A story about a girl called Amy May

NB. The below was originally written in March 2016 for the The Listserve. Just wanted to also record it here, as future posts may refer to Amy and the Amy May Trust.

I’m going to tell you a story, about a young woman named Amy May.

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You won’t understand how important it is that you read her story, unless you actually read it. But it’s a story that desperately needs to be known.

This is what happened.

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Is this thing still on?

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Well, it’s been a while. Four and a half years, to be exact.

When I first started this blog, I was fresh out of university, working my first ever journalism job in Derbyshire and writing under the pseudonym notontheguestlist. And things have changed a bit since then, as you’d expect them to over a decade.

A decade. Blimey.

So, I’m now a 30-something (who just about makes the dreaded Millennial bracket) living in London and working in television and have somehow today found myself tinkering with my WordPress account, changing the look of this blog and deciding to attempt to breathe some new life into it.

So why have I decided to come back after a five-year silence, this time without the anonymity and at a time when everything anyone says online is more open to scrutiny and criticism than ever?

Well, first of all, it’s not as though I’m Logan Paul. Thank god. And I like making people laugh, which is something I’ve been told I used to achieve here. Plus, it’s become apparent over the last few years that I have a thick skin when it comes to the internet – which is lucky because I’m rather prone to making a bit of a tit of myself on it.

Let me give you just a couple of examples.

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Did things get really crap, or did I just get old?

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I had a rather epic gym session this morning. And I’m not talking about the usual brand of epic. In case you’re wondering what that is, it basically involves:

a) Making it through the door (doesn’t matter how little exercise I do once there, you definitely lose weight just from “going” to the gym, right?)

b) And staying for more than 20 minutes without:

i) falling off treadmill

ii) having internal meltdown at sight of lycra-clad 100 pound nymphettes

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Being a girl is hard

Call me Captain Obvious, but I really have only recently realised that being a girl is bloody hard work.

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I’m not even referring to anything to do with periods, childbirth, body image or wage inequality. Na. Forget all the bleeding and hormones and cushiony bits of our bodies and the fact that we still live in a world where a female CEO gives us an involuntary jab of the warm and fuzzies because one of our kind has been ‘given a chance’.

Actually, my issue with being a girl is trying to bloody look like one.

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“It’s ok, I’m on holiday!”

This morning I woke up, padded to the kitchen and put the kettle on for my morning cup of tea.  Nothing very unusual there, compared to the average morning.

Except, I then ate a … I’m not quite sure what it was, actually. All I know it was made out of pastry, sugar, chocolate and deliciousness. A big yard of sickly, chocolatey deliciousness. And it was so good I promptly put another in the microwave and gobbled up its molten, toxic stickiness. Then an hour later I snarfed down a few handfuls of Cheetos. Then later I lunched on a large, rubbery hotdog in white French bread followed by more bread covered in pate. Then more Cheetos. And now I’m writing this, drinking a beer, feeling bloated and thinking about starting on some chocolate.

Now I promise, this is a bit unusual for me, because I do try (and there is a lot of emphasis on the word try) to eat healthily. I generally snack on fruit, eat salads for lunch and eat bread, pasta and other carbs as little as I can. I also usually like my food fresh and containing vegetables.

So why the sudden overdose of crap today? Well, I am on the third day of Being On Holiday. And, although I don’t usually look as fit as the girl on the left of the picture above,  I am starting to feel like I vaguely resemble the ladies on the right.

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The shame of bringing in the cleaners

I have a confession to make. And it’s one I’ve been very reluctant to come right out and say. Because I feel people may judge me for it.

I haven’t been eating cupcakes on the toilet at night (recently, anyway) or having a pang in my knickers whenever I think about Boris Johnson. It’s much worse than that.

My confession is this. Every Thursday I pay some of my well-earned money for some complete strangers to enter my home and clean up mine and my boyfriend’s mess. Once a week I go to work in the morning, safe in the knowledge that when I come back, the carpets will be vacuumed, the toilet and bathroom cleaned and any residual dishes that have been left in the sink will be washed.

And now, after an unfortunate event with said cleaners of which I have wanted to publicly moan about, I realise how ashamed I am of of this. I’m a 21st century social network addict, moronically moaning about my first world problems via the mediums of Facebook and Twitter on a regular basis. However, this time I felt the need to hold myself back because I’d probably rather admit to bringing in the cleaners in the mafia sense than announce that I actually have to pay someone to  help keep my place habitable. And to publicly complain about the problems that arise from this would just be wanky to the highest sense.

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