On the Road

I am roadtripping. My travel partners: my Mom and my Dad. The route: Interstate 95 – from New York City to Boston, into Maine, up to New Hampshire and then all the way back again. We've been en route for two weeks and as the days go by so do the miles. The cities and towns have melted past the windows as we drive out of one state and into the next. There's a lot to take in – trees, rivers, the sea and weirdos, lots and lots of weirdos – all seen through tightly wound windows, hair ruffled by aircon rather than the 40 degree wind outside. Inside, ad-free radio stations play oldie after oldie while Mom and Dad host debates and use too-big-words to convey their points; I intermittently interrupt with more important questions like: 'are we nearly there yet?'

Having watched other families traveling the same roads as us, early on, I identified that every proper roadtrip needs a bratty child. I have easily stepped into this role and if I'm not frustrating with my penchant for food pickyness, I'm kaiboshing our foot-tours, making sure it's en route cultural landmarks like Hard Rock Cafe, MANGO or French Connection. Today I've been working on my gag-reflexes and am planning an auto-explosion some time before the end of the holiday. In the meantime I'm practising my: 'Daddy.... burp.... I.... burp.... think I'm going to be sick' routine. I've almost got it waxed.

Our drive has been punctuated by toilet breaks and food stops. Sometimes the toilets are better than the food and sometimes they aren't. What I've probably enjoyed most about being on the road has been 'communicating with the locals', most of whom don't speak English. It's a presumption thinking that because it is the mother tongue of the US, everyone speaks it. Trying to order a burger with no cheese and extra mayo at McDonalds is harder than you'd expect – even with pictures to help – and we shouldn't have been surprised when Dad's burger ended up being served on a cereal bar bun with a generous slathering of maple syrup on the side.

When we're not driving or walking our destination of the day flat, we are relaxing in our motel room. The trip began in style, in a hotel on Park Avenue, uptown New York. Our pavement space was shared with names like Ms. Karan and other highflyers like Chanel and Jimmy Choo. Light glinted off pedestrians' jewels, steaming gold into our room as if it were sun. We were there for 10 days but as nice as it was, it didn't feel authentic so we cashed in our golden chips and traded them in for dodgy motels instead. 

Splashing out has now been reserved for booze and food and with these priorities in mind  Dad has economised by booking a room for three throughout our trip. I think it a splendid idea and feel no irritation (or disgust) at sharing a playpen. If anything, it makes the Great American Roadtrip more authentic. Unfortunately for Mr. and Mrs. P however, I am not noted for being one who easily shares my space and having to do this with my parents (of all the people in the world) has pushed the boat out further than it's usually prepared to go. Living under a single roof for 18 years was one thing – there was always a door to separate moods but when sharing one room there's no such luxury. Fortunately they are easy travel mates and the only time it becomes problematic, for me at least, is when it's time to go to sleep.

Problematic because I have the Perton curse of being a light sleeper. Once asleep all is well, but getting there is hard, especially when there's a rumbling, gurgling sawmill next to my head. I've turned the process into a game. Before climbing into bed I drink until my edges are blurred then chase the wine with a low dose sleeping pill, pop in my ear plugs, put a pillow over my head and settle back to play my version of counting sheep: timing the seconds of silence between the nasal backfires and glottal burps that I can still hear through my fortress. It's surprisingly soothing and most nights I fall asleep with ease.

As for the motels themselves they have been great so far: two beds in each room, a t.v., working shower and for an extra $3 they'll even throw in a chair. The only deterrent is that each smells slightly of urine and that in the more  one-horse-town places that we've stayed, the showers come with a built in wooden bench. We can't decide if they are for arthritic hips or for propping oneself up while hosing off after a heavy evening in the local bar. Either way the rusty joints suggest these things are frequently used and having sampled some of the fine (and very more-ish) local beverages have decided they are for the latter. As for the 'this territory has been marked' scent, had I the foresight to bring one, I would have taken Taylor's advice and used a U.V. light on the linen before climbing into the beds. It would be nice to know that I'm not sleeping on someones' previously claimed spot. If I discover that I'm pregnant when I get back home I'm blaming the bedsheets.

L

Cellotape, cling film and dented doors

In my old life I fancied myself a budding career woman, a lady on a path to pinstripe suits, high heels and a personal secretary. Currently I am as far from that as a newborn is to taking its first steps. My career is sitting on a shelf; my MacBook swapped for a cash register and a delivery vehicle. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Stress used to be glamorous. Defeating deadlines and trying to be my creative best was a heady mix which left me feeling that I was inching closer towards the corporate somebody I wanted to be. Presently the most worrying parts of my day include ensuring that the goods are nicely wrapped and that I keep the peace with the GPS lady.

As banal as this may seem, truthfully it is the most stressful job that I have ever had. The task of correctly apportioning stock, cutting it evenly, wrapping it, taping orders, writing postage addresses onto boxes and finding my way around town is taxing enough to induce premature ageing. And if I'm honest, apart from discovering that I'm a pretty good sales woman, I'm pretty crap at everything else, especially the driving.

In fairness, I have never believed myself to be a terribly good driver. I'm ok. Safe enough. Not too bad, or so I thought. London has however taught me otherwise. Don't believe me? How's this for a track record (bearing in mind I've only been driving in London for about 2 months):

• 1 x unfortunate incident which led to a smashed side window
• 1 x puncture which cost over £600 to repair
• 2x flat battery incidents
• 1 x £60 parking fine
• 1 x £120 parking fine

... and so the list goes on, leaving me feeling like the worst employee my boss has ever hired. In fact, I am sure that if it weren't for my baby-blues and dashing smile Bryan would have let me go within days.

I'm beginning to think that may actually have been a good thing, especially since nowadays, every time I announce that I need to talk to him his reply is: 'Perton, what have you done to the car?' Fair enough, I'm a deserving candidate for such lack of faith.

Unfortunately, so adamant am I to prove to my boss that I'm not a complete write-off, this throw away comment has my stomach in knots. Driving has become one of my bigger fears. It's not helped any by the lying GPS lady who has me going down one way streets and inventing roads that don't exist. She has cast an invisible leash around my neck and seems adamant she's going to navigate me off London Bridge (or anything higher) if she's able. As against the idea as I am, if she succeeds then I do hope I don't survive the fall. I simply couldn't bear another one of those saddened head shakes and 'Oh Perton, what now?' sighs from Bryan.

It used to be about typos and bad design, sending artwork to the printers late or explaining to irate clients why it was that something went wrong with their ad. These days it's about cellotape, cling film and dented doors, which begs the question: 'how the hell did I get here?'

Please understand that I ask this in the most humoured sense. Looking at my situation from a distance it is amusing. I have fallen so far from the mark that it's as if I've landed in a field that's miles from civilisation. As I look about me all that churns around in my head, is 'how on earth do I get back?'

I think it's a good question to be asking and one that I'll be addressing in the weeks to come. This sleepwalker has woken and is rubbing the mildew from her eyes and for now all that she can say is that despite the fact that she likes the view that she has from her sitting position on the fence she reckons that now is probably a good time to shit or get off the pot.

L

Where have all the good ones gone?

Being single is a strange thing.

Strange because you are thrown back into The Game, be it willingly or unwillingly. I find myself in it with some trepidation however, my curiosity is piqued. Being set free to roam amongst the male of the species once more is a little like learning to ride a bicycle all over again. I no longer have the security blanket phrase: 'piss off I'm taken' at my disposal. I have to re-learn all the social codes, the language that lets would-be suitors know that I am or am not interested.

Despite being nowhere near wanting to pursue anything serious, I am still a hot blooded woman, dangerously close to my sell-by-date. This biological clock has started to tick and I'd be a liar if I said that I wasn't hoping for my Prince Charming to appear sometime (quite) soon.

My Prince Charming is not the sort that you read about in books. He's a normal guy, in a normal body, with a normal intellect and a normal amount of tenacity. Too much to ask for? It would seem so. Either that or all the eligible bachelors died along with the British economy. All that is left are the scraps. And it would appear that the scraps have a penchant for me. Sadly, I seem to be the target of every dole worshipper. Creatures dug up from the mines, leftovers from the asbestos factories, this generation's wave of wanna-be criminals.

Snobby as this may sound, it does irk me. Without wishing to put myself on too high a pedestal, I do regard myself as being a woman with a little class. Until recently I had believed that this was fairly obvious. I make an effort with my appearance, trying my utmost to always look like a lady; I speak well; am able to hold a decent conversation; use words with more than three syllables and yet, these wannabe suitors see me as

a) being in their league and
b) being remotely interested in the idea of hooking up with them and bearing their bastard children

I think not!

Where am I going wrong? Why is it that I am unable to attract men with an ounce of intellect? I'm not asking for a house on the Riviera or for the keys to his castle. All I'm asking for is someone who has a full set of teeth and who doesn't believe my name to be Love.

It's a frightening prospect. The thought that this may just be the cherry on the top of my cake. Gone are the dreams of the glamorous career, the too big house, the wonderfully ambitious partner. Replaced instead by a poky flat in a bumhole area called Tooting (!), an unglamorous job and.... a pikey husband. The thought is too much to bear.

So, I wont bear it. This is where Laura draws the line. She will settle for this life that London has given her but no more. If that means singledom from here on out then so be it, I'll get my kicks elsewhere. Perhaps while I'm sitting on the sidelines the eligible bachelors will return to London and my tables will turn. Who knows?

Until then though, Laura will flit and float and fly and ne'er shall a Yobbo touch these lips!

L

This adventure of mine

This adventure of mine, although not exactly the fairytale that I was hoping for has certainly not been short of interesting moments.

It has seen me touch down in New York, hand in hand with a boy I thought I was set to live happily ever after with. It saw me leave a city I loved more than any other that I had been to before. It led me to London, this cold place, full of charm to some, but none to me. It saw me through a break up and into days of sadness and now it is pointing me forward once more. This time however, it is to a place that is familiar. It is home.

After much thought and many weeks of questions I made the decision on a whim. Sitting in the tube, after a dismal morning at ‘the office’ I asked myself what it was that I thought I was doing. And the answer, ‘I have no idea’ was all that came to mind. It was a stupid answer, especially for one like me - a girl who always has a plan. Except that here I have none. I flit and I float and on that day I decided that it was enough. Home had made me happy and happiness has always been my primary destination. So why not go back to where the heart is?

As liberated as my decision has made me feel, it has also made me terribly sad. When I left South Africa I thought that I had done so for good. I was embracing a new life, one I had dreamed of since spotty skin and first kisses. This was to be my happily ever after.
Except that it was not and now that book is firmly closed.

I have not yet finalised departure details and truth be told I have no idea what I will do when I get home. I will arrive in a wintry Cape Town, little more than pennies in my back pocket, broken compass in hand. But, I will arrive happy. It’s been an intersting journey, unpredictable and tough but I suppose that when hindsight settles in I will look back and realise just how much I enjoyed the ride.

L

I was looking for a new direction but think I took a wrong turn on the way there

Two months in and life in London is panning out to be nothing like I had expected. Despite the setbacks, it hasn’t been at all bad so far. Bar the fact that I am (still) (mostly) unemployed and living in a place called Tooting, things could be far worse. I am settled and have forged a routine out of the chaos and although there is no proper 9-5 on the horizon I’m not yet in panic mode. I always have the dole to fall back on and although the welfare queue is by no means a pretty place to be, when the times are tough it’s a lifeline to many. Hell, it may even save me.

Some weeks back I wrote my post about the job market in London and just how difficult it is to break into. And then something interesting happened - I got offered a job.

Unlike normal scenarios where job offers are met with delight, my reaction was the opposite. I heard waves crashing in my ears and felt a dull thud in the pit of my stomach as I realised that this was where my education and work experience had got me - a weekend spot in a shop selling… wait for it…. cheese. Awesome!

Needless to say, I needed (and still do need) the money really badly, so with feigned pleasure I accepted the position and then went out and got very drunk. What else was there to do? Getting a job was one thing but one in a cheese shop… oh god!

The interesting thing about this little job of mine is that it has been my salvation; my sanity amidst a sea of uncertainty. Apart from the obvious fact that it earns me some money, it has also helped me restore some faith in myself. Arriving here proved more difficult than I had expected and the result of that was a crisis of confidence. What my job has done for me is that it has allowed me to re-realise my potential and my merit. I may not be worth a million dollars, but my value is definitely worth something.

Better still, I’m rather good at selling cheese. Whoever knew? By the week I am learning about the subtle nuisances of flavours, about things like pate and affinage. In time I may even become an insufferable cheese bore: to cheese what the sommelier is to wine. You never can tell.

I’ll admit that it has taken me a while to post this. For a woman like me who has the dreams that I do, admitting that I am not a high-powered business woman or lady of the state, involves some pride swallowing. Like I said, this is not at all what I had in mind career-wise. Worse still is that in S.A. we are raised as ‘job snobs’ and therefore anything without some sort of a professional edge to it is met with a curled upper lip. I therefore understand if those of you reading this are stifling a giggle or coming up with ‘cheesy comments’ to send my way. Ja well no fine. Bring it on. These times are hard but I am harder than them and this is just the beginning.

The point is, that as my mom always likes to say: ‘when one door closes, another always opens’ and I think that this may be the case here. Someone threw me a lifeline and it may not have been the one that I had wanted, but I’m damn glad it’s here. It has made me feel worthy and I’m ready to try and take this place on all over again - and that’s a pretty good way to feel. Whoever would have thought that my knight was not in shining armour at all, but rather the driver of a cheese van?

L

Living the dream

In hindsight I grew up in the greatest country in the world. At the time however, it wasn’t good enough. Having spent many holidays during my childhood seeing the corners of the world, it seemed to me that foreign pastures were greener than our own and from that observation a desire to live somewhere other than South Africa was born.

In October last year my chance came. It was not entirely my doing, however Tom’s appointment in New York was as good a reason to pack my bags as any. It may not have been my hard work and effort that got me there, but sometimes life throws you a curve ball. My dream had come true, only in a different guise.

And perhaps that’s where the problem lay. It was my dream come true but through someone else’s realisation of it. I was riding on Tom’s wave when in fact, it wasn’t my turn to live the New York dream – no matter how badly I wanted it. I am however still nurturing the hope that if I do what I can to make it happen then it will.

Anyway, that isn’t what my post is about. Rather, it’s about life’s little ironies and how sometimes when you get what you wish for, the version that you get is not the one you wanted, or worse still, it’s not what you wanted at all.

Like right now. Here I am, in a place that had once seemed so me. On previous visits to the UK I had imagined myself settled and happy, living a ‘European life’ that I had effortlessly created. Much of my dream centred around a white picket fence: good job, great man, fabulous house. I have always thought that if I believe it, it will be so. How misguided I was.

After being jobless for close on three months, I was under the impression that I would fall into something wonderful within minutes of my arrival in London. Sadly, this has not been the case. Not at all. The market is dry and, it would seem that I am not entirely suited for the London business scene.

After many visits to job agencies and much feedback from would-be employers, it transpires that two years worth of experience in design and a sexy portfolio aren’t quite enough. It’s a blow but one I must stomach. Pride needs to be swallowed and I have to go back to the drawing board and rework things so that I am, once again, saleable. In the meantime however, temp work is the way forward. I need money, I have skills, so the next best thing is to put them to good use. Easy? Not so much.

My problem is that despite my solid upbringing, my excellent tuition, my drive, my personality it would seem that I am not suited for even the most mundane of jobs. Because I have been immersed in an industry that has me behind a computer all day, agencies find it hard to believe that I am capable of doing anything else. Like answering a phone for example, or even making an appointment on someone else’s behalf. Apparently the mental cross over does not exist and in order for a secretarial position to be filled it needs to be done by… a secretary.

Stupid recruitment agents. Silly, vacant, unimaginative people.

When I started signing up with them I set my temping sights high. I truly believed that I was a shoe-in for all but the more technical roles. Sadly, the past two weeks have proved me a fool and I lower the bar by the day.

My faith in agents shattered, I have also enlisted the help of Gumtree and the Guardian, in my quest for work. Every evening while looking for jobs I get a little more adventurous with my searches. Days gone by have seen me go from browsing for office administration positions to telephone answering, to waitressing but I am now so desperate that I am contemplating applying for roles under the heading ‘household and technical assistant’. Although, I’m now so demeaned that I’m worried about my ability to do even this sort of work. Does my CV reflect credentials that make me worthy of being a maid? I’ve never spent any amount of time in a toilet stall. Will this hinder my chances? Can I scrounge up anything from my previous lines of work that I can use as ammunition to convince people that I am not only able, but also smart enough to clean peoples’ houses or public loos?

I can just see Ms. Mops hunched over my CV wondering to herself whether or not my ability to switch on a computer also means that I can use a vacuum cleaner. ‘Hmm’ she thinks to herself, ‘she says that she can design a magazine, but can she also make a bed with hospital folds? I’m not sure. I’ll put this CV at the bottom of the pile, maybe come back to it later – if there isn’t another, better Mavis on offer’.

It’s not looking hopeful. If Ms Mops wont have me, then who will? Where is my place in this land of grey?

Sadly, what this lowering of standards has meant is that the picket fence is fading before my unemployed eyes. Furthermore, if it does in fact turn out that I am only worthy of doing the most menial types of work then it will lessen my chances of snagging the wealthy man so firmly fixed in my imagination. Because, who in their right mind wants a lady who looks good in a pair of rubber gloves and a hairnet?

L

Long nights

My mom and Dad did their best to raise me to be a lady and what they themselves could not teach me they left up to the school I spent my early years in. Neither of them may have succeeded entirely but whether or not I am one, I believe I know the principles behind the ideal.

Ladies do things like tuck handkerchiefs into their sleeves. They curtsy. Always say please and thank you. They pee eau de cologne and never do the foul things that men are guilty of. Most importantly, they do not snore.

Or so I thought - until my arrival in the UK on Tuesday.

After a long trip from New York (on Air India - nogal) I was exhausted. Bar the fact that I had seven hours of jet lag to deal with I also hadn’t managed to sleep on the plane. The net result was that when I landed I was a grumpy mess.

Sadly, sleep was not on the agenda as I was not allowed to check into my room at the backpackers until late that afternoon. That meant I had the better part of a day to kill.

When I did eventually return to my dorm that night I collapsed on my bed in an exhausted heap. I don’t even think that the door had closed properly behind me before I was asleep. And it was bliss - for all of 40 minutes.

As the woman opposite me fell deeper into her sleep the respiratory demons took over her body. Their over sized hands blocked her nasal cavities and pried open her mouth so that the only sounds she could make were deep, guttural gargles. Rattling right from her diaphragm up to her tonsils. Louder and louder until she had the rest of the room tossing and turning, trying their best to fall back asleep while she herself was in the depths of Lala Land.

Because my nerves were already shattered I could barely fight the urge to do her harm. So, with what little restraint I still had I dragged myself from my bunk and into the reception area where I asked if I could please change rooms. The receptionist was not happy about my request but understood by my manner that I was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. And so, minutes later I was in the comfort of a new, quieter bedroom.

Except, as I was on the edge of sleep once more - at the point where I was about to be enfolded by dreams, the woman on the bunk below me fired up her engine.

It seemed that my decision to relocate had been the wrong one. This woman was twice as bad as the one in the previous room.

The thing I hadn’t appreciated about snoring is that it is cunning. It ebbs and it flows, stops and starts so that every time there is a lull in the tide you believe the last gasp to have been the final one. But just as you fall towards sleep once more, it starts all over, shaking you out of your reverie.

It goes without saying therefore, that it was a terribly long night and when I woke up in the morning I was no ray of sunshine. The lady, it turns out, was well aware of the fact that she is a snorer and even went so far as to explain why: her two nostrils had been sewn up to become one in a horror operation that went very wrong.

She apologised for her bad behaviour and despite the fact that all I really wanted to do was kill her, I tried to be as gracious as possible and told her through grinding teeth that it was ok.

And then I went to the pharmacy and bought some earplugs.

‘Good idea’, you may be thinking, but the problem with plugs is that they are not always as powerful as the snorer and sadly these ones failed me. There I was, later on that night, tucked into bed, ears blocked with bits of foam, looking forward a peaceful eve. But it was not to be. Her snorts and snarls were way more powerful than my plugs and I spent another night tossing and turning, wishing my bed would collapse on top of her and silence her for good.

And so, the next morning when it was light enough to escape I went back to reception and requested to be moved again. ‘Third time lucky’ I thought.

But again I was wrong. It seems that all the female snorers in the world have migrated to London and they are all staying in the same backpackers as me. In fact, I am convinced that I am the only one among them who is not guilty of such a sin. Because of this revelation, in the days since I arrived I’ve spent a lot of time being amazed by just how many women are snorers.

Honestly, I had always believed that women who snored were a rare breed, like nearly extinct animals. And truth be told, I liked it that way. In my mind that was how we women were supposed to be: quiet and dainty while asleep. Not like raging sawmills. As I said, this week has changed me and I’ve come to believe that snoring women are, in fact, the norm.

Therefore, I can only admit that my school gave me misguided information and I am, in fact, the exception. Do I come from a family with defective female genes, and am I therefore set apart from all other, normal women? From my experiences this week it certainly seems to be that way. On top of stomaching the fact that I am miserable and sleep deprived I now also have to come to terms with the knowledge that I am far less of a lady that I had once believed myself to be.

L