I hid from shame, embarrassed and demoralised at having to visit the Job Centre to claim Jobseeker’s Allowance.
I slipped further and further into my really shitty financial mess.
And I cried.

I cried so much I became numb and didn’t want to feel anymore.
I contemplated getting in my Car and driving away…somewhere…anywhere as long as it wasn’t here.
I gave serious thought to getting in my Car and driving it off the Bridge at the end of our road.

But I’m here now and I’m so glad I am.
I have a new job and I like it.
I’m making wise choices about my Life as it is now and my future as I’d like it to be.
It feels okay to smile again. This time it’s real and genuine…


I have plans, but I’ve learned and experienced enough to know that small steps are sensible – after coming to a complete stop, I suppose I’m learning to crawl again before I can walk, run and fly.

Struggle isn’t beautiful.
There’s nothing beautiful about being unemployed.
Nothing beautiful in having to claim benefits, degrading Yourself by sitting amongst the great unwashed every two weeks when You have to sign on and justify the fact that ‘yes I am actively looking for work’.

Is it really ‘beautiful’ when You can no longer afford the repayments on Your Car or the Insurance?
Wishing that the Postman skips Your house, screening Phone calls.
That’s beautiful right?

Lying to Your Family to save Your own shame and Your Mother’s pride.
Yeah…I feel like a fucking beauty Queen.
Logging on to the same sites, seeing the same jobs. Applying, hearing nothing.
Driving 358 miles for the perfect job; acing the Interview, being told from the Horses mouth that they were ‘very impressed’, and finding out that the script of that whole new Life of prospect and promise that You wrote Yourself into, isn’t going to happen.
That’s pretty right?

Don’t ever tell me that Life is a beautiful struggle, because for me right now, it’s anything but.

Struggle is a dark place.
It’s a place where almost everyday I envision ways in which I don’t have to be here anymore. So the Phone will stop ringing and the Postman won’t have to deliver anymore letters of a Red hue.
So I can permanently avoid the looks and not have to remember who knows what.
So my Mother doesn’t have to endure this extra bit of disappointment about Her first born.

So that I don’t have to deal.
Because I can’t.

A world that for now seems uncertain…I say ‘for now’ as it seems like it’s already been forever; a roller coaster on a never ending track leading to who knows where.

And I can’t see where I’m going because I don’t want to; I mean, if you’re going nowhere there’s no point in looking, right?

My Lot is waking up each morning and wishing that you didn’t.

Wishing that it wasn’t really happening.  

That it never happened at all.  

That what once was, is.

Screening calls, heart leaping with fear every time the phone rings.

Loathing the Postman not just because he comes late, but because he comes at all.

A sigh of relief as there’s nothing for me…and the pang of realisation that it’s probably on its way.

My Lot is going shopping with nothing but two long hands.

I’ve stopped looking.  Stopped admiring.

Adept at feigning interest in the purchases of others.

Oh and I’m really good at fake happiness and joy too.

How the fuck am I meant to be happy and joyful?

They ask you that at the Job Centre you know.

I smile sweetly, never letting it reach my eyes, all the while hating that I have to be here.

Amongst the great unwashed.  One of them.

Avoiding the gazes.  Being there only as long as I need to be.

The shame is too much.

And the shame of my Lot?

I can’t deal with that.

Working so hard to get it, to achieve the dream.  Getting it.  Then fucking it up.

I’m ashamed, I’m disgraced.

Actually I don’t know what’s worse; the actual shame and disgrace, or the lies I tell to relatives when they ask, “How’s work going?  I bet you can’t wait for the next holiday?”

My stock reply being “Yeah, it’s alright.”

But it isn’t ‘alright’ my Lot.

It’s not alright that jobs in my field are scarce,

It’s not alright that you apply for a job that you can do with your eyes closed and hear nothing,

It’s not alright that nobody calls you back to say that you weren’t short-listed, or even acknowledge your existence.

It’s not alright that I can’t pay my bills and that I’m about to lose the very little I own.

My Lot is great, it’s shitty.

It’s that monkey on my back, that ever pervading Black dog that looms.

My Lot has me feeling unworthy of being; thinking of a way out, away or around.

Well meaning folk offering impossible and impractical solutions.

I have a few of my own, but they’re of a more final and permanent nature.

I never thought of myself as one of those people who ‘had it all’,

But in this moment I feel like I have nothing.

And I know that that’s not true, because I have something really special.

My Lot.  And I’m living with it.

(c) RSB 2012

I was reading a piece from The Washington Post opinion page about motherhood being an all-encompassing role that all women should aspire to and make it their life’s work to prepare for.
*insert side eye here*

The assumption that all women want to be Mothers and should behave and be treated as ‘Moms in waiting’ is…rude. The term Pre pregnancy refers to the notion that from the very day a woman starts menstruating, she should treat her body as a shrine to pending motherhood and maintain a regular diet of folic acid, limit alcohol intake, don’t smoke and avoid ‘risky’ sexual behaviour.

All that doesn’t sound like my idea of fun, and to be quite honest, the notion that this is all I’m here for and all I’m expected to do just doesn’t sit well with me.
I was always a very independent child, never one to totally toe the line, so to tell me to hypothetically shelve my own needs for the sake of a being that may it may not appear at some point in my fecund years? No. Never. Not happening.

According to research in America, most women who are sexually active are taking some form of contraceptive, and goes as far as saying that at least 25 years of our lives are spent avoiding parenthood.
The second most popular choice of contraception after the Pill is Sterilisation, and the term ‘childless‘ has been replaced by the more user-friendly, ‘child-free‘ as increasing numbers of women turn to more long term methods of keeping babies at bay.

I for one don’t feel the absence or void of a child in my life right now or ever; the lack of desire to bring forth of my loins possibly being the reason why my cousin once told me that I was selfish for not furnishing my parents with grandchildren.
So what?
I value my freedom and my independence way too much to be irresponsible enough to raise a child with no money, no stability and be living in my childhood bedroom. I can’t be about that life. In my world that’s not the correct order of things.

Back when I was in a (seemingly) committed relationship, yes children were most definitely an option, but now the door on that chapter has been closed and hermetically sealed, in my head, right now? It’s not happening. That ship has done set sail and gone way off into the sunset!
That’s not to say that it will never happen…one day my King will come, but I’d be stupid if I decided to hold my breath or sit up in a tower waiting on him to arrive.

There’s not even a plan to go it alone either. I haven’t made a pact with a platonic male friend to impregnate me should the time come (because I don’t have one), and I’m not even thinking about getting my bits poked, extracted and frozen for future use.
There just isn’t a burning desire or need for me. My biological clock is either lost, I never had one or I’m deaf to the sound of it!

I love kids and I’ve grown up with younger cousins to help raise and look after, I have beautiful god children whom I adore, but it’s such a wonderful feeling to be able to relinquish that responsibility and give them back!
And I don’t think that’s selfish either; sensible on my part and justified too.

My friends, cuffing season is here.

It’s that time of year when the balmy (hypothetically speaking) Summer draws to an end, and the male of the species decides that they’ve had enough of dicking around, and earnestly begin the search for a cuddle buddy so as not to spend the Winter months lonely and avoiding the cold side of the bed.

You’ll tend to find that random guys will have started sniffing around a couple of weeks ago, and you’ll have already been bombarded with an influx of BBQ invites, out of the blue texts and those ‘I just wanted to see how you are’ phone calls.

But please, please don’t be fooled into thinking that all this attention is reserved just for you.  Oh no, we live in the age of the mass text/email and although Winter is drawing near, most guys will still operate with a Summer mentality, so trust me when I say that you’re likely to be one of about twelve people receiving that same message!

The  images above seem to state that if you make it past the initial three months of the season, then you’re doing pretty well.  Note that it mentions little of longevity though.

What happens past that three month stage?  Is it a probationary period with real terms and conditions?  I’ve heard it said that cuffing season is simply a way of getting some when the prospects are kinda low, and that it’s another way of promoting promiscuity.

I’m really shocked that there are men and women out there who would give serious consideration to a seasonal relationship.  Self esteem issues maybe?  And would you believe there are actual sites and articles on the Internet that give ‘single girls’ tips on how to prepare for cuffing season, and various do’s and don’ts?

I’ve never been one for serial dating…dating full stop actually, but I can sort of see the appeal of this cuffing season lark.  I mean, a guy will have to invest time and attention; this is so much more than a booty call.  Companionship, dates…potentially this is the stuff Hallmark Channel movies are made of!

But seriously, what does happen when the frost thaws and the blossom makes its return to the trees?  The bitter, burnt and slightly crispy around the edges part of me has serious reservations about it all; that after playing the role of official bed warmer and girlfriend whilst Jack Frost came to play, this guy isn’t just going to go right back to playing the field as soon as the nights start getting longer and hemlines rise?

To be a successful cuffer you’d probably have to have the skills of one Stevie J, and be able to get everybody on the same bus that you’re driving.  (so called) Charm, wit and game are what’s needed to make it work, because otherwise the whole thing will fall apart from the jump.  Keeping your cuffee interested is key, and most women will get swept up in the destructive cycle of false, mixed emotions where she thinks that this is the start of a beautiful relationship, and he has regular, guaranteed, ever-faithful sex on tap, with no attachment.

Honestly, it’s stuff like this that makes me not want to get involved with guys and relationships.  I don’t want to have that thought in the back of my mind that there’s an ulterior motive involved, and essentially that’s what cuffing season is.  It’s the false sense of a relationship built on a pretty weak foundation of sex, and I don’t really buy into that.

Yes it would be nice to garner some male attention at anytime, let alone during the Autum/Winter, but this whole cuffing thing seems like way too much effort and hassle, and is probably just a waste of time.

What do you think?  Are you for the cuffing season or against?

Are you a cuffer or a cuffee?  What were your experiences of the season?

Talk to me.

That was the question asked by The New York Times last week, and it’s taken me a while to come up with an answer.
They say that money doesn’t buy happiness, but it’s clear to see that people who earn more and have a higher standard of living, are much happier than those who are less financially endowed.

Researchers at Princeton University in America reckon that it takes around $75,000 (just over £48,000) to be truly happy. Anything more than that doesn’t really factor into it.

I started to think about what I could do with £48,000 that would make me happy…
Holidays, a new Car, a huge shopping spree – that would be anyone’s idea of happiness right? Admittedly it’s mine too, but the life I have means that I have to really rein in the fun and frivolity.

But then the Bayfords of Suffolk scooped £148, 656,000 in the Euro Millions draw.
I hold my hands up and quite happily concede that that’s way too much money for a family, let alone just me! After I’ve cleared my debts and made financial arrangements for a few choice individuals I’m done. Besides making a few investments and maybe buying a modest property or two, the £8,000 a day interest would be sufficient for me to live on for a month.

So in answer to my question, a substantial amount of money would be brilliant, bloody fantastic right about now, but once I’d set myself straight and done what I needed to do with it, I think I’d be quite content to carry on as if I hadn’t acquired it in the first place.

In putting it out there into the Universe, all I ask is enough to clear my Student Loan, keep the proverbial Wolves from my door and have one foreign holiday would be just enough thanks.

Recently I found these two posters on Pinterest for fun things to do on rainy days and on a budget.
A lot of the activities are really accessible and can be adapted to suit, and I reckon that if You have the energy you can probably get through two or three in a day!

What will you do today?

I’ve had it. I’m still caught up in the grip of it. We’ve all had it at some point.
Natural hair envy is a real thing.

Readers of A Musing Miss B over on Tumblr know all about my Love/hate relationship with my natural hair.
There are days when I am totally in Love with how soft my coils are, how my curls pop with just a little leave-on moisture. And then there are those days where I take off my headscarf and want to cry; my hair all crispy and not doing what I want and need it to do.

Does the beatification of some/most natural haired Celebrities, Bloggers and Vloggers make it any easier for the rest of the natural haired community?
I ask this in light of the recent Solange situation; how that poor girl must have felt being lambasted for wearing natural haired wigs and God forbid, neglecting to comb her own hair!! My hair often looks ‘unkempt‘ and ‘dry as heck‘, but I’ve never ever had anyone be so brutally upfront in their opinion on it.

Solange went as far as to defend her choices by saying that in all honesty, she wasn’t really all that bothered by her natural hair, and I agree.
It’s her hair, on her head and whatever and however she chooses to do to it, style (or not) is her business.

I was asked on Twitter today if I preferred really defined curls or a huge ‘fro, and I had to admit that I’m a fan of both.
I love it when my own curl pattern is defined, but this only occurs whilst I’m deep conditioning, the minute that gets washed off and my hair dried, moisturised and sealed, it pretty much reverts to being a crispy almost matted mess.

My natural hair envy lies in my adoration of huge afros.
I looked on in awe as Aevin Dugas hit the headlines with the world’s largest afro. What a glorious head of hair Aevin has…it will take me until way past my pension age to achieve even half of her length, but I wouldn’t necessarily class this as envy though; more admiration and wonder.

Natural hair comes in so many different lengths, shapes and styles, with a range of curl patterns, kinks and coils, so who are we to judge and covet another’s crowning glory?
Within the natural hair community what we need is more understanding and appreciation of what it takes to handle and maintain natural hair. Like Solange intimated in comments responding to her critics, twist-outs ain’t for everybody, and “just because you’re natural doesn’t mean you’ll be able to wash, shake and go. It’s a lot of work.”

Right now I’m wearing my hair in long, thin twists, purely because I was getting bored of weekly co-washes, washes, DCs and pre-poos, endlessly looking up concoctions to stimulate hair growth and the relentless path to becoming a product junkie.
Do I regret chopping my hair off 18 months ago? Not really, but sometimes I do wish I had a head full of long, kinky tresses to twist and cane row and coil into Bantu Knots, but I remember that my arms ache when plaiting hair and that 9 times out of 10 I just don’t have the patience!

I say forget the envy and embrace the pride.
Look for the beauty and the difference in our natural hair. It’s not something to be scrutinised, ridiculed and held up for condemnation.
Natural hair is a joy to behold and something to be proud of indeed, and it couldn’t hurt to have a little bit more of that.

Apparently this advert is running in the current edition of Private Eye, Britain’s ‘best-selling news and current affairs magazine‘.

Is it me, or is this a tad racist?
I mean, I’ve stayed in and travelled through Brixton quite a few times, and not everyone there is a Tam wearing, Ganja smoking Rasta. In fact the last time I was in Brixton I was surprised at how gentrified it had become.

Is this disgusting attempt at ‘humour’ Private Eye’s way of endearing themselves to a new populace?
As Peter Macrobert said on Twitter (@petermacrobert);

“Witty cartoon, or another display of old-guard institution racism?”

Say what you will, but after the months and weeks of throwing shade and the many mishaps and major cock-ups, I know you were all like me, glued to the London 2012 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony.

I’m not going to lie, I really wanted one of the live animals to breakaway and cause some kind of stampede in the Olympic Stadium, but we were spared that bit of light entertainment.
I had no idea what was happening; all I knew was that Danny Boyle had included real animals and that his vision for the Ceremony included the Countryside.

That was all I wanted to know; I wanted to be dazzled like I was during the Beijing Opening Ceremony in 2008. I wanted to stare slack-jawed at the TV, oohing and aahing.

Instead I was given a History lesson, albeit a very colourful and interactive one (sorry Mr. Nash, my old History teacher). Britain’s industrial legacy and its (less seamier) rise through Empire was depicted against a backdrop of its finest fauna and flora, with an ever-changing landscape of culture and environment.

The most bizarre parts of the ceremony for me, were the NHS and dreamtime sequences.
Using real NHS staff as performers was a genteel touch, but having them push and parade around Hospital beds in the midst of an ongoing national health crisis, beset with staff shortages and dwindling bed quotas was a tad insensitive. The best quote I read all night came from Joshua Idehen (@BeninCitizen) via Twitter;

My Twitter timeline was filled with rapid-fire commentary and opinion on Danny Boyle’s well (?) researched production.
A lot of people were miffed that whilst Pankhurst and her Suffragettes were celebrated, Wilberforce’s anti-Slavery movement was glaringly missing. It was duly noted however, that although BBC cameramen flew past these performers and not much commentary was given (I doubt this was deemed Red Button worthy), the Windrush generation had a place in Boyle’s moving tapestry.

Smelting iron Olympic Rings, dancing Nurses, a 100ft Voldemort, Mary Poppins (did anyone else see her stuff a small child into her bag?), giant babies, a fantastic musical history – by far the best bit of the whole event, an ever-changing, evolving and merging pop culture, the Internet (Tim Berners-Lee was in the house, literally), Mr. Bean, Chariots of Fire, James Bond and the Queen parachuting into the Olympic Stadium.
Only the Brits could mastermind a spectacle involving history, technology, music, fashion, culture, the arts, good old British humour, and actually make it work!

Yes it did get off to a (very) slow start, but once it got going and you understood the point of it all, it was difficult not to be somewhat touched by the sentiment.
I’m not going to mention the P word (Patriotism in case you were wondering), as I have issues with that, but you can’t help but feel a sense of pride about Great Britain, its humble village origins, its revolutionary and empirical growth (although feeling a sense of pride about Colonialism is kind of wrong no?), its diverse cultures and its future.

For all the shade thrown last night, Boyle should be applauded and commended for his efforts.
The Torch lighting was particularly emotional and touchingly beautiful – who knew that the Copper petals carried by those young people during the parade of nations served that purpose?! Those seven future Olympians literally held a dream last night, and I for one hope that they achieve theirs.
The arrival of the Olympic Flag, carried by Ban Ki-moon, Shami Chakrabati, Doreen Lawrence, and looked upon by the great Muhammad Ali was sobering.

The London 2012 Opening Ceremony was a well woven tapestry depicting the journey of a nation from its origins; its past, its present and looking forward to its future, all linking in with the core Olympic and Paralympic values of respect, excellence, friendship, courage, inspiration, determination and equality, ideals that helped shape Great Britain and continues to do so in society.

A job well done I say. The boy done good.
Here’s to you Danny Boyle!