Secular doesn't mean soulless

The hot topic at the moment is the religion counter revealed by the census results. According to those statistics, the secular society is expanding and a large percentage of us have turned our backs on a divine head of state. The census is merely cold data, however, and I would be intrigued if there was a way of dissecting the lives of the secular to see how their lives are governed if not by a rule book written and rewritten and rewritten again over 2000 years ago.

One philosophy I believe everyone, by its own definition, follows is existentialism. For the layman, it means one lives one's life to one's own means or purpose. You find your own meaning and reason to get up in the morning. Some people find this in a routine of work to make money, better themselves with goals and build a good quality of life through financial stability. Some try to live by rule 32. Some follow Aristotle and look to knowledge, others follow Plato and look to a higher power. Ad infinitum possibilities. Existentialism is the search for your own meaning of life. Not 'The' meaning: your meaning.

As an optimist rather than realist, Bentham and Mill's utilitarian ways of life attract me far more than the capitalist slog pushed by 21st century world management. Perhaps it is a childlike view but making myself happy, thus making others happy, is far superior than defining myself by a fragrance, pair of shoes, job or particular design of little black dress.

In Edinburgh this summer I worked with an Australian theatre company whose show was an interactive workshop theatre event during which the audience were asked to participate in preparation for a job interview. One section gave the ticket holders an opportunity to tell the actress where she was going wrong in her introduction to her interviewer. My suggestion was that she defined herself by her job. The actors tilted their heads at this, as if I'd told them that minutes and hours are a social construct and I refuse to acknowledge them, in response to a request for the time. I did elaborate and said she should be introducing her passions and interests aside her strengths and unique skills as well as life ambitions and drive. Perhaps too deep for a fairly simple fringe run.

I know there are people out there who think like me and feel more alive knowing they're not praying to Lord Barclays or King HSBC. Those people don't have to be within the earner bracket of statistical satisfaction. In fact, they probably aren't. They're the people who followed their hearts and stopped thinking for a while. They aren't just the creative types like singers, sportsmen or writers but they are also bus drivers, shelf stackers and temps. Thats because they dont restrict themselves in the job they chose or were given. And these people are brilliant.

Having been in religious occasions and heard the Lord's Prayer monotonously droned, I only hope that organised religion takes a turn towards the more inspiring world of evangelists and choirs that dance and are not conservative in their passions. Following a life of worship is a good thing. We all do it. We just worship different things. In Equus, Doctor Dysart notes the value of worship. Without worship, he says, we are nothing. Maybe its a British stiff upper lip kind of thing but one day the world will be singing. It'll be like terrible, hilarious karaoke.

Subiamawesomeliminal

Gary McKinnon faces no charges after hacking into US defence sites including NASA. Whilst he was scurrying around simply on the hunt for evidence of UFOs, he left a couple of messages commenting on the site's 'crap' security. One of the team for Brighton's Christmas Lights set-up left arrangements that, if looked at from a certain angle, reveal an 'I hate my job' message and a couple of perhaps inappropriate images. Toying with authority seems to be a temptation for some.

Sailing through life often alone means I get to observe how others interact not only with each other but with their surroundings. In bank queues on busy shopping days, I was aware of impatient people desperate to get their finances sorted so they could get on with their lives. In a stroke of genius, one carefree day I used the back of a deposit slip and one of the legendary little pens to leave a note in the queue to encourage a little more patience. I can't remember what it said but it had a smiley face and was enough to make at least one person laugh, I recall.

It's a human instinct to find faces in random arrangements of shapes, making cloud-watching sometimes entertaining. To find an intended anomaly, however, is far more satisfying. Like finding a photo-bomb or spotting the King of Time (3:13). When I watched Brighton's Christmas Lights video I thought it was hilarious when the reveal was made, particularly with the 'I hate my job' message. I should point out that I sincerely hope whoever did that actually has some joy in their life and that they can see the reaction of the world in contentment that they made a lot of people laugh. You go, random Brightonian.

Of course, marketing used to side with subliminal messages that flashed up for a millisecond to attack the subconscious of the consumer during TV ad breaks. With that being illegal, hidden messages are a lot less hidden. Disney are known for years of including things that cannot be unseen which I'll allow Google to enlighten you about if you're really that interested. If used in a light-hearted way that brings subtle mirth into the world, manipulating authority in whatever position you have is a brilliant way of injecting delayed fun on a daily basis.

Yesterday at work my piece of fun was knowing that I might have helped the increase of sales for one of our hot winter drinks with a shot of rum in it. Here's how I did it, in a long-winded explanation: We have feedback cards that we try to encourage customers to use so we can improve the business and provide more opportunities for customers. On those cards is a white strip in which our managers suggest we write our names, if the customer wishes to make a comment about our service. Having read these cards, however, I thought this makes absolutely no sense. I've had customers ask me why my name is written on there or who Vici is. Room for improvement in the methodology, then! As I'm now a pretty dedicated bartender, I don't offer the same service that the waitresses do. With a shorter period of time when I have direct contact with the customer, it's harder for me to push the cards. Instead, I've been writing notes on the white strip and leaving them on the bar. One of them was 'Spiced cider and Sailor Jerry's? Yes!'. This one was left in a prime position where most traffic comes through. Apparently it works. Subiamawesomeliminal!

Another version of a hidden message that cracks up myself and my housemates is brought to us by the wonder of Tivo. Pausing the TV to see a still of someone's face in an unexpected scrunch is apparently a joke that will never die. Seriously, try it. Slow motion talking can also bring about excellent results. For guaranteed hilarity, try any advert with Davina McCall, Fearne Cotton or Holly Willoughby. Pure gold.

Edit: I've been reliably informed that Brighton's lights were a hoax. Still would've been brilliant.

10 excellent ways to brighten up a dull day

1. Empty bins. It's very satisfying.
2. Have two cups of tea successively. Ahh.
3. Stand infront of a warm oven. Toasty bum.
4. Tidy a little bit of your desk. Organisation is brilliant.
5. Make cookies.
6. Eat said cookies with a glass of milk.
7. Watch a well-made film with a happy ending.
8. Receive post. I realise this isn't in your control but even spam sometimes makes me happy
9. Either:
   a - Get out of bed very quickly and just start your day properly without laziness. Or.
   b - Set your alarm 10 minutes early so you can snooze guilt-free.
10. Give a random compliment and make sure it's well-received.

Empty pockets in an expensive life

Being poor is not free and it's not liberating. It's worse than a prison of no opportunity. I can still see everyone around me enjoying the money they have, even if it's little. Even if those around me are complaining about budgeting here and there, they can still afford the occasional Subway, Starbucks or weekly shop.

I currently have £7 in my bank account, £3 in my wallet and owe about £2000 plus student loans (which don't necessarily count) on top of the usual monthly bills like rent and the use of the internet and phone. That is what I would call limited finances.

What I would love to do is what I used to do during the summer breaks of high school and sixth form: take a £7 train to the countryside - with many connections and a final rickety train that sounds like its got a cold - and just escape for a while. There seems to be no place far enough away from my current location that I can get to for free. Even an hour walk to Canon Hill Park is unsuccessful because it's home to one of my work places.

I had temporary joy when I bought The Observer and sat in The Junction for two hours reading it. Unable to actually buy a cup of tea or sandwich to go with it, my stomach was complaining. But I was fairly happy to be finally escaping the world. Albeit, I was still in my place of work. Maybe on Sunday I was just feeling a bit more perky and things didn't bother me that much as a result of the simply excellent present I'd just found for the housemate (the one who makes a regular appearance on here, usually subject of a petty complaint - do be assured, I adore him even with his tedious faults).

Sitting on the sidelines and watching other people have such comfort is the push to deeply want to be part of it all. It's about mid-December, now, so it's coming dangerously close to the time when everyone starts reminiscing about the year or being determined to forget the whole thing and have an incredible new year instead. A good friend once put some light into my life and asked why New Years' Resolutions exist. Just because we hit January 1st doesn't mean that the clock resets and suddenly everything is possible again. There's no reason why December 12th or June 19th (my birthday - I expect cards and presents now you know) or May 6th or April 20th or even August 1st shouldn't be a day to change your life. It doesn't even have to be the morning of a day. You can decide to change your life at 11pm if you really want to. If you're having trouble getting this, have a listen to Ellie Goulding's Anything Could Happen and carpe the sh** out of that diem.

Female Role Models and Why We Don't Have Many

Lady Gaga is a force of nature. So was Madonna. Victoria Coren is a modestly fierce arse-kicking entity. And that's about it for female role models on my part. I'd love to add Caitlin Moran to that list but her narrow-minded views on parenthood and general sweeping comments on what we've all experienced nark me off a little. Whilst she can still idolise Germaine Greer, extracting her 'nuts' view on trans issues, I can't fly the Moran flag with enough confidence yet.

You know who else I do include in the list, however? Eva Holloway. She works at The Junction in Harborne. She didn't go to University. She's a year younger than me. She spends money like a drunk Greek and spends most of her time impersonating one. But bloody hell she is brilliant. Her attitude on nights out, events and parties is that if she doesn't take up an invitation she's missing out. Even if there isn't an invitation, if she gets wind of her friends going out and doesn't have plans already, she'll be there in a shot to get a slice of the action. Fantastic. I can't imagine her quietly enjoying a film at 7pm unless she finished a previous night at midday and is nursing the mother of all hangovers. Only once have I had to cheer her up.

On Saturday night, I was a very grumpy version of a woman. Various elements of the evening were adding to me being disgruntled. Eva bravely and fearlessly pinched my cheeks and said, "Cheer up grumpy-gills", maintaining similar attempts whenever we crossed paths. Of course she understood that my retorts - variations of "I hate you so much right now" and "I will hurt you" - were all in jest and my way of appreciation for her efforts. What a fantastic person. She finished that shift at about 10pm when, I'm sure, she joined and caught up with one of her friend circles for some sort of unbelievable night.

I'm glad Caitlin included a chapter about role models 'and what to do with them'. The majority of it is an account of an interview with Mother Monster followed by a vodka-fuelled visit to a sex club in Berlin with the beautiful hurricane herself. The disappointment of this chapter falls with the acceptance of glossy magazines to the tune of OK!. It's tripe. Really, giving a quid to my housemate would be more beneficial (he'd stick it in his pocket then lose it down the back of the sofa or spend it on a bag of coffee to be consumed within two days). Moran gives some balls excuse for buying OK! in the form of it being the only accessible piece of literature that keeps us up to date with the female role models of today. Sorry, what? Female role models of today are the Kardashians, Kerry Katona and whoever reality TV decides is 'hot'? No, no, no. On top of this, the only thing we care about these icons of the XX chromosome are how they look in bikinis, how awful their hair is and who designed their shoes.

I can side with Moran in that since the vote we've been faced with the pressure to actually produce something worthwhile but react more so like a deer in headlights or being woken up after a long sleep to be forced to tell a good joke: "Er, two drums and a cymbal fall off a cliff?" For most of us, it'll take a while to warm up. For the excellent few, however, it would be hugely appreciated if the mainstream consciousness could let go of the pressure to find fault in female celebrities and celebrate how bloody fantastic Lady Gaga's voice is (as well as her artistic flair, her commitment to her fans, her determination to express herself rather than her record label's front, her political activism, her fight for equality and her incredible resilience).

My despair stretches as close as Google. Curious whether Mother Monster has released, or is due to release, a new album, I start typing her name. Auto-fill suggests 'Lady Gaga weight gain'. Since when did a music artist's produce centre on her body fluctuaton? What is wrong with the world? At least Moran is conscious of this in some respect. She urges her readers to stop revolving around weight loss and accept that human-shaped is fine.

Women: quit concentrating so hard on your body shape and focus a little more on being good at what you're good at, whatever you identify that as. And find inspiration close to home. My Mum is awesome. At roughly 50, she finally quit her mundane job and went to excell herself in an entirely different field. And she keeps surprising herself, bouncing back from knock-backs. You're never too old to make some amazing happen. Or too young. Or too middle-aged. As Razorlight once enlightened me, it's the distance you travel and the fields unravel rather than the bars on your cage.

Fresh Air and Death-Stick Hobbits

I've never understood smoking. In my mind, it's an expensive death-stick that smells disgusting, infects all surroundings, including clothes, furniture and food, and drives non-smokers away. However, I can accept that some people find it a social activity. Sometimes, giving a colleague a cigarette will form a bond and be an invitation to the company or social group.

On one of my first shifts at The Junction, I was offered, after only two hours of work, a break. Rather than just a rest from standing up and over-thinking about all the spirits and wines and ales and lagers and soft drinks and food and hot drinks and everything else we have to offer, it was an invitation to smoke outside. The problem with this invitation, apart from the smoking element itself, was the way in which I was asked. "Do you smoke?", said Abel, seemingly with no indication either way of whether he did. "No," I replied bitterly, "I don't. In fact I think smoking is vile. It's pointless and I can't stand it." Abel looked taken a-back but gave the traditional reply of, "Good, don't smoke. It's bad for you." Of course later on I found he's quite a committed smoker. Thankfully he was understanding enough to not be offended and we actually get on really well.

You can imagine how I felt when I found out my housemate smoked. And how I felt when I found when he had done since December 2011 - although not properly, so really it's been since about March 2012. Had I known, I would have seriously reconsidered signing the 12-month contract. Whilst I'm still a little bit bitter that when I started to smell it on him and questioned him about it, him knowing entirely that I hate smoking - not least the smell, he repeatedly came up with lies: "My step-sister smokes and I've been hanging around her," or simply "You're imagining things.", he is actually making an effort to keep the vile odour outside. And if it travels inside even a little bit, we're armed with a flurry of air fresheners: one electric at the door, two cans in the kitchen, one incense on the stairs and, my room being downstairs, an array of girly perfumes and deodorants should an emergency occur. I'm not going to convince him to stop so masking it is the best I can do.

But my domestic issues are near enough irrelevant in this general waft of debate. The smoking ban has, the government would like to think, cleared the air a little. Pubs are now pleasant places to be - as long as the clientele aren't five pints down with intention to double up and start fights or moan about the economy, or women, or the poor, or foreigners, or the time of year, or the weather, loudly - where good conversation can be had without the interruption of coughing from the thick fog of cigarette smoke. There's a new problem, however: the outside. If a pub is lucky enough to have an outdoor seating area, this is now the hub of death-stick hobbits. Huddled around heaters in winter, producing a thick cloud of cancer, or, in the lighter months, confidently scattered in different areas and spreading mist everywhere, smokers ruin the chance of some fresh air.

At work, the only seats left for when I want a break are outside. I have to politely duck when a customer routinely blows not only his (or her) own spit vapour in my direction but also the dregs of the death-stick of choice. Thank you, that's exactly what I wanted within the relief away from a hot room where I have to spend 100% of my time on my feet. Fresh air is no longer an option unless I want to take a walk down the high street rather than rest my legs. On the positive side, those I work with a more considerate. They strategically chose seats near me that won't mean the wind will try and involve me in the smoking craze. Perhaps now we need sections in outside seating areas for people who simply want to enjoy fresh air and a glass of water. The dullard corner. Take me there with my book or Sunday newspaper. I'll wear a special hat if it's required. If the message can get through from non-smokers that being around smokers can be incredibly unpleasant, please, let this happen!

I'm not a feminist but...

Now, I'm not a feminist. At least, certainly not with the definition attached by those who don't see that there are many shades. I'm also not a fan of those feminists who get the attention. Shouty, loud, assuming all women feel the same way. They're the reason I was surprised to find out that the Suffragettes were not the only ones campaigning back when. There were also the Suffragists. They were peaceful and didn't resort to violence, strangling men with their manquipment and throwing themselves around just to be heard. I wish I'd have known about them when I was growing up.

Student politics didn't support a peaceful method of protesting about women's rights and male suppression, either. The messages of the shouty were crass and not inviting. They've really tainted the name of the WI. To be honest, growing up I never understood the methods because they would segregate themselves from men in order to prove their point. This looked very much a war of two sides rather than a debate to even things out a bit. Sit down, get back to the kitchen, ladies, you might break a nail.

Such a view is probably not the expected one from a tomboy who spent childhood and teenage and early adult years watching Star Trek and grimacing at adverts for Barbies and dolls. My mum bought me a doll's house for Christmas once and I enjoyed the construction of it but once it was up, I think I managed about a day or two then got bored. I must have just resorted to watching my brother flying the world on his Flight Simulator and talking in code. That was far more interesting.

I guess as a child one doesn't really notice, or pay much attention to, the difference of treatment between male and female. Because I insisted on opposing dresses, I was never forced to wear them. Okay, maybe a couple of times. When Mother whined about me insisting to wear trackies or jeans, I didn't spot the sexism of clothing.

Of course, things change when girls grow up. The transition took me far longer than 'other' girls, I guess, because it was only when I started going to University that I took an interest in dresses and pretty, shiny things. My dress collection isn't vast but it's definitely taking up more room than previous years. Perhaps this is something to do with finally being a little prettier. In first year, I managed to lose a substantial amount of weight and walked a hell of a lot to and from Uni every day to work for this. I suppose being around other mature girls who were brought up on frills and glitter influenced a bit of this transformation, too. It's only in the last year that I've accepted pink into my life. In fact, I've accepted it in the most unusual of ways: it's now my business colour. Certainly, it makes me stand out.

After over a year of stubborn refusal, I've submitted to reading Caitlin Moran's How to Be a Woman. It's disgustingly fantastic. I wouldn't recommend that men even read page one but I would quietly encourage women to pick it up. Especially teenagers. It's got some really excellent references to literature that I missed when I was growing up. And a brilliant chapter on pornography and Caitlin's discovery of sex and all things related. I tweeted her this morning to begrudgingly congratulate her on captivating me, to which she replied within thirty seconds, which was lovely. Celebrities are real people, too.

So whilst I sip on weak Irish Coffee and watch the clock to see how narrow a time slot I can leave to get ready for work, I'm analysing what shade of feminist I'm actually accepting myself to be. I do get riled when sexist comments are made, especially in the work place. I've scalded colleagues for it a couple of times before, even if made in jest. Thankfully I look scary enough that the calm but cold responses are the right level of threatening to hit home and cease the childish chat. Who knows, perhaps my adoration of Caitlin and indeed Victoria Coren, self-confessed ungirly girl, and other admirable nerd-types will encourage further liberation without nudging me towards feminazi territory.

Rule #32: Enjoy the little things

How many blog posts must start with a description of the author's accompaning beverage of choice? I shan't mention that mine is a Yorkshire Gold, milk and (this time) one sugar. Whilst the cliche mention of refreshment doesn't exactly pull on creativity as a standalone, it actually serves to encourage the theme of this here post.

In the last couple of days I've been in a terrible rut. I'm noticing I just used past tense even though I'm not accepting that I'm out of it yet. Maybe that's progress. Or perhaps wishful thinking. The rut has been highlighting the terrible points of myself and my situation. I'm wrestling with money and the bank; the scales are giving me hope one week then pulling me back the next; attempts at enjoying a fulfilled weekend are peaking at one or two extra hours sleep followed by a slump caused by exhaustion from the previous week; the chill outdoors is actually making me scared to go for a run (obviously coupled with the relationship I have with the scales) which usually perks me up or at least makes me giggly for a few hours post-exercise, which sucks to lose; I've overplayed the music that has been keeping me inspired; and I could continue.

All above taken into account, watching Zombieland this weekend reminded me of the beautiful life rule #32: Enjoy the little things. So I will. Yorkshire Gold is a little thing I enjoy, as is the mug I'm using to drink it in. It's a beige tankard-style mug with 'Her Ladyship' written in a regal font. It's needlessly posh, which is fantastic.

Christmas is here. This is a tricky one to include as it brings both happiness and stress. Obviously my bank account doesn't enjoy it because I love buying presents for people. At the moment this is testing as I battle between being content with the amount of little, significant presents for those I appreciate and the elasticity of my budget. Self control was never a strong point. The last two days were, in fact, encased by an explosion of tinsel, baubles and Wham. I started Sunday with the ritual of putting up the tree. Luckily, it was a perfect fit in the living room (it being an import from the previous house) and looks very pretty in its spot. Watching a Cirque documentary during lights testing and the education of the middle-class housemate on how to make a paper cone and how an artificial tree works improved the situation further. The following day I visited the pound shop to invest in more festive decorations to give constant reminders that Santa is working bloody hard and we should really make him feel welcome when he bursts through the dvd shelves infront of our blocked fireplace in order to deposit the elves' finest work.

I reckon the central reason I'm feeling incredibly isolated at the moment is that I haven't been home since my birthday in June and the long-term goals that are getting me excited aren't supported by those who matter. The two goals I'm thinking of are the career I'm pushing for and an extra piece of paper that would certify me as a Masters graduate. The Masters isn't supported by two significant people because it is seen as pointless. It won't help me in the career I'm reaching for and it is mere academic indulgence. Of course on my side of things it isn't just that, there's much more to it. It would mean I could meet people of like minds and I could feel proud again that I'm acheiving something. Also it wouldn't hinder my career choice even though it doesn't directly relate. Any academic progression is always going to be helping in some way as it develops the mind of the student. Even if a subject doesn't directly relate to a separate goal, it will provide an extra skill or develop an existing one that will give positive effects. Academic acheivement is brilliant.

The career I'm pushing for, incredibly, is also not necessarily being supported. Every time I enter a project and find some struggle, I'm reminded that it will always be like this and perhaps I'm not suited to it. Excuse my French but wtf? Every project encounters some hardship. Just because my career choice includes some physical exhaustion, it doesn't mean I'm not cut out for it. It means I'm still at the beginning and have some training to do. I can get better at it. I can't be a pro straight away, that would just be ridiculous. I'm hoping my perserverance is going to shine through the whining I occasionally do about stupid colleagues and hard work because I'm not giving up. I will adapt and I will find the appropriate section of the career. The alternative is to throw that dream away and be lost in a sea of nothing in particular with no long term future career/money-making goal. That would just be terrible. I will convince those close to me that it is a good idea. I just need more experience to sift through the difficult bits.

Apologies in order: the last two paragraphs were full of whine. I'm being overshadowed by the things that disgruntle me. Being more positive, it could always be worse. A smooth sea never made a skilful sailor so I should appreciate that this hardship will shape me and those around me. Perhaps it's not a terrible thing to be aware of the things that annoy me. By acknowleging them, I can take action to change them or at least transform them into something more bearable.

Maybe a more effective method of reminding me of fantastic things is to list them without explanation.

• ...

I'm struggling. Anything I can think that is 80+% positive makes me feel guilty. My wonderful boyfriend is taking me to Scotland for four days for New Year. This is incredible and will be an unforgettable long weekend. However, because of the cost it really makes me feel bad. Ideally I'd be paying half, at least, and sharing driving duty. I can't do either. Also Christmas. I have Christmas Day off work so I can go home to spend it with family. My boyfriend is driving me home for that, too, and spending the day with us. Whilst this is incredible and I couldn't have asked for a better outcome, this too makes me feel guilty. Is it too soon? Will he enjoy it? Is he really just doing this so I can guarentee to be home for Christmas rather than relying on public transport? So many worries. At least this time round it'll be closer to payday so I can actually contribute financially. [edit: I should add, I do genuinely appreciate his efforts and commitment, this is just alien to me so my natural reaction is guilt.]

When I look in the mirror I'm actually okay with what I see. Obviously there are improvements to be made but I am accepting of the shape of my body and certain proportions. It is incredibly frustrating that I can't just magic a reduction all over and for some reason it's much harder than it was three years ago. Surely I'm in my prime of easy weight loss? Being okay with my reflection doesn't give me the satisfaction one would hope. I'm sure if this blog was at all popular, women (and men) all over the country would be shouting at me for that.

Soon I hope to enjoy the little things once more. For now, Caitlin Moran is going to instruct me on How to Be a Woman. I've given in. After about a year of owning this book, I'm finally reading it. Begrudgingly, the prologue was quite an easy read. Damn it.