How to be Single

A couple of days ago I watched a really rather horrifying film. I think you can tell by the blog title which film I'm referring to.

A tale of three young women: the first, a fresh college graduate in New York City who immediately regrets dumping her boyfriend of four years after he finds someone else and refuses to take her back. She spends the rest of the film hopelessly wandering between other men until she climbs the Grand Canyon on New Years Eve. The second is her older sister, a midwife totally against having children of her own until she's left in a room with one so decides to get pregnant via sperm doner. Meanwhile, she is being persued by a very attractive man a few years her junior who actually turns out to be totally okay with the her life changing decision. She falls in love with him and we're left to assume that he raises said illegitimate child. The third is Rebel Wilson. A strong, independent woman who has sex with whoever she wants, does whatever she wants and contributes to the comedy value of the film. She's also used for apparent shits and gigs whenever single lady #1 is single and needs a laugh.

Many might watch this film and personally relate to the characters humorous lives and pre-scripted whit and some may actually wish their lives were just as dramatic and exciting. Personally, I'd rather burn the DVD and risk a hefty fine and membership cancellation from the local rental store after I deliver the ashes back to them with a serious complaint.

This film did not teach me how to be single!!

People are single in very different ways, and yes, some are better at it than others, but with this comes the stereotypes and expectations behind how we, as a collective, should behave. I recently read a self-confessed rant about how female identity has been "shaped by excuses and lies" by Mia Morgan: I REFUSE! it was titled.

Using examples from her own personal experiences, she explained that she has always been either reprimanded or complimented depending on how individuals judge her level of femininity in society. At 3, her grandmother tells her off for scratching between her legs, despite the fact that she'd seen men doing it in public and she had an itch. At 17, a guy who had a crush on her would regularly compliment her for being "not like other girls" because she wasn't a bitch or superficial or slutty. Whenever she questioned people's reasons behind their opinions, they have simply replied "it's just how it is'.

Beyond it's obvious bias, Mia makes a good point. As a single woman who has no interest in changing my status anytime soon , I've found that I am still expected to obey to certain rules and expectations set by society, films and the people around me. I cannot appear too slutty without being perceived as a mindless bitch or desperate and pathetic. If I go out in public with unbrushed hair and the oversized T-shirt that I wore to bed, people will cast me a pitying gaze, as if I've just been dumped or come down with the flu. I have a news flash for you, I'm actually just lazy. And there are also days when I just want to be a bitch to everyone, and other desperate and pathetic days when I want to drown my sorrows and get some cuddles in. I mean, who doesn't? Because the world seems to have forgotten something very important about single people; we're still just people.

I'm still just me, a relatively happy-go-lucky girl who accidentally sings out loud in the middle of the supermarket because the song playing on my headphones is just too good. Like most humans out there, I like sex and experience the usual chemical imbalances that cause horniness and excessive alcohol consumption, but a lot of the time I'd rather squash my face in a good book and inhale soy flat whites until I'm shaking. However, while out for a few drinks with some friends, the subject of my "love life" rose (the inverted commas confirming my actual lack of any love life whatsoever seeing as I don't count being offered money in exchange for a date as love life). My friend Blue* disagrees. He seems to think that my like button is getting more hits than I'm aware of, "You're pretty, blonde and very friendly and I know that's just how you are but many guys would see it as leading affection. You don't mean to lead them on, but you do."

On the one hand, I know that my overdosed level of humanity makes it hard for me to turn around and tell a guy "I don't want to have sex with you/date you because I'm not at all attracted to you/I'm just not in the mood but you seem like a lovely person/absolute wanker so let's just be friends/never speak again". On the other hand, though, this poked at a bit of a sore spot. Was it really possible that I'd just been told that I was in the wrong for being too nice because I might be leading on innocent hearts and penis' all over the place.

God forbid seeing as I work in a mens clothes shop and being nice is kind of in the job description. I'm also pretty sure that general niceties to the people around me is a heavily weighted claim on the application for you know who's very important list (Santa, you moron, not Voldemort). I was in even more shock and confusion over this statement after my female friend agreed. As if confirming that social conformity states that one must be careful about the assumptions being made in other people's head. Have I taken it too far? Who knows...

If life has taught me anything, it's that there probably is at least one person out there that I'm compatible enough with to date them for longer than 6 months, but I have about ten years until I need to start running round in cyber space looking for all the perfect pixilated man on match.com or eharmony or ... whatever the others are called. Until then, I have this amazing free space all to myself to find myself in some deep meaningful way and love myself for who I am and experiment with different lifestyles and personas and possible suitors and probably stop taking the drugs that caused whatever that was I just said, dude.

I read a book a few months ago which I'm debating labelling, the best book I have ever read. 'I was Told There'd be Cake' by Sloane Crosley. A fabulously feminist book about a girls trials and tribulations through her teen years into her adult life. Every chapter a funny anecdote that reveals such a brutally honest insight into the daily goings on inside my brain that I was left weeping and cringing along with her main character. But the thing that stood out more than anything was her ability to make it through a whole book without the need to spend five chapters dramatizing a horrendous love story or need for a man in her life. A 21st century miracle.

That's how I want to be single, I thought. I don't want to be single and looking for love, or single and depressed or single and watching my every move so as not to attract any unwanted male advances. I can't even control my hair for goodness sake, let alone the disastrous mess that is my verbal vomit. I just want to be single.

After all, if a guy really thinks every friendly single girl wants to have sex with him, maybe he needs a bit of an ego adjustment; a gentle nudge into the reality behind a big smile and a mess of blonde hair. Because in actual fact, maybe I just want to make friends.

[CUE: Massive groan of irritable disappointment from entire male population]

So I guess now would be the time for some massive answer to the question of life, but I'm afraid the only advice I can offer is somewhat of an anti-climax:

YOU DO YOU.

It sounds shit and obvious doesn't it? In actual fact, I'm going to tell you why this is my conclusion. A single ladies, we have the ability to live this short while not having to use that word that all us stubborn fuckers hate: compromise!
How we feel about our time being single, seems focussed around how our ultimately harmless actions are perceived (even if I did snog him in the girls toilets, so what?) and we adjust ourselves accordingly, which only causes the prejudice to be targeted at our single sisters who aren't willing to conform. Mia will continue to be told that "it's just the way it is" and films will continue to tell us that the Bridget Jones life is hovering dangerously in the not-too-distant future.  But you know what? I'd love to be a successful TV producer with a few embarrassing moments tucked under my comfortable granny pants.

So you do you and do it fucking good.

Peace Out.

Basically Bali

Two pale chicks get off the plane...

It sounds like that start of a joke, but there's nothing funny about escaping a surprisingly cold Australian city to bask in the beautiful Balinese sunshine. Dreams of paddle boarding, drinking Bintang and gradually turning a dark golden brown linger above our heads in almost visible thought bubbles.

At this time of year, Uluwatu is a perfect thirty to thirty-five degrees and a warm breeze follows the jagged coastline, scattered with little coves and caves and tropical secret beaches with golden sand and clean breaks out on the reef. Paradise.

"Shall we get some gin?"

Famous last words seem to be a backpackers downfall, don't they?

As we sit on the tiled steps outside the traditional-styled accommodation, drinking gin and tonics and smoking $2-a-pack cigarettes, we promise to never, ever reveal the fuck up that occurred on the way from the airport.

[Travel Advice: ALWAYS get a taxi from one of the companies inside the airport. Not the scary strangers stood outside, just in case you happen to leave anything precious behind.]

We were already making friends. Hannah and I had arrived at the airport early, groggy-eyed and weighed down by our possessions. Sipping on coffee to keep us alive and alert, we'd raced an Australian surfer through customs, narrowly winning thanks to an over zealous security guard scrutinizing his bag.

The surfer was sat near us on the plane and, when it comes to Bali, that basically means your friends for life. The over excited holiday mode that takes over the moment you arrive at the airport, almost as if flicking a switch as you check in your bags. "Can I see your passport and remote control?" the check in lady should say, "Make sure you've been set to the right mode". Of course I'm pretty sure that's another idea for some dystopian literature.

"So what's the plan then?" Says Hannah.
"Oh, I don't know. Stay alive, get a tan, make some more friends" I replied.
"Friends like the friend you met on the plane?" Hannah threw me a look while I sat there trying to reply to my new friends message.
"Exactly." I said without hesitation. She'll understand in a few days, I thought, everyone's just friends with everyone in Bali.

We spent days on beaches and evenings watching sunsets in marvelous places. Gazing over at Hannah, I wondered if it would be a bad idea to ask, for the tenth time that day, if she was enjoying herself. The little cross of guilt resting on my shoulders after losing her on the way to Padang Padang on our mopeds. Driving across the bridge, I'd glanced in my mirror to check she was following and would notice me indicate into the car park. Trundling across the bridge, at a rather gentle pace, was a lady in a white top, moped helmet and aviator-style sun glasses. 'That'll be her!' I thought speeding on up the road and coming to an unsteady, but reasonably successful stop. Two minutes later, I came to the conclusion that she's either collided with the seriously misplaced coach, or had simply not seen me pull into the car park and was currently speeding off towards the unknown land beyond Padang.

"Oh fuck."

I think she'd forgiven me. I did defy the laws of mind over matter, ignoring all fear of my own capabilities (or lack of them) on a bike, hastily chasing her down the road, begging to the higher power that I rely so heavily on when the fuck up is probably my fault, to discover her coming towards me with a line of cars in tow, smiling pleasantly like she was going to kill me in my sleep. 'It's okay,' I thought, 'we're at the beach now.'

As I pulled up in the car park for a second time, I laughed and pointed openly at a lady climbing off a bike, wearing a white top, helmet and aviator-style sunglasses. Just like Hannah. I ignored the fact that this doppleganger also turned out to be about 20 stone heavier than Hannah. We had 7 more days together yet!

"What are you wearing tonight?" She stirred from her sunbathing slumber and I realised that I hadn't given it a second of thought. It was our last day in Uluwatu and tonight, which happened to be a Wednesday, we were going to Single Fin. For all those aware of the famous cliff top bar and sort of night-club-come-restaurant venue, you'll know that Wednesday's the best day to go. Some of the more raving, mushroom loving lunatics might suggest that the other music night on Sunday is better, but I like the chilled atmosphere that surrounds the midweek party goers. The music is a mix of guilty pleasures from Bob Marley to Blondie and Florence and the Machine to Flume (all relative, unoffensive remixes of course). Angel by Shaggy even came on at one point and if anyone wants to know a little fact about me: this was not something I was against. In fact, we even made a video.

However, while we lay in the hot afternoon sun next to the infinity pool we'd cleverly made available to ourselves despite not actually staying at the resort, I was somewhat saddened that trip was already half over, and then reality would have to be faced right in the, well, face. I decided to wear my pale grey and white spotted pixie dress which was pale enough to make me look tanned and light and loose enough to generate some airflow. Turns out it was so light and loose that it was also a little see-through but c'est la vie. Que sera, sera and all that jazz.

It was, of course, a hot and humid evening as sunkissed dancers sucked on the ice cubes from their empty drink glasses and fanned themselves with napkins and leaflets and and anything they could find in their bags. We danced, surrounded by lanterns, illuminating puffs of cigarette smoke in the clear night sky until we couldn't ignore the temptation of the air conditioned bathrooms any longer. The sight that met us as we burst through the doors was one of girls desperately trying to save their make up from sliding down their face, while still disguising patches of sunburn, which glowed with embarrassment in the heat. I splashed my face with water before soaking a paper towel to dab over the rest of my body. Oh the trials and tribulations of looking fabulous on holiday! Instagram would suggest that we effortlessly frolick in the sea and sand, smelling like sea salt and coconut with beachy hair cascading down our backs. In reality, we're all just really fucking hot and sticky.

Waking up the next morning incredibly hungover and full of shame and regret, I try to forget that we very nearly didn't make it home alive thanks to packs of wild dogs, let alone the fact that I was the new reining champion of emptying the contents of my stomach. Whoops.

"How are you feeling?" Hannah looked concerned as I squashed large mouthfuls of pancakes covered in lime and honey into my face like I'd been fasting for a week.
"Empty" I attempted to reply, feeling grossly primitive talking with food in my mouth. She chuckled, slightly, before returning to her plate, probably trying to block the scarring visions of my disgrace.

After arriving in Kuta later that day, spirits were raised with the promise of a relaxing afternoon by the pool and drinks with our plane friend.

"Hey! I'm in Kuta later, where you girls staying?" The message had read
"Suka Beach" I replied.

He checked in two hours later and we went to meet his friends at the beach to watch the sunset, perched in deckchairs, drinking Bintangs at one of the many makeshift beach bars that line the sand from one end of the beach to the other. As you walk along the sand there is a cacophony of calls and beckons from the locals that own the bars; "come sit! Cold beer! Very good, very good!"

"Terima Kassih" we say when we choose our seats and they bring us beer. "Tare in my car seat" jokes our friend, very pleased with himself. "That's how I remember how to say it!" It's clearly not the first time he's made this joke. After dinner we go for drinks at Stakz, voted the best food venue in Bali in 2014. We nurse our hangovers with Smirnoff Ice and secretly placing wagers on the age of our new friends. To sum up, one of them apparently looked like a younger version of Hannah's Dad. Thankfully, we concluded the rest were much younger.

Because I'm absolutely appalling at leaving reviews on Trip Advisor, I'll tell you now that the hostess at Stakz is a good enough reason to go on her own. A fabulous Indonesian lady dressed in electric blue who stroked my hair, called me beautiful and classily flirted with her guests like a pro, making everyone feel welcome and raising the atmosphere with her jokes and radiant smile. The breakfast the next day was pretty banging too.

Our next and final stop was Berawa beach in Canggu. A black-sanded stretch (caused by the volcano further in land) where tourism is a thing of the past and the beaches population consists mainly of the Australians that have moved there or own a house nearby so they can ride lonely waves with little competition from ametures and swimmers. The only beach bar here is a more established one called The Naked Coconut, nestled in colourfully painted palm trees with beautifully printed floor cushions arranged in their shade, their biggest seller is, suitably, chilled young coconuts. The top of which they hack off with a machete-type knife and stick a straw in it for convenience. Tah Dah!

Our hotel is called Charlie Browns, and for about $30/day (a step up in price from our previous residence on the trip) you get absolute luxury. Two double beds to a room with en suite wet room, television, complimentary water, incredibly efficient air conditioning, a fridge, a wardrobe and a pillow shaped perfectly for spooning. What more could two single girls want? And let's not forget the pool and included breakfast of eggs, toast and fruit made by a loving hostess who explained that regular guests have taken to calling her Momma. After daily lifts to Seminyak, Deus' Temple of Enthusiasm, Echo Beach and the airport for very cheap rates, we understood why.

At Seminyak beach, we sat and sunbathed at a bar that had developed leaps and bounds ahead of its competitors, with a generator for music, bean bags to sit on and an actual approachable bar containing fridges and mie goreng for the occasional peckish beach-goer. We made friends with manager, a young man from Jakarta who sat and smoked and talked with us most of the afternoon, introducing us to his very adorable puppies and keeping our drinks flowing. As we chatted and cooed over the puppies, a collection of Australians inhabited the bar next to ours, attempting to call us over to sit with them.

"We have puppies and they're just jealous!" stated Hannah

Needless to say, as we left the beach after sunset, they caught us, promising just five minutes of our time and a free drink, so we stayed an hour, had two drinks and then went for dinner with them at the beach front restaurant right next to their hotel which had only been open four days. I'm currently cursing myself for forgetting the name, because the owner, who had spent the last three years managing some of the best restaurants in Melbourne was fantastic, offering the best service along side free starters and deserts and even a tequila shot. If I go back to Canggu, I will undoubtably go back because the food was delicious! The live music was provided by a woman who knew every song we asked her to play and an incredible voice that, without sounding too 'X-Factor judge', gave me goosebumps.

Our new friends were from Wollongong in Australia and, because the world really is that small, we have mutual friends who we marvelled at for sometime, challenging the coincidence with more names and places that the other might know. They were also the same age as us which thrilled Hannah into a high pitched excitement.

On our last day the rain came, as if protesting our departure and sulked, rather hungover from the night before at Deus, over our last meal. A deliscious curry from the restaurant just a 30 second walk away. We also sulked over ice cream and more beer while we packed.

As we stepped off the plane in Syndey, a much colder rain greeted us, with a painful Australian twang we were guided round the airport and smacked with the reality of joblessness and dwindling funds.

That's what travelling is all about though isn't it? Meeting people who will laugh at the disasters that almost had you panicked into a fit, scooping you up, handing you a beer and reminding you that you're on holiday for fuck sake. Because, for fuck sake, we were on a bloody marvellous one. And we still are (even if Sydney is one big rainy poverty pit for a short while). The next adventure lingers on the horizon.

'Till then, my pretties!

P.S: If anyone is struggling to figure out how to spend their New Years Eve this year, whether it be in icy London or wet and windy Cornwall (or even the toasty delights of Sydney and their mind-blowing selfie sticks... I mean, fireworks) I strongly recommend joining the party on Gilly T, a magical paradise island just off the coast of Bali. See you there x