He wore a two-piece tracksuit

There comes a time in everyone’s life, that they have to make that trip… the trip to the STI clinic. Mortifying yet a necessity.

After travelling, the standard deep clean was needed. Dentist, doctors, clinic. Lucky for me, having a male slag and a fellow traveller as friends, I had two accomplices. The support they offered, taking photos of me I the way in.

We all went for a tinkle in a cup and waited for our bloods to be taken. The boys got called first, leaving me on my own (but not for long). As I sat there waiting for my name to be called in a semi empty waiting room, two chavs, in two-piece tracksuits came and sat down opposite me. Chatting away and discussing the ladies in their life, they decided that I could answer the question that was clearly at the forefront of their minds.

“Oi, don’t you think the STI clinic is a great place to pick up birds?”

Oh my god. GO AWAY. This is mortifying. Does it look like I want to talk to anyone????

“Urm, elaborate?” – Why? Why did I engage in conversation? I watched my friend walk past and head straight for the exit, motioning at his watch and mouthing cark park. Wishing I could just leave with him I listened to the response.

“You know, anyone in here is clearly looking after themselves, and you can find out what’s going on with them down below from the get go”

A great notion, but I felt as though it lacked a little in quality.

My second friend came out.

“Nat I’m going to head for the car”

He turned and waved whilst smirking and left me there, alone, with the two idiots sat in front of me… Cheers.

Chav 1 continued to talk.

“So what you waiting around for now?”

“Just checking whether I’ve got aids or not, what about you?” – palm to forehead, why ask another question??

“Oh, I already know I’ve got the clap from this girl” Thrusting his phone into my face all I saw was a girl who had overdosed on eyeliner and had a clear definition between her own hair and extensions.

“She looks nice”

“Naaaaa, average bang”

Great, I was stuck with someone who was wearing a blue Adidas tracksuit and spoke like one of my exes, with his grey tracksuit friend next to him laughing. Hallelujah I spied the nurse out of the corner of my eye. I would take her testing me for aids or curing this guy of whatever was going on down below.

“Natalie B*******”

Thank the fucking lord, although not so happy about her shouting my name that loud in our current location.

“Babes, so before you go, and now I know your name, Natalie, fancy giving me your number??”

I froze, his friend pissing himself next to him. This was a point of desperation in my life, but someone who already had the clap…

“No”

I strolled off. I wish I could say I felt superior, but I didn’t. All I could think was my judgement of him would lead to karma coming round and biting me in the bum.  20 minutes, a sore arm and a packet of condoms later I ran out of that clinic.

I laughed and it popped out

The smear test is a moment in a girls life that is dreaded. 

And why wouldn't it be, legs spread eagle, someone staring at your private parts oh and yeah the whole cancer thing.

My exam, I can assure you, went worst than most and yet I don't regret it in the slightest! You find out if you have cervical cancer for gods sake.

The evening before I had prepped my southern regions like I was going on a 3rd date. No hair, moisturised, it was probably the best it had ever looked and felt. Going to sleep I felt pleased with my results. Well done me, failure to prepare is preparing to fail and in this case, it was bad enough someone had to look at my vagina let alone make their way through a jungle.

In the morning, however my exam wasn't for another 2 hours. I did my general lazying around the house to distract myself, then I realised I needed to tinkle before the process. Not being able to bare the thought that wee had exited my body and someone would be examining me down there, I then washed myself again and dried myself thoroughly. In reflection too thoroughly.Waiting for the examination in the doctors surgery and on my journey there actually I felt uncomfortable, dry.

As my name got called I felt more at ease. The nurse was lovely, chatty and tried to make me laugh. She asked me to remove my bottoms, to which I responded awkwardly with:

"I'm not normally this easy, I usually need at least a glass of wine" 

..... Tumbleweed

Laying on the bed with a bit of blue role covering my modesty we started chatted. As the talk got onto the more serious questions she subtly tried to open my below part with a plastic crank.

"Do you have sex regularly"

And before I had chance to respond..

"Your quite dry down there"

I laughed and coughed at the same time and the thing bloody shot out of me quicker than you can say humiliation (that's actually quite a long word).

I looked at the nurse, mortified,red faced and to be honest, unsure what to do with myself.

"Don't worry love, I wish I had those pelvic floor muscles, let's try again shall we"

Do it do it do it no matter how embarrassing you think it might be.

Try not to laugh....

Busking for Nuggets

An afternoon at work, when conversations began to flitter from work to social life we started to discuss the expense of London and, of course, how skint we all were and in dyer need of a night out. Doing some maths I was convinced that we could still have a great night on a tenner. With only me and my best friend at work up for the challenge  and convincing  ourselves that we could achieve this, we both headed out with £10.00 each in our pockets and no credit/debit card to help us.

After several bottles of wine, shots, and cocktails having been consumed and paid for, with a little help from the new "friends" we had met that evening, we decided home and bed was calling. 

After hugging our favourite bouncer goodbye (to this day I still call him Winston – this is definitely not his actual name), we started on our merry way feeling like rockstars. Half way down the street, nattering away, we both gave each other the look. The look that then leads to a conversation about food and results in a drunken trip to the golden gates, even though of course we were both on “diets”

Once at Piccadilly Circus we arrived at our feeding hole having decided that just some nuggets would be suffice until we gorged whatever remnants I had in the fridge when we got home. The only problem, payment. DAMN THE BAN on bloody cards!!!!

Could we ask people to buy us food? No. Could we eat people's left overs? No. I'm not a bloody tramp. Could we steel nuggets by jumping behind the counter? Neither of us exactly elegant or a criminal mastermind, so no.

Could we busk for our nuggets?... Could we actually busk (quizzical face)....?

With no talents to my name, I just stared at my friend. A Brit School performer with a beautiful singing voice I pleaded with her to do something. Before I knew it, she was belting out an Amy Winehouse number and performing some modern, hip-hop jig. It was enchanting and magical, and probably very confusing for anyone who wasn’t as trollied as we were. Bringing nothing to this partnership, and my concerns running high of her taking in money and unwilling to split the nuggets, I did the only thing I could to contribute. Sell the product.  On a freezing cold evening I took off one if my shoes (neither of us were wearing hats so I improvised) and started to try and get money from wondering strangers who were clearly enjoying the comedy act we had come to preform. 

"Isn't she amazing"
"The talent"
"Don't you wish you could sing like that"

And finally when I got impatient..,

"Come on, we only want enough for some nuggets"

I really don't think waving my smelly shoe in peoples faces for them to put money in helped our cause at all.

After raising a solid £2.00 in 30 mins and convincing ourselves that we could totally do this for a living we decided to call it a night. Mainly so we could get our nuggets. Feeling like heros we entered mcdonalds, expecting a round of applause or some form of acknowledgment of our effort. We received nothing.

Wolfing the nuggets down like we had never eaten before and wishing we had stayed busking for another 30 minutes we headed home.

A tenner is possible for a good night out in London

Nuggets are always worth busking for.

50 shades of shame

Finishing university was long awaited and I when I moved out of my house I was full of mixed of emotions. The main being, I can’t wait to live somewhere that doesn’t have rats. With everything packed bar a few bits and bobs I went and gave everyone a big hug and then returned to my room. I reministed about the amazing last year of university I had and, shit, now how life got serious.

Walking down the grubby grey stairs with a can of magnolia paint I had purchased to freshen up my room (definitely not used), my head was fully in the clouds. What if I had worked harder? What am I going to do with my life? What is life?  - the usual. Feeling something odd trickle down my leg I looked down. Without even realising, I had covered myself, the staircase and the banister in cream paint where I had swung the can with the lid not on properly. "&*£%%$&^*".

Having already burnt a hole in the carpet in my room, I could see  my deposit slipping away from me. Frantically I started cleaning the carpet, then in typical student style I gave up after 5 minutes. Hungover and having already mentally prepared myself to move, I got in my car and drove home – Bye Bye deposit .

A week later and back home working at a pub on minimum wage I realised I needed money – I had to get the deposit back, I was desperate. Another road trip to Leeds was a necessity. I would get on my hands and knees and scrub until you could lick that bloody carpet. Luckily for me I was seeing someone who decided they wanted to join me for a fun trip - I'm unsure how scrubbing paint off carpet was fun, but who was I to say no. So he drove, helped scrub that carpet (lets face it he pretty much did it) and the results were pretty great. All it took was some man power, and a non hungover head. His reward, a night out in Leeds.

Unlike usual university standards we opted to go out for a meal at a restaurant before drinking. Looking distinctively different to my "home look" of an LBD and heels, I opted for a grey tank top that was long enough to call a dress with flat shoes that my date referred to being something that Hansel and Gretel would wear. 

After enjoying a delightful Moroccan meal I headed to the bathroom to attempt to make myself look a little bit more refined after several digs had been made about my outfit choice over dinner. Sharing a chat with several ladies at the sink, I then plodded back to the table. After a few minutes of downing the rest of the bottle of wine we left the restaurant and returned back to the house to meet some of my old  flatmates. Strolling down the road hand in hand I felt ridiculously pleased with myself, Hot man, Deposit back, Full stomach. Bloody Brilliant.

Walking up the stairs to open the front door my date yanked my hand. As I turned around to ask him what he wanted I noticed an extremely confused/horrified look on his face.

“Nat, are you excited?”

“Urm, yeah I suppose so, it will be a good night”

“No, that’s not what I meant, urm did you get overly excited?”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“……..Nat, have you wet yourself?”

What...honestly what!!! 

I looked down, nothing. Then started turning around trying to see the back of my top/dress, pulling it round to see what he was talking about. Its light grey colour had turned 50 shades darker. 

Had I wet myself? 

No I hadn't. When talking to a woman in the toilet I distinctively remembered he shaking her wet hands off behind me, plus sitting on the edge of the sink couldn't of helped matters. What did I do to ensure that he knew I hadn't wet myself...

"I haven't, honestly! SMELL IT"

Smell it....fucking smell it. 



50 shades of grey isn't good when it looks like you've wet yourself

Dry humping can't get you pregnant...can it?

A ridiculous day of work notoriously led to a well earned evening of drinking. Several drinks down the pub later and everyone had left bar me and a male colleague/friend.

"Dinner?"

"Perfect"

A pizza express and a bottle of wine later and the feeling of being content spread through my body. Even more so when the friend offered to pay (was this a date is managed to stumble into or just an over generous friend?). Several bottles of really nice wine later and from what I remember I just grabbed his face. Smooth as ever, my standard pulling technique - although as he didn't pull back in horror I took that as a positive.

Dragging him to several more dingy bars we eventually headed home, and not our separate ways.

Once back at my flat, which I never took anyone to due to its shitness, I realised I was on and out of tampons. Should I also mention unwaxed? But the more serious issue was that I was "on" and was unsure how to solve the problem.

"Put a towel down" was my first thought. Something a friend had once informed me works every time - I'm unsure how keen I was to put a colleague through that and face him the next day.

Chucking a pair of silky pj bottoms at him and riffling through my door frantically for a stray tampon my eyes stopped on a bag of cotton wool balls. Really, am I that rank? Yes, yes I am.

After nipping to the bathroom to adjust myself, I was ready. Ready for what exactly? Urm....

I crawled into bed alongside him, how do I get a spoon without a fork? Needless to say the silky pjs soon came off and we were enjoying several kisses. Several "pushing of the hand aways" later and he got the idea. I am not that kind of lady, well at least not when I'm wearing a man made nappy. 

Well at least you can't get pregnant from dry humping...