London 2012 has left the building (or rather, the Olympic Stadium) and I, for one, am gutted. The closer it got, the more excited I was at the Olympics coming to my city. By the day of the Opening Ceremony itself, I was beside myself with excitement & a smidgeon of nervousness.

I needn’t have worried: the Opening Ceremony was one of the best things I have ever seen. The ‘Industrial Revolution’ sequence had me slack-jawed with awe and the music was phenomenal and atmospheric as the Olympic rings formed above the stadium. And of course, the Olympic Flame (or was it a Cauldron?) bit was beautiful. So I had high hopes for the Closing Ceremony and thought it would be on a par with the spectacle that opened the whole shindig.

Boy, was I wrong.

The Closing Ceremony was entitled ‘A Symphony of British Music’. I love all kinds of music - as long as it has a good beat, I’m a happy bunny. But I was bored after 40 minutes and- judging by people on my timeline on Twitter & Facebook - I was not the only one. By contrast, I was enthralled at the same point in the Opening Ceremony. The music during the sequence in Danny Boyle’s show where the teenage couple were trying to meet up through a highly colourful crowd of dancers was better than most of the Closing Ceremony line-up. More diverse as well: Underworld, The Prodigy, Dizzee Rascal, even Millie with ‘My Boy Lollipop’! A classic and (more importantly) all songs you can shake your tush to. So whose bright idea was it to have Ed Sheeran singing some dirge onstage while a tightrope walker (who wasn’t even in clown make-up- a wasted opportunity!) teetered above the stage?? The last person whose music I want to hear at an uplifting celebration of music is him.

Emeli Sande is a fabulous singer, but why did they have her sing Read All About It… twice?! It’s not the liveliest of songs. She should have performed ‘Heaven’, a fantastic song that would have got the crowd on their feet in the stadium and at home, instead of something so… dull.

That’s the keyword right there- the Closing Ceremony was DULL. When you’re relying on the newly-formed (for one night only) Spice Girls being the act that will save the whole shebang, you know you’re in trouble. If this was going to be a carbon-copy of the Jubilee concert, the least they could do was get Grace Jones onstage hula-hooping. (Or Boris Johnson- that would’ve been a sight). Another good sign things aren’t going swimmingly is when a friend texts you barely an hour into the event saying, ‘Is it me or is this all a bit shit?’, as happened to me.

Now before anyone accuses me of being a cynical British hag who will nit-pick any and everything, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was looking forward to this extravaganza and seeing how it would pan out. The crumbs we were given sounded good: a catwalk with British supermodels; Kate Bush rumoured to be performing. I’m sure it sounded good on paper, but when broadcast live, I was disappointed. And Taio Cruz shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near the Olympic Stadium, let alone onstage.

And why were the first few acts’ songs on a loop in the stadium while the athletes came out to play? Hearing One Direction more than once is not a good thing for my ears or soul. It was like one long British Airways ad. I’d have been happier if Heather Small had rocked up singing ‘Proud’- the poor woman’s been airbrushed out of the entire gig.

Yes there were some good points: Brian May’s guitar solo was an unexpected highlight and Jessie J was good performing with them, although (obviously) she was not a patch on the legendary Freddie Mercury’s hologram. The Marathon medal ceremony- the final one of the Games -was lovely. Muse (and their slightly scary choir)’s performance were really good and ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ was utterly bonkers and I was very happy to see they left the line, “Life’s a piece of shit” in there (no doubt NBC threw a fit when that was broadcast). And the ballet sequence near the end was very atmospheric and really lifted some of the cobwebs.

But it shouldn’t have taken two hours to pass before things started to get better. Everything beforehand just didn’t gel. My hand was reaching for the remote sooner than I imagined but I stuck with it. I know many Londoners didn’t want the Olympics to end but that shouldn’t have meant we had to be subjected to something that looked like it had all been randomly thrown together.

Anyway, all I know is that I want one of those bowler hats with the lightbulb on top, so if there’s one left in the Olympic Stadium, someone fetch it for me please.

© G. Holder. Aug 2012.

I admit I’d be surprised at her lack of tact but might later appreciate her honesty (though contrary to popular belief, there’s nothing wrong with having a big bum).

Not so WeightWatchers. According to a recent article, they slated staff in fashion stores because apparently they ‘insult’ larger-sized women shoppers. Let’s be honest, clothes shopping can be a pain in the arse for men and women, especially when you spend ages searching for a mirror (note to all clothes stores: YOU NEED MORE MIRRORS!) then stand in a queue for what feels like half of your life before going into the sweaty, dusty fitting rooms. I don’t feel intimidated but totally understand why many people prefer to buy and try things on at home.

More than a third of ‘plus-size’ women walk out of shops feeling unhappy and frustrated, due to the service they receive. One woman was told by a bra-fitter that the size of her back was “too large so I can’t help you.” Wow…that’s just plain wrong. Mind you, a few years ago I used to do bra fittings for a very well-known retailer and the things you have to deal with: from women with incredibly long armpit hair (reminiscent of someone having a cat under both pits- I actually FLINCHED when the woman lifted her arms), to those who decide to berate you in the middle of the shopfloor because you couldn’t determine their bra size (which also happened to me once). 

Yes, some that bra-fitter (not me, the other one) and some other customer service assistants need to find their diplomacy gene but well, to tell the truth…some customers deserve to be berated (but I’ll save that for another article). Most women of all sizes feel a bit frustrated when clothes shopping, whether it’s because they don’t have an item in their size or they hate the whole rigmarole of doing such a task, hence the rise in online shopping. All I know is as long as there is a sale section in the shops I browse in, I’m a happy bunny.

© G. Holder. June 2012

I had one earlier this week which didn’t go too well because I didn’t get the job. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. Even the interviewers were ‘disappointed’ in me and told me that they knew I could do the job, which makes it worse because if you know and have seen that I could do it, then (and maybe this sounds fanciful) why not pay too much attention to my interview and look at how I work on a daily basis. After the result, I left work and went out with my lovely, thoughtful friends who cheered me up no end but I couldn’t help thinking about how much I loathe such interviews (and before any present or future employers start berating me about this, this is my blog, my opinion and really…you shouldn’t be reading this if it’s going to cloud your judgement).

Job interviews remind me of exams at school/university. You know they are coming so you revise & swot up on the subject and get yourself prepared. Then you turn over the page and everything you’ve thought of- all those great answers you were going to give –have suddenly disappeared from your mind, never to be seen again. When this happens in an interview, this affects the entire time in the room which can suddenly feel like an interrogation. Job interviews are bad enough without programmes like The Apprentice making them seem like they should be tougher. Now I’ll admit, I love watching that part of the series but I always sit & hope that I don’t have to go through anything like that.

Also when you get turned down for a role that you really want, you doubt yourself. I currently work in a similar role and while there are differences in both roles, the fact remained I could do the job and do it well. So when things don’t work out, you think ‘is that all I’m destined to do in my life?’

But…maybe not getting this job is a blessing (I hope so, otherwise the man upstairs will have a lot to answer for). Maybe it might have been a stopgap which prevented me from moving out of my comfort zone and doing something different. Who knows, but this is the point where I can hopefully go on to bigger and better things and do what I want to do (whatever that is). I have nothing to lose- no kids, no real responsibilities, but then even those that do have these take the plunge and move on so I have no excuse.

©G. Holder

June 2012

I watched ‘Married to the Moonies’ on Channel 4 tonight. Two thousand couples getting hitched in Korea, in a stadium resembling a rundown Olympic Stadium. One couple (she’s British, he’s Korean) met three hours before and were put together, matchmaker-style by the, ahem, “Messiah”. She arrived in Korea looking for a man and well, she got one. Quite the eye-opener, this programme. They can’t fornicate before marriage. Nothing wrong there, but when you can’t even have a passionate kiss prior to your nuptials?? Think of all that pent-up lust and desire having to be locked away til you’re married, then you be as much of a freak-a-leek as you like. The Reverend/”Messiah” came onstage to the strains of Hallelujah (which I found hilariously epic). I looked at my mum who found the programme as fascinating as I did and said, “Don’t even think about signing me up for this.” They process/fast-track 500 marriages every hour. But despite all this, I thought it was quite sweet in an odd way. Then I heard after they’ve got hitched, they still have to abstain from sex for 40 days. So these people have to refrain (or restrain) themselves from even kissing their spouse until they are married. Then they must wait another forty sodding days before they break out the lingerie. Mind you, maybe it’s a good thing- think of it as the refund period, although nobody mentioned a money-back guarantee if they’re not compatible but I digress. I’m happy for those who now have a ‘trouble and strife’. But let’s be honest, if this is what awaits me, I’ll think I’ll pass. © G. Holder 2012.

Mascara. Until a year or so ago, I wondered why every woman I met used the stuff. The mantra I would hear was, ‘I never leave the house without putting my mascara on.’ I could understand that kind of cosmetic devotion to something like blusher as it makes me look alive and doesn’t cause fellow commuters to recoil at my face in the morning. But I dismissed mascara as something that leaves black clumps in your eyes and anyway, who’s gonna notice my eyelashes when I’m wearing my glasses? But since the new year, I’ve been belatedly converted. I realised that not all mascaras leave charcoal-like chunks in your eyes and it does make a difference to how I look. I assumed that it was good only if you had false lashes (Now there’s a trend I can’t abide- wasting minutes, no- HOURS of my life waiting for the glue to be tacky enough before I smother it over my real (slightly weakening) lashes). That said, I beg my fellow ladies not to overdo it. I once watched this woman coat her false lashes in mascara four times (sometimes more) between each train stop. Bear in mind that there were 23 (yes, I shit thee not, 23) stops, I’m surprised she could lift her eyes up when she got off the train. I sat opposite her for the whole journey, trying to master my poker face & not look slack-jawed with surprise.

© G. Holder 2012

Christian Louboutin said last week that he “doesn’t have much sympathy” for women who wear his high heels. I think many shoe manufacturers feel the same. I wandered into a well-known clothes store last weekend and browsed around the aisles, where I discovered a pair of colourful concrete blocks masquerading as shoes. They were five or six-inch high heels, red (or was it peach?) and in my size (Don’t worry I didn’t part with my money; I couldn’t buy or wear such things).

I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m a picky cow and shoe shopping is a pain in the arse for me. Dainty feet is not something I am blessed with and all I want are some normal but nice-looking shoes. I like heels but have gone past the stage of trying to wear skyscraper ones or awful-fitting shoes that cause you to cry with every step you take. I don’t want to go to work or on a night out walking round in pain and I don’t want to tower over everyone in the room, like some kind of giant.

It’s common knowledge that we women suffer for vanity’s sake. The other day, a woman hobbled past me on the street and I wondered what was wrong with her until I saw her feet. They were imprisoned (yes I’m using dramatic licence here, she was in agony after all) in a pair of sophisticated-looking black high heels (and they were pointy-ended heels as well- TOOL OF THE DEVIL!) with her face pleading, ‘All I want are some fluffy slippers. Help. Me.’

I felt a twinge of sympathy for her, especially if she suffered from that deceitful feeling where you try on a pair of shoes in store and they feel great. You get home, walk around in them for a bit and they still feel good. ‘Ooh, I’ll wear them to work on Monday,’ you think. But by the time you get to work on that Monday morning, your feet feel like they’ve been shredded to hell, several bunions are forming and you’re checking online store locators for the nearest Superdrug or Boots to buy some corn plasters. You also have this urge to throw your brand new shoes out of the window (and sod whoever gets in their way). It’s like the shoe manufacturer has betrayed your poor, innocent soul who bought such things in good faith.

And the alternative seems to be swapping your high heels for shoes so flat, you might as well walk barefoot- at least you’ll feel more comfortable. One pair- which I’d only worn once -had such a deceptively smooth sole, I did the splits in the middle of the road in full view of traffic. And I was wearing a skirt. And it was outside my workplace. Not good at all.

So my search for the perfect pair of shoes (if such a thing exists) goes on and they won’t be ultra-flat or ultra-high, just normal like me. Although I sometimes wonder if I really am…

© G. Holder 2012