The Truth About Happiness

Image from: http://longwood-house.co.ukSmile. No a little bit wider. Show me some teeth. Thatttts it. Feeling better
already are you? What do you mean ‘no’? You mean to tell me that grinning and bearing it doesn’t make all your troubles go away? Well there goes my theory out the window.

So what exactly does make us happy? Bucket of chicken? Sometimes. Glass of wine, or in my case make that seven. That usually works. Falling in love? Unlikely to be honest, you spend half the time extatic and the other half suicidally depressed. Or maybe that’s just me again. Watching your team win a match? Though I’m not sure if that’s so much happiness as it is momentary elation.

Money might help. I know they say it doesn’t, but perhaps whoever these ‘they’ are have never owned an Audi R8. Don’t be under any illusion that I have, but take it from me I’d find it pretty hard to be depressed in one of those babies. Maybe I’m just more shallow than your average person (or more honest, I’m not sure).

Expensive cars aside however, I think we’ve got this happiness business all wrong. Most people seem to think we have to be happy all the time, well I personally can’t think of anything more exhausting. See what you’ve actually got to do is make sure you have enough good moments in life to out-balance the incredibly (excuse my language but it’s needed) shit ones.

These days everyone thinks to be happy we need to prove how great our lives are all the time. Its common knowledge if your facebook, twitter, bbm and linkedin statuses don’t indicate what a blast you’re having, the chances are you’re probably at home bored. And if you’re not, well everyone else thinks you are, so you might as well be.

Now call me crazy but maybe, just maybe if everyone spent a little more time living life instead of updating about it, we’d start noticing how great we’ve all really got it.

And what really makes me happy? The little things. Going to buy a pair of shoes and my debit card not being declined. A guy I like texting when he says he will. McDonald’s accidentally forgetting to charge me for my chips. Making my friends laugh, (with me, not at me). And of course, eating half the contents of my fridge and still being able to wear skinny jeans without it being ironic.


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Brains v Beauty

First of all, let it be known, I can be pretty stupid sometimes.

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I mean I can’t spell to save my life (in fact I have spell-check to thank for my degree) and just yesterday I had to ask my mum if Capers were those little fish things (turns out I meant sardines). So perhaps I am being slightly liberal by putting myself in the ‘Brains’ category, but for the sake of my argument, lets just go with it.

Now I’ve done my research. And most guys want both: Brains and Beauty. I don’t blame them, hell I agree with them. But let’s be honest sometimes the world’s just not that kind.

When forced to make a choice, general consensus was (insert manly voice here) “brains every time because we love a girl who can carry a conversation”. I can almost hear the world-wide sigh of relief while mascara wands are being put down the nation over. So being able to carry a conversation is sexy now? 1 point to me.

Of course that’s all very well in theory. And I know the female population isn’t exactly divided into two categories ’hot’ or ‘not’. One man’s Angelina Jolie may be another’s Susan Boyle (sorry Susan). But the fact of the matter is I’ve never heard of a model or an actress incapable of finding herself a boyfriend. But a doctor, a nurse, a female comedian? Different matter altogether.

Sometimes we like to flatter ourselves and say that men can’t handle strong opinionated women. But then I remember my mum’s married, and they don’t come much more opinionated than her. So that definitely can’t be the problem.

The real issue is, that the men who claim they don’t like beautiful girls probably feel this way because they think, they’d never be able to get one anyway. As for the rest of them? These men who say they like to be ‘intellectually stimulated’. Well lets face it, when you’re talking to a group of girls on a night out. Which one do you remember? The one with the banter? Or the one with the great face and huge tits? Say it. Don’t worry, I won’t judge you. If I was standing next to someone with a face like Jesse Williams, no amount of wit and charm would distract me either.

You see in theory most guys do want a funny girl they can talk football to and argue about which Lord of the Rings film was better. In practically we haven’t evolved all that much from the caveman days. And nothing gets those clubs swinging like a sexy little slave girl who knows her way around the cave. And by cave I mean bedroom.

Of course none of us would ever admit to being this fundamentally shallow. When asked, 90% of us will pick ‘personality’ over ‘looks’ every time. Which is lovely. And would be even lovelier if it were true.

In actuality, pre-marriage, people don’t pick their partners based on their mutual liking for late night spooning sessions and staring into each others eyes. You pick them based on how much of a sexy-beast you’d look, standing next to them. But don’t worry about it. You can all continue to chat up the sexiest girl who’ll listen. And in turn we’ll all continue applying make-up and wearing push up bras and pretending we’re naturally this pretty.

I mean lets face it, when you start dating a new girl, your friends will ask to see a picture of her. Not hear a recent joke she’s told you. And whether you want it to or not, it starts to matter.


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City Girl In The Country.

Me & My Welsh Garden

There are sheep in Wales. Lots and lots of sheep. What’s a girl to do with all these sheep? Short of skinning them and making myself a cute little jumper, I’m lost for thought.

Usually my idea of a vacation involves sex on the beach (the drink not the act) and a tan, not fields and a growing addiction to Daim bars. But my family had booked a cottage for eight, and I’d be damned if I was staying at home to eat McDonalds-for-one on Easter Sunday.

I changed my mind when I saw the sign “Welcome to Wales”, or as it read: “ Chroesawa at Cymru”. Yes they have their own Language. Yes I’d forgotten about it. Yes it looks a lot like those late night indecipherable messages you get from your drunk friends.

Not that I needed a sign to tell me we’d left London anyway. The air smells different you know. I felt as though my nostrals were taking a wander through a fresh garden salad. Appealing to some I’m sure, but as a born and bred London girl, I prefer my air with a hint of pollution.

Not that I can’t appreciate a bit of greenary, and Pembroke was certainly that. Sitting in the garden of our cottage, making my way through my third bag of chicken crisps (because you can’t enjoy a beautiful view without snacks) I decided, this country-side malarkey wasn’t half bad. Plus, I’m convinced I’d live about 20 years longer if I lived out there; chances of getting eaten by wild goat aside, it all seems pretty safe to me. Not to mention stress free. At the time I was bewildered by the lack of elderly people over there, but looking back I must consider the possibility that life in Wales is probably just wrinkle free.

What? So We Got A Bit Excited By The Beach

And there was a beach. That combined with my weight gain of 4 pounds pretty much gives my trip to Wales all the makings of a real holiday. Though be warned, if you do choose to forgo Malia and make your way over to sheep-ville instead, leave your stilettos at home. Take it from me, the only site they’ll be seeing is the inside of your suitcase. It turns out these heels were not made for walking. Well, not country hills anyway.

As for the sheep. They wern’t half bad, but three hours of slow barbecuing… made them a lot better.


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Am I Rich Yet?

Me in 5 Years?

I actually picked up 20p off the floor today. It’s come to that.

Before you judge me, let it be known I gave it a hand sanitiser bath before popping it into my purse next to that losing lottery ticket I couldn’t quite bring myself to throw away.

Who knew you can’t get a loan for a Masters? Not me. Hats off to NatWest really for allowing me an overdraft the size of Brazil. Not that I’m worried about it or anything, I love a good challenge, and digging my self out of that one, is going to be just that.

I remember earning some money somewhere along the way, but since the only thing I ever invested in was my feet, we’re back to square one. My maths is rusty at best, so correct me if I’m wrong, but with the help of my blackberry’s calculator I worked out that over the years, I’ve spent approximately £3000 on shoes.

My next pair perhaps?

Now, I didn’t want to have to whip out the finger of blame, but I’m convinced that my parents have been encouraging this unfortunate obsession on the basis that without savings I’d be forced to live with them until the age of 35.

To any other culture this would seem an inprobable explanation, but us Greeks like our kids where we can see them. Where we can ensure they are eating four square meals a day, and only bringing home acceptable suitors (wealthy bankers who grown their own tomato plants and are in possession of a stereotypically Mediterranean  long baby finger nail).

“Love grows” my Grandma tells me, “what you need is stability”. They may as well give up this pretence of happiness altogether and nudge me down the aisle, to Abba’s Money Money Money proving my fellow students right once and for all.

I should elaborate. Way back when in sixth form, I had been voted “Most Likely To Marry For Money”. I personally don’t know where they got such an idea.

Yes I’d like to be rich, who wouldn’t? (Walk in wardrobe’s don’t build themselves you know). And yes it’s probably going to take me a while (because as I’ve discovered, working in the media industry involves a lot of working for free). And okay, if I were the “sleep your way to the top” type of girl I’d probably get there a lot faster. But damn it my morals are always getting in the way of an easy life.

So until success busts a groove over to my ends, London keep dropping those 20p’s and I’ll keep picking them up. And one day, when I can spare them, perhaps I’ll drop a few back.


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You’re The Game, And I Lost The Rulebook.

“If a guy takes an hour to reply to your text, take three to reply to his.” “If you like a guy, flirt with someone else in front of him to make him jealous.” “If a guy is talking to other girls, tell him it doesn’t bother you, and then he’ll like you for not being clingy”.

What. The. Fuck.

And I thought game playing was just for children.

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When did this happen? One moment I was 14 years old watching The Notebook, believing love was all about eating ice-cream and jumping into ponds (what, don’t judge me, that film can melt the heart of a Rhino). Next thing I know, I’m being told the best way to get a guy’s attention is by updating my bbm status so he’ll notice and think to message me.

Honestly now? Relying on status updates to get a little action. Is that where we’re at?

I have friends getting married. Like actually walking-down-the-aisle, big-white-dress, forever-and-ever, probably-gonna pop-out-a-baby-soon, married. And here the rest of us are, staring at our phones, wondering if a more attractive display picture will eventually lead to a conversation.

Okay so admittedly that’s not what I want. Come on, I’m 21. I’m too selfish to get married yet. My idea of a sacrifice is eating canned food for three weeks so I can afford the latest Carvela seven inch wonders. The biggest lifelong commitment I plan to make any time soon, is to my bank, when I ask them to extend my overdraft by another thousand pounds.

So I’m never going to be the clingy “I found love after one date” kinda girl. Hell I’m the “I’ve been on five dates and I’m still not sure about him” chick. I suppose that’s my own doing. Indecisiveness is a horrible quality. To date, there is no found cure.

Back to the point.

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I may hold my cards close to my chest, but there’s nothing expert about the way I play. Most of the time I’m bluffing, and the rest, I’m just trying to distract you so I can take a peak at your hand.

It seems I’m not very good at games. And judging by my other single friends, neither are they. No we do not want to bare your children (baby induced stretch marks are soo last season). No we’re probably not going to marry you. And I can’t speak for the others on this last one, but I’ve never been very good at the whole, Lady and the Tramp style spaghetti eating (I’m Greek we don’t share food) it may be romantic but you’ll have to do without. Though if you’re nice I might give you my very last rolo, heck some day I might even buy you a packet of your own.

In the mean time I don’t mind a game or two. After all it bores me when things come too easily. A bit like out-eating the diabetic kid at the Mars bar eat-a-thon. Though, if this is what we’re doing now, could someone please hand me the rulebook and let it be known, that I don’t like to lose.


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