brushed off. It will not stop me and others from embracing our cities and enjoying their energy, beauty and soulfulness. I can control the biscuits I eat and the ‘stupid, milky’ tea I choose to drink, so I will fight off anyone who dares to insult my snacks of choice.

I’m learning that sometimes it’s better to sweat the small stuff so you can manage the situation and get what you want (like complaining to the bank and getting £50 as an apology), and stick your chin up through the big stuff that can’t be controlled – like a Brit. Life goes on… we should go on too. Now just to get the railways to see snowflakes as the ‘small stuff’.          

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Sole mates

“We should go out again, we could be sole mates” said the text. No, no we couldn’t because 1) I have other mates so you’re not the sole one, 2) we’re not feet or shoes, and 3) I’m not a fish. As most of my friends know, poor spelling makes me nasty (sorry), as does bad grammar. But I often ignore the rules of grammar and make up my own words when I write. So I’m basically a complete hypocrite. Still, if I bumped into McDreamy in a crowded bar and he wrote ‘hear’s where I’m headed, wanna meat their?’ on a napkin, I’d dry a tear of disappointment on that napkin before tossing it in the bin.

I’ll admit, there are far more important things to have at the top of the ‘no-go’ list. Like ‘shouldn’t have anger management issues’ or ‘mustn’t be a stalker.’ As if dating after your twenties isn’t hard enough, many singletons I know seem to have created these elaborate, mostly stupid, rules. Some of my girlfriends won’t date men who are divorced or have children – fair enough, if that’s your rule, but you’re in your thirties/forties no matter who you meet they are practically guaranteed to have a history and some kind of baggage. When I open my suitcase, it may not be filled with a messy divorce and soiled nappies, but it certainly has a few pieces of dirty laundry that could do with an airing out, if not throwing out. No one’s perfect.

Since I’ve been back in the dating game it’s been fascinating to see how people play (or don’t) into gender stereotypes on dates too. My guy friends seem to agree that a gentleman pays on the first date. It’s always the first question the lads ask when they want to know how a date went. From my perspective, this is not something that I lose sleep over – I’m quite happy to share the bill, or travel up to neutral ground to meet. I think it’s fair to meet halfway in a world of equality. We all work just as hard as each other. But if a guy pushes through a door in front of me or blurts out a string of expletives before we’re well acquainted, I’m out.

I’m beginning to realise that I’m actually rather old fashioned. I appreciate a little chivalry. It makes me feel respected. But this is not an area of agreement in my generation. A lovely guy-friend of mine recently dashed through a door in front of me and then mumbled “I’d have stepped back, but I know you women of today can take care of yourselves.” It was a loaded comment and after a little digging I found out that the last time he held a door open for a lady she shot him an angry “I’m perfectly capable of opening a door, I’m not a weakling.” Oh dear me.

Many of us ladies of today are establishing ourselves as independent, self-sufficient, ambitious equals. This is fantastic – go girls, uh, I mean ladies. But at the risk of losing popularity, I must admit that I’m beginning to think that in some ways we’re losing who we are in the process a little. Surely being equal means being equal as a woman. I sometimes think we’re trying to match masculine stereotypes (which aren’t necessarily true either) – sexual liberation sometimes becomes reckless promiscuity and expressing emotion makes us feeble so we repress our sensitivity. I could be completely wrong, but surely as equals women should make their own rules rather than strive to reject everything ‘weak’ associated with our gender?

The more I meet new people, date and socialise, the more I realise that there is so much confusion around what’s acceptable and how we should behave. It leads to much awkwardness and a good few giggles. Though it seems like it’s mostly us ladies who’ve rewritten the rules, which must be pretty confusing for the gents. I accept that some would argue we should move beyond gender expectations and should stop socialising young people – but that’s a separate, very complex, conversation. I suppose that’s the beginning of the point though – we’re all individuals. In a world that’s a collision of cultures, genders, beliefs and more generations living together than ever before, letting people know what your expectations are and making an effort to understand theirs, is important.

As I continue to live in another country and as I meet new friends, colleagues and possible suitors, my challenge to myself is to be a more open about accepting others’ expectations and faults (including typos) and be clearer about who I am and where I stand. By being a little more accepting without compromising what’s important to me, who knows, I might even find my sole (romantic) mate.