The return of Lane

Being ill. It's not fun is it? But, should said illness fall on a school day, you can usually find a few advantages to brighten up your day and make you feel at least a little bit smug as your cough your guts up or hug the toilet bowl:

1) You don't have to go to work and you still get paid. Result.

2) You don't have to get out of bed at 8.30am, or even at all if you don't really feel like it. Double result.

3) You can delegate work that you REALLY don't want to do to someone else and cancel all meetings that you don't want to go to. Nice.

4) You can get a full reading stint into your day without having your elbows wedged into your ribs by other commuters or losing your page when you have to change trains etc. Now you're talking.

Etc, etc...

But, there are NO advantages to being ill on a Saturday. None whatsoever. Instead of missing out on work, you miss out on fun with friends; you wouldn't have got out of bed until 2.30pm anyway if you didn't feel like it; and if you felt like reading a book then you would have done it in the sun on your balcony with a glass of wine, rather then sitting in your bed with a banging headache.

No. Nothing good about being ill on a Saturday. Except, perhaps, that it seems to finally be the catalyst to start me writing my blog for the first time in over a year...

So here I am. Back. No taller, a bit snottier (that's just temporary though), and ready once again to throw some pointless mini tales at you.

I don't know why I haven't written for so long. But let's not dwell on the past eh? The past year can easily be summed up in one paragraph (poor grammar allowing):

After a brief stint at ShortList, I took a temping job while I attempted to save up enough funds to move off Michelle's sofa. This job made me want to poke my eyes out with crab sticks (I really struggle to form any kind of bond with people who work in complete silence, wear a rubber thimble on their finger for increased ease in flicking through papers, and fold over the end of the selotape after use so it can be readily relocated on next use) so after a few weeks, I left and turned to earning a living by teaching unsuccessful men how to pick up women and maintain relationships, and became a freelance ghost writer about relationships/men/women for the owner of the company. I then somehow managed to land an amazing job with a major film studio, so I crammed in a quick tour of Ibiza and Croatia and started there just over a year ago. Since then I've also: bought a beautiful flat with my sisters in London, flown to Germany for 10 minutes, grown a tomato plant, had a quick fling in Morocco, frozen my bum of in Paris, learnt how to make a lasagne from scratch, visited the sisters of Lane in South Africa, got a tattoo, dated an array of completely unsuitable men, eaten a lot of cheese, got totally engrossed in the world cup, slightly increased my spice tolerance, lost my oyster card 365 times (at least) and dyed my hair red.

So there you go, that's it really. I realise it's pretty shocking to some of you that I not only have a real job (if you can call it a real job when I regularly get paid to watch films) but have been there for over a year. But don't worry, that shocks me too. And just because I can no longer write about retreating to the shower room for quick nap during the working day or turning up at work an hour late with a pillow under my arm, smelling like festivals etc, doesn't mean I've changed. I just have to be a little bit sensible about what I include in my blog now, that's all...

What's up doc?

The BBC kindly allowed me a pre-view of the documentary. Oh dear. They've cut out all my best bits and HEAVILY featured the photo of me in a bikini. They had footage of me reading blogs, writing, talking about travelling and carrying out a bloody successful cake driven marketing campaign that got me on 3 of the biggest UK radio stations and made me the most voted candidate in Britain. Did they use it? No. Bugger.

Still, it could've been a LOT worse. At least they didn't feature the part where I declared (and I believe this is verbatim) that 'jobs are disposable'. That would've gone down nicely in an economic crisis, I'm sure...

(incidentally, I did NOT apply for the next best job in the world. That was in fact just a close up of my eyes with a voiceover)

Message from my friend Lulu:

Laney - are you going to be on the telly-box? x

Text from my friend Norrie:

"Get off my telly Sahara! x"

Text from my friend Lois:

"I just saw you on TV!"

Text from my ex-boy:

"Thursday night 9pm, I'll be watching BBC1...x"

Email from my Aunt:

"Is this documentary anything to do with you?"

Text from my friend Marvyn:

"Where are you? You in the UK? I just saw you on BBC1! It's usually me on TV haha! x" (he was on shipwrecked last year)

Text from my friend Jo:

"According to the Mail on Sunday: 'Sarah Louise Cane is as capable at blogging as she is at bikini-wearing' can't wait to see 'Britains most voted entrant' on Thursday... c u then x"

Text from my friend Simon:

"Can't wait to see you make a tit of yourself on Thursday... where's the premiere?"

Email from my friend Michelle:

"Hi boys and girls. Forget Leicester Square, the premiere of the century is going down in Leyton. Thurs night 8pm onwards we'll be watching 'Sarah Louise Lane' (Mini) prat around on TV, with cocktails and canapes... from ASDA"

Oh dear... it's looking increasingly unlikely that this is going to slip by unnoticed... and I don't think a surname typo is going to be enough to stop people realising it's me...

Text from Holly (other British candidate):

"Want to go into hiding...?"

Text from me:

"Yes"

No clouds = silver lining

After 25 years of life, I find I have developed pretty effective ways of dealing with most problems that are thrown at me.

For example:

1) You hate your job : leave the country
2) You can't stop eating chocolate/cheese/christmas pudding: use the flooding technique*
3) You don't have a house: live on your friend's sofa
4) You have no money: adopt the London money saving tactics**
5) You're cold: leave the country
6) Your housemate rugby tackles you into the bathroom and rubs a mouldy chicken carcass in your face: you wait until he leaves the house and recruit your other housemates to help you remove every single item from his bedroom and immaculately reassemble it on the landing.
7) You have an important exam: you wait until the day before and cram everything you can get your hands on into your short term memory using your synaesthesia colour fixing techniques.
8) You just cut yourself a fringe and decide you don't like it: wear a hat.
9) Your sister has moved to South Africa and you miss her: leave the country
etc etc...

However, there is one problem that I am just not sure how to deal with. The 'the BBC have made a documentary, which probably features me looking like a tit, and it's been given a BBC1 primetime broadcasting slot' problem. I'm not even sure leaving the country is going to solve this one, since it doesn't stop the 60 million residents of the UK from still tuning in...

Today, though, there was a glistening of hope. England is expecting a heat wave and supposedly the hottest day of the year is going to be Thurday 2nd July - the date of the documentary. Hurrah! No one stays in and watches TV when it's 30 degrees outside. I'm safe! If I don't mention anything then it's highly likely that nobody will even notice.

Thank you, weatherman, for making my day.


* A method where you continuously eat the food you are obsessed with until it makes you feel sick, then you dwell on the feeling of sick until you've built up a decent association with the food and your shouldn't want to eat the food again for about 6 months.

** substituting Cafe Nero with cafe a la 'Nat West', abusing free wifi internet (available at the Apple store, Islington Green, Pret in Holborn, and outside my sister's front door), adopting a diet consisting only of toast, and the odd bit of bus jumping.

Article for Shortlist Magazine

I was asked to write a 'top 10s' article for ShortList about all this MP scandal, so here it is for anyone interested:

Shortlist's 10 Most Ridiculous MP Expense Claims:

Every penny counts at the moment - especially for those minimum wage MPs. We tot up the 10 most ridiculous expense claims the poor guys have been forced to recoup to survive financial turmoil...

1. Glittery Toilet Seat
Understandably bogged down by all the toilet reading he has to do for work, John Reid claimed a reasonable £29.99 for adding a little sparkle to his bathroom. Presumably he also wipes his posterior with £10 notes of tax payer's money.
2. Chocolate Santa
Sian James, Welsh Labour MP, must've thought it was Christmas when her 49p claim for a chocolate Santa actually got approved.
3. Smug Photo
Obviously impressed with himself for expensing every penny he possibly could, millionaire Lib Dem Chris Huhne celebrated by claiming £82.35 for the mounting, framing and inscription of a photo of himself. Now he just needs to decide which of his 7 homes to hang it in...
4. Jellied Eels
Clearly struggling to make ends meet, we imagine Essex MP Andrew Rosindell just needed £1.31 to make a jellied eel pie – a traditional English dish for the poor
5. Changing of Lightbulbs
How many MPs does it take to change a lightbulb? None, we’ll make sure someone’s hired in to do it for them. On us, of course.
6. Wooden Spoon
A Labour back bencher claimed 26p for a wooden spoon. Probably a desperate attempt to keep a small fire going in her bedsit, so she could keep her hands warm
7. Lemon
We’ve all been told we need to get our 5 a day. Let's not get bitter about this 23p claim.
8. Moat Cleaning
We’re all facing tough times at the moment. Conservative cabinet minister, David Hogg, can’t be expected to have to go through life with a dirty moat on top of all his other troubles. £2,115 well spent.
9. Ikea Bag
A poor Scottish Labour MP, reduced to shopping at Ikea, turned to us to help him out for a 5p carrier bag. We’re positive he will give us value for money and protect the environment by re-using it.
10. Packet of Tampax
Clearly an essential work-related item for male immigration minister, Phil Woolas. He needed them for his job. Period.

A bloody mess?

This morning, there were a few dreadful seconds when I truly believed that: all my teeth were falling out, my mouth was pouring with blood, and my life was over.

It didn't take long for me to realise that this wasn't in fact the case, and that the liquid staining my toothbrush and the sink in front of me a deep shade of red, was not blood, but purely the consequence of eating a jar of baby beetroot for breakfast (the only reason I had gone back to re-clean my teeth in the first place, but also a fact that had completely left my mind in the few seconds it took me to walk from the kitchen to the bathroom).

Understandably relieved to note that my exorcist style start to the morning was nothing more than the result of securing the first of my five a day, I left the bathroom feeling light, uplifted and merry. How silly of me to think the whole world was over when it was just a few seconds of confusion!

At the risk of sounding like a street preacher, in hindsight, this little story seems quite poignant. At the time I had my little head hanging over the sink and the first red drop left my mouth, I could think of no explanation for the sink tinting, other than the fact that my mouth was bleeding. Withdrawing a dark red toothbrush and spitting red toothpaste into the sink had, in my head, confirmed this to be the case and ruled out any possibility of any other explanation. Only a matter of seconds later I was laughing at myself for coming to such a silly conclusion. What I had deemed to be certain horror and possible death, had in fact turned out to be quite the opposite: a healthy vegetable, providing my body with essential nutrients and anti-oxidants.

My point is that sometimes life just isn't the way it seems - you just can't quite think clearly at the time. Right now, the only things I can see are the end of the best job in the world and the beginning of homelessness and joblessness during a credit crunch... hardly a situation to be jumping for joy about. And then an email from Shortlist Magazine:

"Hi Sarah Louise, someone has just cancelled on us. Can you come in for a couple of weeks?"

Who knows, maybe this Shortlist will get me further than the last one...

A hole lot of fun

When I was little (well, even littler) my sisters and I spent a considerable amount of time playing archaeology in the garden (we weren't allowed to watch TV like normal kids). We had varying amounts of success over the years: a few buttons, numerous fragments of crockery that my mother convinced us were from the stone age, and one particularly glorious day when we dug up an old, Victorian iron. I remember this so clearly (I think even my mother was genuinely impressed by that one) and I felt so proud as she found us old toothbrushes to clean up our spectacular find.

One day - clearly distressed that I hadn't managed to top that last find and no longer satisfied with stone age crockery - I asked my Dad what would happen if I dug a really, really deep hole in the garden. "Eventually you'd end up in Australia, where all the upside down people live" was his matter of fact response; albeit one with a smug, knowing grin.

I was heavily into gymnastics at the time* and had built up a bit of a reputation for always being upside down myself, even in England. This sounded PERFECT!

"How long will it take?" I asked, eagerly.

"Well, if you're going to dig a direct hole, you'll need to get through the Earth's molten core - which will be pretty hot so make sure you take some water - and then back out the other side. I reckon you're looking at about 20 million years or so" my Dad replied (knowing my Dad, he'd probably actually attempted to calculate the exact time frame using a series of intricate algebraic formulae before revealing this answer).

I looked my Dad up an down, quizzically, and then looked down at my plastic spade. It was pretty sharp - I fancied my chances at shaving a few million years off his estimate. Plus, I didn't really know how long a million years was anyway, so I wasn't going to let that put me off. No, I was going to go for it - I was determined to get myself to Oz. I was going to dedicate the rest of my life to this crusade, even if it meant missing gym practice on Monday.

Two whole weeks I dug that hole for. Ten minutes a day after dinner for two whole weeks. At one point I was pretty sure that the bottom of the hole felt a bit warm, but I never did make it to Australia. Twenty years on and I kind of feel the same as I did then. It was a long shot and I feel a little silly for thinking I might be able to make it. I threw everything I had into a desperate attempt to make it to Oz and I didn't get there. But, I should still be proud that I almost made it and at least I know I tried. Very hard. Australia feels like a distant dream now but I'm not going to give up on the idea of it. It felt good to be chasing a dream and I was smug every single time someone said the words "Oh, I heard about that job and I really wanted to apply but I didn't think I stood a chance"**.

I live my life by the theory that it's better to regret doing something, than to regret not doing something. If there's one thing I've learnt from all this, it's that I love this point of view. I'm proud of myself; proud that I had the guts to enter, proud that I made it so far, proud that I gave up everything and worked so hard to try and fulfill my dream, proud of everything I achieved along the way, and proud that I managed to have so much fun doing it.

Life is an adventure. My path didn't take me to Oz this time, but I'm eager to see where my next venture will take me. Anyway, I can go to Oz another day... I'm pretty sure I still have that spade somewhere...

* I mean heavily into gymnastics - by the age of nine I was basically just an inverse, tiny ball of muscle, training 5 days a week and doing 100 press-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups at home each day.

**Ironically, this statement was once followed by, "It's a rollover this week, you should buy a lottery ticket."

Reasons I'm gutted I didn't get the best job in the world:

1) I have to face reality.

Reasons I'm glad I didn't get the best job in the world:

1) I can sleep at night
2) I don't have the BBC waking me up to film me in my dressing gown anymore.
3) My friends like me again.
4) I don't have to worry about my Dad picking up a copy of the Daily Sport to find a picture of his daughter with the headline 'Sarah Loves it Down Under' (not that my Dad reads the Daily Sport, and, incidentally, I was NOT interviewed for that article)
5) I can write about whatever I want to in my blog without having to worry about whether I've mentioned the great barrier reef enough or I've said something that might offend people.
6) I can go back and re-enter all the swearing and stories about poo in my travel blogs.

7) I can also re-post the bit where I wrote: "If I'm honest, I don't love Australia like I love Asia" and admit that Borneo is the best place I've ever been diving and India is my favourite country, without damaging my career prospects.
8) I don't have to feel bad that I've eaten an entire 200g block of cheese to comfort myself, because the chances of being broadcast on national TV wearing a bikini have been significantly reduced.
9) My dark circles, red eyes and acne skin seem to have been replaced by clear, radiant baby skin and sparkling eyes (it seems the acne was just a little present for me during the time I was being filmed for national prime-time TV. Glorious.)
10) I'm now less likely to develop skin cancer.

So there you have it, it looks as if it all worked out for the best!

Oh, who am I kidding?

Shit.

“Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail” - Ralph Waldo Emerson