Mind The Gap…

Can we first spare a moment of silence for the man, the legend….50 Cent. The G that got rich and didn’t die trying, and recently managed to bankrupt himself in a coke storm of (borrowed) cars, gold chains and hoes.

If theres one thing that Mr Cent has taught me, its that even if you go from rags to riches on the back of successful r&b/rap songs that fetishise childhood pastimes and birthday parties, you can loose it all in a second thanks to an un-strategically placed dick.

Best give up now then.

Speaking of bankruptcy; I have recently moved to London.

I’m starting to think that when Kate Moss said “get the London look” she was actually referring to the unwashed, unshaven, fag toting, Sainsbury’s basic beer drinking mess I’m going to become if I leave the house one more time before I move out of this bloody city.

I went to use the tube the other day from Holborn to Oxford Circus and had to hand over £2.30, my firstborn child, my university degree and the clothes off my back.

Turned out it wasn’t even working, there was a tube strike on so I walked it.

I don’t know how people do it. If I stayed any longer I’d have to start letting my London Bridge down if you know what I mean.

Hint hint, nudge nudge.

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When I first got my swanky London summer job, with its decent pay at fancy establishment, I had visions of rocking up in a bedazzled black cab in head to to Chanel a la Posh Spice.

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Instead I have been reduced to hiding out on my duvet bunker and hoping for my bank to have a computer glitch and accidentally forget to “autosave” my overdraft…like those times you spend a week of all nighters at the library and and wake up to find that your essay has disappeared in a poof of smoke.

Cash donations are welcome.

Designer shoes even more so.

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HOW DO YOU PEOPLE DO IT?

P.S. London move is (thankfully) a temporary situation. T-14 days till I move to Mississippi…posts to come.

Oops I did it again…

A week ago I (very literally) crash landed into La Rochelle airport (thanks Ryanair) to begin my working holiday in the South of France.

Yes, I really did do it again.

Whoops.

#I’mABloggerGetMeOutOfHere.

The baby poo and sleepless nights of Spain apparently just weren’t enough to deter this…err…serial…working-holiday-ist? from another summer in the sun.

Yes well done Laura excellent use of your English degree to create concise and grammatically correct sentences.

*Slow clap*

Not only have I decided to spend yet another summer hundreds of miles away from family and friends and the comforts of home, but once again I’ve managed to wind up in the middle of nowhere.

Did I miss the memo about the existence of cities?

I’m starting to think that dropping geography in year nine was a bit of a mistake.

The warning signs were early….first of all we weren’t allowed to disembark the plane because the airport was too small for two aircrafts. Then as we were driven along the long winding roads past open fields and countryside the familiarity with rural essex, the land of horse-related train delays and escapee cows, became all too obvious.

It’s so peaceful you can hear a pin drop.

I am currently ensconced in a little shared annex with a fellow student from Leeds university for the next nine weeks.

My job? A mix of cleaning work, general grounds maintenance, the odd bit of cooking, playing with the kids, and….err more cleaning work.

My foreseeable Saturdays involve deep cleaning seven houses before the new guests arrive at 4pm.

Manual labour for the win!

On the flip side the hosts are lovely, the grounds are beautiful and we have a little kitchenette to make cups of tea to wile away the time….lots of cups of tea…so much tea…

In fact I think I have to go for my 47th wee of the day.

Toodaloo!

P.S. Breaking news! I’ve just today decided to switch to Earl Grey after a dire shortage of PG tips and a brief and not-so-tasty fling with Ceylon tea (which I’m told is from Sri Lanka). Yes this is the most breaking of all the news this week. #CountryLiving.

They see me tempin’ they hatin’…

I’ve been up all night, tryna get that rich I’ve been work, work, work, work working on my shit.

So, as it turns out, not only was I able to secure a little part time job at uni, but I’ve also been offered a Christmas temp position back at home (say what?).

Such fun!

(Not)

I hate it.

I’d envisioned spending the entirety of my Christmas holiday watching movies, seeing my friends, reading and soaking in a bubble bath.

Now I have to get up at 6am to catch a bus to the city.

The other day I was so tired I didn’t realise my watch was an hour fast so I accidentally waltzed out of the shop early, only to realise the actual time and have to awkwardly (and very stealthily I might add, I wasn’t voted most likely to work for Mi5 for nothing you know) creep back in and finish.

I ended this day spending five minutes trying to push open a pull door.

In front of a colleague.

Professionalism?

Nailed it.

It does have its perks though…

…like the other day I had a very funny conversation with an exasperated old man who was fed up following his wife around Christmas shopping.

I asked him if he was at least carrying her bags for her…his reply?

“No she likes carrying them…its a thing with you women isn’t it…the more bags you’ve got on your arms the better you feel”.

She wasn’t too impressed when she found him slacking off talking to me haha.

And…

And…

Ok I’m out of positives.

I spend the majority of my days manning the fitting rooms, which are empty 80% of the time so I’m insanely bored.

In fact I’ve been working on a little something something in my spare time.

“How to get Fired from your Retail Job” a self help book by Laura.

With highlights such as “have sex in the changing rooms” and “walk out before your shift ends”.

I’ll follow it up with the sequel “The Bus” an anecdotal book by Laura.

What was that?

You wouldn’t read either of them?

Well shit.

I guess I better stick at it then.

*Skulks off to changing rooms”

“Yanks curtains closed”

Workin’ 9 to 5…

So as it turns out, Overpacked may just be on her way to being paid.

Yes you did just read that right.

And yes, I am well aware that I sound like a pretentious twat when I refer to myself in the third person.

Such fun.

Not overpaid mind you, which is what I actually want…just nicely minimum waged up.

I’m actually a little bit chuffed…I thought I’d absolutely cocked up the interview.

In the first place I forgot that I even had it at all.

You know that memory wipe phenomenon you get when walking through doorways…yeah…well I had that in reverse.

There I go lah di dah di dah…walking into the kitchen at half twelve to warm up my soup for lunch then…

…BOOM.

Brain presents me with *interview at 1*.

*Hand flourish*

*Fanfare*

23 19, I repeat we have a 23 19.

Monsters Inc. reference….yes?

No?

I of course lose my shit and run flailing out the front door, calling a taxi and then cancelling the taxi when I realise it’s actually going to arrive too late.

I contemplated walking (power walking…running).

Fuck that.

Bus it was.

I arrive in the nick of time…but then of course my Google maps decides it’s going to lead me in the completely wrong direction.

YOU HAD ONE JOB.

By the time I’d reached the top end of the high street I realised how hopelessly lost I was, and had to call the interviewer and ask for directions.

Professionalism?

Nailed it.

Anyways, I must have done something right, in the New Year I should be settling into the position of Customer Service Assistance at a beautiful little high end espresso cafe.

She said they needed smiley people like me at the front of house.

I think she confused “smiley” with manic.

Personally I think I looked a little more like this:

And what do I have to do in that position you ask?

LITERALLY smile and wave boys.

Smile and wave.

…Oh and carry (smash) the crockery.

P.S. Keep your fingers crossed for me will you? Pretty please. Pretty please with a cherry on top?

Nineteen…

It’s happening….the teenagepocalypse.

I woke up the other day and realised that I have ONE more year of my entire life left as a teenager. One more year until I have no excuse not to be an independent, fully functional, self-sustaining adult.

I have exactly 330 days to do the stupidest shit possible before I turn 20 and I can no longer get away with it.

I CANT HANDLE THE PRESSURE!

To plunge me even further into crisis, I woke up the other day to the news that a girl in my year at school has just gotten engaged.

What?

WHAT?

I don’t even have a boyfriend.

…Or a job…

OR ANY FUCKING MONEY.

What is my life?

Quick someone send me a university bucket list…

…and a life coach…

…and some vodka.

*Curls up in foetal position*

*Cries*

P.S. Am I really the only one who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing with their life? Help me feel better, tell me about your life crisis in the comments below!

On Wednesdays we wear pink….

Believe it or not, I’ve done a lot more this week than just poison myself with toxic substances…

A large majority of my time has been taken up by joining societies, which basically involves being pounced on by third years until you cave and pay thirty quid to join their Where’s Wally hide and seek club (exists)….

Choosing which society to be a part of, however, is actually a lot more complicated that you might first imagine…

*Pulls down rolling blackboard, points wooden stick*

Now you may think I’m leaning too far towards the stereotype, but it is true that in choosing which societies to be a part of, you’re essentially choosing the type of people you want to be friends with for the next three years…

Do you want to be in with the jocks who have crazy society nights where they do horrific things like drinking sick (seriously this happened), do you want to be a “media type”, an academic, a fashionista, a musician….?

So far I’ve joined the newspaper, radio and TV stations, the fitness club, the meditation society and the film society. I almost joined the cheerleading club…its so fun and the outfits were so cute but as much as I love it, my debit card refuses to co-operate…

In actual fact, one of the main campus banks went totally bankrupt this past weekend from all the withdrawals…I swear it wasn’t all me!

Feel free to judge my selection…

P.S. I totally had the Spice Girls Who Do You Think You Are? on a loop in my head while writing this post…please blast and awkward-dance accordingly…

P.P.S. If I haven’t already mentioned…societies are bloody expensive! I don’t think I can bear to even look at my overdraft right now…

Oh to be a student…

Dropping dolla bill$…

In case you didn’t know, that’s gangster rap talk for spending money.

And I’ve just dropped a lot of it…in fact, hang on, let me sit down a moment…I’m feeling a bit faint…

Why, oh why, are flights from Spain to London so bloody expensive? It cost me £70 quid to fly out here, including checked luggage, but it’s costing me more than double that to fly back. The flights only 2 hours long so that’s over £100 an hour! I could get…I don’t know…a full body spa treatment at Harrods for less than that!

If I ever become prime minister, or for that matter the worlds #1 villain and all around evil genius (a la Gru in Despicable Me, less the huge nose and Russian accent…don’t you just love the minions?), the first thing I’d do is price fix flights. Lets completely ignore the implications of this on the economy for just a moment, and float away into a dreamland where it costs £70 to fly to Spain and £70 to bloody fly back…look into my eyes, not around my eyes, in my eyes….and you’re drifting…

*Snaps fingers*

Wasn’t that lovely?

I’m going to go cry into my plane food…I guess I’ll avoid the freshman 15 if I can’t afford food at uni…