The long and even longer of it

A lesser Alice once sang:
school's out forever.

It's back to school folks, only that it isn't. Not anymore. I am done. The agony of the first day shall no longer hover over me - not in academic terms at least.

Before you ask for the details of my psychotherapist, I have not, in fact, found a solution to the age-old phenomenon of the first-day-anxiety, or indeed, the first-week-anxiety. I have just left education. Full stop.

The relief I am not feeling perfectly reflects the bouts of knowledge that I am not getting from a year of postgraduating my way through London: all I get is the waft of expired meat from the cornershop. It summarises what has been going on this last year, and unfortunately, there is no health and safety committee running to the rescue. If you are traveling to the Strand take some smelling salts with you  - the rot is unbearable.

There were happy times though (rummaging through archives), and it is strange to see familiar names and faces spread all over the world again, right through to the edges, like the most accurately garnished Nutella Bagel you have ever had. The back-to-school feeling is met with the feeling of losing irreplaceable friends, who remain on the same planet, but are in another galaxy. Life goes on, and that's the long and even longer of it, irrevocably, sadly, and with much anticipation of the things that are going to happen, because they will. A stand-still is not an option (as much as I would love to hang around in this moment for quite a bit, just enough to let everything settle) I run, just like everybody else, with the times, and against time. Lucky us. Poor us.

Go to Notes in Covent Garden. They are a
hipster, independent, relaxed café with
excellent nibbles, coffee and wines!

 While I am sitting here, over iced coffee and iced olives (pretentious idiot that I am), different lives happen. Lives that were once united in their hate against a prestigious (cough) university on the north side of the river, and that are now scattered around the globe as in a gigantic Monopoly game. As I have only ever played the Belgian version from the 1950s, I have no idea what the modern day equivalent of all the boulevards and rues is, but I imagine that some people will end up with four hotels in the Rue Neuve, while others constantly hop between Gare du Nord and Gare du Midi, and even others are happy to avoid the Caisse de Communauté. I have always preferred 'Spiel des Lebens' (LIFE for all Anglophones), because you had a car at your disposition, and there was this wheel in the middle that was slightly more arbitrary than the cards in Monopoly. As opposed to Monopoly, you could marry (though only into the opposite sex - might have to be revised now), and there was a sense of philanthropic accomplishment, in addition to all the money. Weird - me talking about philanthropy.

Isn't this the BEST loo in
London/the world??

So, I resume where I left it about a year ago. With it, I sort of mean my life, plans, etc., when friends re-scattered across the world, and life just continued, completely oblivious to all the details. I, however, am very attentive to all the details in this (my) life, and here is a bit of visual trivia (see picture). A textual analysis shows a water closet, white suite with a neon orange lid. In the background we see white tiles with black drawings. It is the loo at 157 Brick Lane, my local watering hole. As a person who rates places by the standard of their facilities, including hand soap and scent, I appreciate the effort these guys put into this award-worthy loo. Their coffee isn't too bad either.

The weather is now turning from soppy grey Summer-plagiat to Indian Summer. As always when things are shifting. With a bit of luck they shift in the right direction. If not, I'll still have the loo.

Job Search: Midnight Mayhem

If you are a passionate accountant, this might work.

Twenty minutes ago I thought it a rather decent idea to send the below email to a potential employer. I would like to emphasise that I am not drunk, and do not intend to get drunk, even though I have every reason to do so. (Please note that the addressee has been blacked out, as I am still a bit embarrassed, and God knows they might offer me a job)




'A Clouded Morning XXXXXX Team!


For it will be a clouded morning when this email reaches you, I checked the weather, the rain only starts mid-afternoonish.
I - currently unemployed, with too much creative energy - am looking for a job to keep me from writing email opening lines such as the above. I read that you are looking for individuals with sparkling personalities to join your team, and I am confident that I am such a person (think RPatz in Twilight for sparkling equivalent).


Other than in sparkling, I am proficient in 'out-of-the-box'-thinking, I have a passion for grammar, and I look extremely good in a hat (for reference see the hat picture attached to my CV). Pretty soon, I will also be the proud holder of an MA in Cultural and Creative Industries, which means that there is some substance under the hat too. Over the course of the last year, I busied myself taking courses on Fashion and Society, Visual Culture, and working as a XXXX at the XXXXXX (just round the corner), where I have picked up one or the other party trick in marketing, customer services and event organisation. I am far from being the perfect Renaissance woman, though, and this is where you come in: I need a place to start a stellar career in Marketing. So, if there is an opportunity in your office for a brilliant (yes - in addition to sparkling!), determined, and inspired postgraduate, I would be more than happy to accept. What I have been thinking about (fantasising, really) is a paid Intern/Assistant position, where I would have room for growth in my ambitions, as well as headroom to wear outrageous hats.


If you think that the person writing such a weird email at midnight could be the ideal addition to you team, please get in touch. I live around the corner and could come in for an interview at a moment's notice.


I spare you the boring end of all cover emails.



My best wishes,'


The world's biggest twat. 



I am not sure whether it is the copious amount of antibiotics I am consuming presently that has lead me to send this piece of pretentious muck, or whether it is just my true twat-nature shining through. The company will forthwith delete all their contact addresses from the website, and return to the good old Royal Mail for all their communication. Because of people like me. Self-important idiots like me, who think that their midnight scribbles will make tuppence of a difference to the lives of professional creatives, who probably won't even read beyond the second line. But how, how do I know? With all the applications I have written, I might as well apply for the post of Prime Minister (memo to myself, check with No. 10 website if there is a vacancy), and feign interest for politics and people and shit. Like, totally my thing, right, people and stuff.

I would make an impeccable circus tent designer.

I am aware that this is me on repeat, yesterday's re-run, available on iPlayer - forever. I have seven different versions of my CV saved to my desktop, and counting, including a semi-fictional version for very special occasions (say, the application for a Time Lord position, or an internship with Ray Bradbury). I have even made an Excel sheet about myself that I have then turned into a 3D pie chart. Pathetic. Nobody cares, do they?
 It is hard to say, since most replies I receive are generic HR answers, 'Dear Please Insert Here, we regret to inform you that on this occasion, you just sucked and we're like soooo not gonna hire you, because nobody here gives a shit about your experience, because we can't stand you anyway. But do keep an eye out for further vacancies. Regards, HR Copy Paste Template'.


Anyone for dessert? 

(again I accidentally tagged Tom Hiddleston, so he has to get a mention too)

This is the end: now show me the way to the next Whiskey bar

Byzantine Cat-Mouse-War. A reading staple.
With lots of hyphenation.

Oh Black Betty, no time to bam ba lam, it's the end of the world and you got a ticket to ride.

It is very comforting to know that I, and you, and everyone else is now sitting in one big imaginary boat. Arch-styly, they better have had a second thought about the facilities on board - portaloos are just not very cool. Regardless of the way you choose to spend your last days (see the Big WD, cake, and burgers), the end of the world may be slightly tinted by the other big event in London: the Games. (unlike ordinary football or a darts in the pub, these games are so huge that they are capitalised all the time. I personally prefer to capitalise Pub at all times, but that is, like I say, a personal choice)

With all the tourists in the Capital (let's capitalise Capital - it's the end of the world after all), the experience of the final moment - judgement day - could be lost in a queue to the loos, or in trying to navigate around the crowds in the centre. You might be so busy trying to ignore the barking Americans that you fail to notice the last, wailing, praying sounds of the earth. The last cries of an already dying planet that faces its death, facing white socks and beige trousers. The last breath of a planet that has done so much for us in the past (sunshine, rain, rain, rain, rain), and will now wheeze to the smell of moth balls and hair pomade. Could I be overly dramatic? No. I never am. And I never complain. About anything. Ever.

I made this pre-Jubilee. Beetroot cake with cream cheese icing.
 I mentioned cake.

I say this because I am on a mission: part of a select few (who selected to come), I will fight the impending doom and make sure that those white-sock-wearing, heavy-breathed strangers will keep a place to parade bad taste and smelly armpits. I, like my politically correct persons in arms, have signed up to fight the Dilluminati, and Good Lord, it will be epic. What will descend upon us on Saturday remains unknown, and perhaps for the better. I am not really all that good at facing dangers I have known about for some time - I keep avoiding that sort of thing - but I am really rather good at facing chaotic situations on the day, as long as I've had breakfast. No breakfast - no fighting. (apparently, so I've been told/I've seen on the telly, Templar Knights fasted before the big battle. How stupid of them)

A well-groomed beantache is essential for all
fighters. Note the Dali influence.

So, it is now Thursday night, about 36 hours before the beginning of the end, and I'm wearing a face mask, knowing that well-groomed fighters make better fighters. And maybe there is one or the other cute Dilluminatus around. Stockholm syndrome, just saying. All girls like bad boys. (I'm not really sure whether Dilluminati are gendered/have genders/do genders, but you never know) Very importantly, a well-groomed fighter is aware of their own well-groomedness and marches into battle, knowing that perfect skin and sharp eyebrows are killer attributes. As is a good soundtrack: Vangelis is played up and down on the iPod, and where would I be without Europe and the soundtrack to all but the last one of the Rocky films. In your face, Evil, we've survived 80s perms and we will survive further attacks on humanity. (However, if you could get rid of the Olympic uniforms, that would be amazeballs)

In a last attempt to expand my scientific potential, I signed up for a screening of Weird Science tomorrow night - al fresco - for those last blasts of health and knowledge. Subsequently, I realised that the film is another one of those 80s comedies that feature men in their thirties pretending to be 18, and that it does not actually boost my knowledge (like that science show on the Beebs), but rather, should boost my inclination to get hilariously drunk and pass out before the end of the film. You just can't have everything. It is time now to get that mud out of my face, and see the immediate improvement (from mud-face to non-mud-face). Goodnight, and may the farce be with you.

(I have also just accidentally labelled this post with Tom Hiddleston, so I think I should at least give him a mention. Tom Hiddleston.)

The final days are upon us: Earth is selling out

Oh dear. 11 days to the end of the world. #theDilluminati

This is part of the world. A very small part, although it does not look like a very small part.
It is where I come from. In the left hand corner you can just about spot my parents' house. Should I
tell them about the Dilluminati?

Right, so bucket listing is top priority. Was there ever something that I really, really wanted to do, and could now not accomplish due to the pending invasion of the Dilluminati, who do that very Batmanish thing of switching the light off in London. Who knows, maybe they blow all the bridges, so that South Londoners can no longer go to Hackney on a Saturday morning to buy overpriced but very yummy bread and olives. Following the latest blogpost of the Professor, I am mildly concerned that, unlike any other invasion in the past (Daleks, Silence, etc.), I could not make it through this one. Yes, yes, yes, I have the constituency of a cockroach, but still, like the Silence, I fear that the Dilluminati are already everywhere, and the guy sitting opposite me in the coffee shop, in a leather trench (it’s 30°C today) looks suspiciously suspicious. Just saying.

I regret a bit that I did not pre-order this. I have since
acquired this piece of magnificence.

Bucket listing then. August 4^th is a bit tight to make a film, and my acting is not that brilliant. Founding my own company and making shit loads of money off it doesn’t really work either, does it? Sleeping my way up could be a pretty restless and knackering experience, although maybe not the worst. Just, where to start?

Eating in all of London’s best cake shops is something I have already accomplished, my thighs and waist are happy to witness, and I have seen all the new releases. I have always wanted to be famous, but, unless I burn myself on Leicester Square, 11 days are really, really short, despite and perhaps because of the age of the Internet. Anybody can be famous, so everybody is trying. Publishing a book is rather ambitious too in 11 days, considering that I haven’t written one, and considering that nobody is going to read it anyway, it would be a futile effort. I’ve always wanted to roast a whole pig, or at least a very large part of one, and have so far been kept from the enterprise due to a lack of eaters. And the lack of a spit roast big enough to roast a whole pig. Tesco doesn’t stock any disposable ones.

I can’t help but thinking about a song (German as it were), by a guy called Peter Fox – the one from Seeed, yes. ‘Der Letzte Tag’ is perfect for these last days of the earth, because, let’s face it, nobody wants to spend their last days alive with The Smiths and The Cure. You want to party like there is no tomorrow, because, errr, there really is no tomorrow. Fact.

I did not buy it, should I have?

‘Süsse mach’ dich schick, Ich hol’ dich in fünf Minuten ab, das Beste ist heut’ gut genug, denn heute ist der letzte Tag’. Suit up, is what Mr Fox is telling us here. And He’s bloody right. Ok, so dear non-existent readers, it’s time for the big WD. Wedding Dress that is. You want to spend your last day(s) wearing a meringue of a dress, who is going to judge you anyway? Your rioting ex-teacher? All the crying bodybuilders from the gym around the corner? Maybe your pizza-eating flatmate, who thinks that his Sonic Screwdriver from the Doctor Who Experience-gift shop will save him from the coming invasion? I don’t think so. So why not go for it? Face the Dilluminati in your best frock, and in those shoes you never wear because a. you can’t walk in them and b. they don’t ‘go with anything. You bought them for this occasion, only you didn’t know it.

‘Wolln’ wir Betten rocken im Ritz, die Präsidenten Suite nehmen, bis es qualmt und die Bett Pfosten in die Knie gehen’, yes, you want to get the President’s Suite at the Ritz, because your bank account will be reduced to ash after the Dilluminati have been here. (or maybe sink into eternal darkness – it’s rather unclear what is going to happen once they invade; there are voices that they don’t really know themselves, sort of ‘just winging it, mate’) So, if the Suite is still available (remember there might be a queue of bucket listers), have it, and order some fancy Champagne Afternoon Tea from downstairs, I can fairly recommend it. Their Cucumber Sandwiches are from another planet.

Furthermore, Mr. Fox sings about ‘Letzte Chance für einen Sprung in Acapulco, Ich schreib’ noch schnell ‘ne Oper, Babe, und stell’ mich ans Pult, ho.’ Here, I think, he’s a bit over-ambitious, as I have mentioned above, writing anything really is a waste of time, if you’re not quick enough. However, if you have an opera or two lying around, or an incredible talent, say, like Mozart, then feel free to knock out an opera, or two. And a play, and then fly to Acapulco, if you can get on a flight (again, bucket listers will be queuing), if you fancy. I personally do not like living through my last days with a sunburn, thus I just stay in the shadow.

‘Bald is alles egal, können die Sorgen vergessen, lass’ uns tonnenweise Torte fressen … und versuchen die Sterne mit Sektkorken zu treffen’. So Mr. Fox suggests to his Beloved to eat tons of pie (Torte is sort of between cake and pie, the German stuff with lots of cream filling – I don’t really like it, but if it gets him going, why not?), and forget all the worries. It is sort of what I am planning to do, but all the while, not trying to overeat – just imagine, spending your last day on earth feeling sick because you’ve had a whole chocolate cake. No, start with a nice bagel, and work from there. I also recommend Lucky Chip’s burgers on Netil Market, or at their residency at the Seebright Arms. Then you should also think about a Pizza at Pizza East, and maybe some of the Sourdough toast from the E5 Bakehouse. Plain, no butter. I guess then you would want to include the peanut butter chocolate cheesecake from Bea’s of Bloomsbury, and the scones from Albion Caff. And then you can go on to shoot Champagne corks at the stars, as Mr. Fox suggests. (you need a lot of Champagne for the end of the world, shooting at stars in more complicated than it sounds)

It is now time to go to that new coffee shop on Brick Lane where they serve cake the size of a toddler. It is an appropriate lunch, 11 days before the end of the world. There is just one more thing I need to say before it all ends. 

Just so you know. Not that it makes any sense after the end of the world.

A call to arms?

Don't let the flames die.

Yeah, that's what I thought. The Professor, again - pompous ass. 

After much ado about not very much at all, two weeks ago, he resurfaces with this. Writing about the Shard and all, and that the laser show was only a well-planned, badly-executed distraction from the Dilluminati, to lure all Londoners into their leeching ban.

I still don't buy into it. Into him, I mean, WHO says he's not one of them? Ay? (this is what Shakespeare would have added for a bit of dramaturgical effect. Doesn't really hit the spot on a blog, ay?) As much as I would like to believe that the Professor is genuinely interested in the well-being of London's population (the world's??), I cannot help but suspect him to work for the Enemy. Like that Dalek in that one episode of Dr. Who, where that one bloke thought he'd invented that one Dalek, but in reality that one bloke was constructed by the Daleks and was actually working for, like, the enemy, or whatever. That's, like, totally potentiable. 

However, I do believe that the Dilluminati are coming, and they're coming fast. I don't think they're using Boris Bikes - no, in order to beat the jams during the Games ('please use alternative methods of transport' - Fuck you very much TFL), I guess they go back to good old teleportation, or maybe de- and re-materialisation. Anyway, all the signs and signals throughout the city: pyramids, triangles, circles, dead animals, announce the biggest battle of all: Dilluminati - Call of Tutee.

Whereas the Professor still holds on to the 'beacon of light that brings about the dark' or something like that, I believe firmly that the light is but a symptom of the Dilluminati's presence, and that they have long invaded society to triumph in the moment of ... errr, triumph. My neighbour, goes by the name of JJ, is a suspiciously small, and suspiciously malicious creature, whom I do not for one second believe that he is not able to speak. I suspect that his refusal to do anything but yelling and crying for a person with the pseudonym of 'Mother', is part of an elaborate plan to cover up his manipulating ways. The Dilluminati, dear friends, are among us, and they have adapted well. I have observed that the creature JJ and his 'sister' Rihanna, feed on KFC, McDo and Chicken Hut, which resembles very closely human nutrition. I say, fear the impostors; fear the Dilluminati amongst us; fear the hidden danger that resides in the streets of E2.

The final battle is coming, and it will be carnage. Note, dear friends, August 4th shall bring immense bloodshed and misery to the world. And few will be prepared. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

Pantaloon de Nîmes and the beginning of the end

I am an Anarcho-Dandyist. I always secretly knew, but I had my big coming out this weekend - including some first-time experience in the proceedings of Chapism and its perks. I came second in Cucumber Sandwich Discus, which, I think, is not too shabby for somebody just coming to terms with their new existence as a Chapette. 

'For research purposes' I attended the eighth Chap Olympiad in Bedford Square Gardens this last weekend, and I put 'research purposes' in inverted commas, because I am a. a self-important idiot and b. still completely flashed (and hungover) from the experience, which is not cool for a researcher (none of the above is, really).

Here's me pre-discus-ing. Look. At. The. Hat.

However, the weekend was jolly good fun, and has again reaffirmed that my petticoat and I are made for each other, and should never, ever go separate ways again. This last point is only ideologically faisible, as my life involves quite a few non-Chapish activities, and I do not own enough dresses that allow me to wear this piece of excellent 50s tailoring. Neither does my life allow me to wear my new favourite hat times again and again, and I will have to attend events like the Olympiad to wear my 'Camilla Bowles-Parker' neo-Edwardian architectural masterpiece. 

The most delightful part of the weekend was not, as anticipated, the long list of eccentric cocktails (for reference, I drank my own body weight in 'Gentleman's Summers'), but the courtesy that I encountered, wherever I went, really. There wasn't a single rude, chavy or disrespectful Chap on-site, with the benefit of being treated like a lady for once (and maybe for the first time in my life?). How many times has a complete stranger held his own umbrella over my head, in order to keep me dry for about an hour? The answer is never, and probably, never again (thank you Stuart). How many drinks did I myself pay for on the weekend: none. How many times did somebody try to make inappropriate comments about my outfit: not once. The weekend was, despite incredible amounts of alcohol consumed on both days, the most dignified example of English non-sporting activities, and cursed those who tried to impress by being good at some of the disciplines: you have NO idea what this is all about, have you?

With reference to the title, one of two things disregarded and excluded from the event are things produced in a fabric originating in Nîmes, France, and clip-on braces. (pah!) Trainers and sportswear are equally disregarded, but can be excused, if the Chap or Chapette wearing said gear does not participate in any of the games, or has indeed managed to source original, 1920s Cricket Whites, or a similarly old equipment, justifying its use on the day. EVERYTHING else is strictly forbidden. 

With these rules/guidelines in place, the event was designed to cherish, worship, cultivate, propagate and resuscitate Tweed, three-piece suits and garters in their various forms and shapes. 'Give Three-piece a chance', as they sang on Savile Row, one dreary Monday morning in early June. The Chaps and Chapettes were ready to take on Olympic pipe-smoking, Umbrella Jousting, Cucumber Discus, and my favourite, Shouting at Foreigners, in their Sunday (or Saturday) Suit. I have never seen so many Trilby's, Fez'es, sock-garters and moustaches in one place; not to speak of the amount of tobacco consumed in the most adventurous and inadequate ways imaginable - I LOVED it. 

I suppose as a new bee in the art of dignified drinking, smoking and dressing, I did well, but in retrospect, could have done better. My preparation was thorough, but could have been more detailed, and my attire real period dress, as opposed to the amount of polyester I wrapped myself into. But the crowd did not care. It's all about the effort invested into the dressing-up and the being-there. It's not about what you are, but about what you stand for, and it is precisely this that blew me away over the two days. I did not just vaguely look like a woman with self-respect: I had some self-respect. And so had everybody else. This weekend, I did not celebrate Chapism, or Tweed only, I assisted in celebrating a culture based on respectful behaviour, towards oneself and towards others. Hoozah.

The Master of Ceremonies. Employed by the
National Army Museum no less.

My personal favourite was the MC, a guy called Tristan Langlois, and no, he did not make that name up. The aptly named Englishman led through the events with an eloquence only Evelyn Waugh could have written in the same way, and I bet that there are some serious Woodhousian influences. Looking like he'd jumped out of Gosford Park, he was the exact kind of person I expected to encounter on the day. Although lacking the standard Tweed three-piece, you do have to admire the bow-tie of perfection. How come none of the people I frequent with frequency are dressed like this? (the answer, dear non-existent reader is subject of my dissertation, and I will not lie, no one really gives a f*** about the way they dress, because they do not give much of a f*** about the way they resonate in society either. tze tze tze). 

It is very hard returning to the ordinariness of a Sunday evening, if, for two entire days, this man has commented on every single step on/off-stage. I simply must hire him to comment on my life. It's the least I can do, being short of any facial hair to groom into a statement.

Speaking of which, I have met the single most interesting moustache wearer in London, goes by the name of Mr. Wax (a pseudonym, I think). Running a business that shouts sustainability and legacy issues, Mr. Wax was one of the most interesting interviewees of the weekend, not least through his elusiveness. I had to stalk him. Not that I am not any good at stalking. He immediately recognized that conspicuous does not only mean ostentatious, but is also related to wasteful use of commodities. You’ve got to like interviewees who have some sense of Veblen’s theories. Big win. Impressive moustache. Tally ho, old Chap, I'm expected at the Club. One does have to cultivate culture.

It's all in the name, innit mate?

Can I take your name, please?

             

                        

- Of course you can. You can. You take it, and then you mincemeat it into something barely legible, barely understandable, barely my name on plastic cup. YOU are the Starbucks person serving me, and I really start hating you - all of YOU!

- My name is Alice and I have a serious problem: I like Iced Coffee. I don't need the sun to drink my iced coffee, no. When it comes to iced coffee, I loose all self-esteem and all self-control. Anytime of the day, anytime of the year. I even go so far as to abandon my self-imposed ban on multi-national chains and drop into Starbucks (pah!) to get my fix. It's this serious (Sorry Brick Lane Coffee, Get Coffee, Monmouth and Climpson & Sons).

So imagine how I feel if I, in the midst of betraying myself and all other coffee-lovers, am being treated like a non-person - a nameless individual without identity!!??? I hate the fake smiles and the 'How are you today' that is being trained into the people at Starbucks, and I hate the uniforms that are supposed to democratise the lot, but in fact only widen the gap, and I hate the name badges that make everybody sooooo approachable. All about Starbucks is fake, but what really gets me going is the bloody name-taking.

Dear non-existent reader, my name is Alice. It's a British institution if you like; 9 times out of 10 when I meet new people and introduce myself, they say something like 'ahh, in WONDERLAND' or 'uhum, so your parents were into Lewis Carroll?' or even 'aha, school's out for ever'. It's almost impossible not to make the reference, and if they don't, I'll take over and do it myself 'like the one in Wonderland', to preempt all future tasteless jokes and references to cake and drink, and caterpillars, and cats, and oysters, and two fat blokes with almost identical names, and and and......

Also, dear reader, I have a very standard diction - not Laurence Olivier - but not bad either. I used to work for radio and telly, so I think I should get the talking part alright. I speak more or less the Queen's English, with a hint of an accent, but in a conversation that lasts less than a minute, nobody would notice. Even after an hour, some people are surprised to learn that I am one of the Queen's finest immigrants.

So - but here comes Starbucks. As you can see from the collection of pictures, not a single of the 'barristas' has managed to get my name (remember, it's A-L-I-C-E) right. The bloke who wrote 'ALES' gets an extra prize for asking me to spell my name. So HOW, HOW on earth is this possible?????? It's bloody, effing five letters long; it's taken from one of the most popular Edwardian children's books and there is MORE than just one of us around!!! (At the moment I'm listening to Limahl 'Neverending Story' and frankly, there you have a name to get wrong! #ChildOfThe80s)

I've been thinking about this problem for some time now, and the only logical explanation (if there is one), is that I just don't look like an Alice. I'm not a small blonde girl in a blue dress (that could also make me a Dorothy), I'm not a leather-wearing, ageing rock star - I look very much like myself, and a tiny bit like my gran (who was an Alice, too). It seems though as if Starbucks' staff doesn't recognise me as an Alice, and finds nice alternatives to re-christen me. Very often, those alternatives end up being men's names (?). Even if they ask me to spell my name (Ay - Ell - Ai - See - Ee) they get it wrong.

They must be completely oblivious to my name, if they get others right (a guy in the queue was called Timothy, and there was a Rishi, as well as a Gwendolyn) - to the extend that I fear entering one of their shops, dreading the fake smile and the 'Can I take your name?'. They can take my name; they do; and then they destroy it.

Time to clock out. Best of luck, Alysse xxx