The Worst Job in the World?

We British do love a good old moan don’t we? If it’s not the weather we’re whinging about, it’s often our jobs. Fair enough, we do spent most of our lives working and it is the unfortunate case that some of the best paid jobs are the ones you can fall into without any qualifications – I should know after a three year journalism degree and a £15k debt – but is yours really the worst?

I for one love to complain about my job and the wage, but I would sacrifice a few thousand quid a year in return for doing a job I enjoy (don’t tell the boss!). What really grates on me though is those of us who moan about other peoples’ jobs, especially when you don’t have one yourself because you think you’re too good to serve burgers in a take away!

Just imagine the state we’d be in without bin men, cleaners, fast food outlets, call centre advisors – you get my drift. But, far worse than any of these occupations has got to be the role of Prime Minister. Don’t get me wrong, David Cameron is hardly on my Top Friends list on Facebook, but he’s not on my hit list either. Many of you will think me totally mad, but I just can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. I mean, his salary isn’t even half of the average bank manager!

No one is perfect, especially when you have to adhere to the entire population of England’s idea of perfect. One minute, Tony Blair was the best thing since sliced bread and the next, he was the reason our troops went to Iraq. Cast your mind back to last year when Cameron became Prime Minister. This was because so many people took any other option they could than Labour’s Gordon Brown, whom many of us blamed for the financial crisis in the country.

We wanted increased prison sentences, yet we slammed Cameron for putting two men away for four years for unsuccessfully planning a riot via social media websites. Did we forget what could have happened if they weren’t caught? People have died and businesses have been destroyed. Then what? We would have complained that life sentences weren’t long enough!

To top it off, we blame the Prime Minister and his government for the riots in the first place. Really? Are you all that naive? It was just one big excuse for a bunch of thugs to go on a rampage and assault people and steel things. I’m far than happy with tuition fees, the rise in fuel, the cut in benefits for people who desperately need them, but did I drive my Fiesta through the revolving doors of Debenhams to bag myself some bargains? No!

Give the guy a break!

We just love to hate the Prime Minister. It’s a job in itself! If only we were paid!

One Valuable Life Lesson I am Thankful For

Parents’ lives – and financial affairs – are often controlled by their children. We’ve all heard of the bank of Mum and Dad right? From ferrying the kids around to bailing them out when they’re in debt, the duty of parenthood seems never ending.

It may be that I have the most tight-fisted Mother in the world, but I never experienced cash hand-outs or lifts to school or work, let alone social events – and get this, I turned out fine!

From an early age, I made my own packed lunch (we never got dinner money) and after I started my first job in a café at the age of 14, the only thing my mum ever bought me other than food was the odd pack of assorted knickers from Quality Seconds. You think I’m joking!

I always had an on-going joke with my mum that even if I was being chased down a dark alley by a man with a machete, she would make me wait until she’d finished dinner or whatever else she was doing before picking me up.

Every time we bring it up now, she will give me examples of when she put herself out for me, which only goes to show that those instances were few and far between otherwise she wouldn’t remember them all! Apparently, being stingy was all part of a well thought-out plan my mum had when I was born. All she says now is: “Well look how you’ve turned out. A strong and independent woman. I can’t have been that much of a bad mother!”

And I have to reluctantly agree. While I still have days when I wake up wondering why I wasn’t born a size 8 Cheryl Cole look-alike into a rich family, I am sensible with money, with a good head on my shoulders and my own mortgage that I managed to get without my parents putting down a hefty deposit on my behalf. (We won’t go into the fact that I’m probably in negative equity – that’s another blog for another time!)

So while sometimes like to make out that my upbringing was a tad harsh, it wasn’t all that bad and this is one valuable life lesson that I am thankful of.

I suggest that if you don’t want your kids still living at home at the age of 30 then keep your car keys in your pocket and that moth in your wallet. It never did me any harm (much)!

### Written by me and previously published in the Daily Echo’s Saturday magazine in 2009.

Totally Addicted to Flake

Does Marriage Mean Losing Your Identity?

I was blessed with the unique yet jibe-attracting surname, Flake. From an early age I was taunted with the likes of “Do you want a flake with that?” and coupled with the fact that my first name is Charlie, was often called ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Of course, my ‘puppy fat,’ as my mum would call it, didn’t help one bit. “Did you eat yourself?” people would say.

My father’s only child and with no cousins to help me bear the burden, I began to embrace my surname. Even when I moved to Poole from Gosport at the age of 11 with my mum, her husband and two sisters, I shunned the chance to take on the very average name of Stephens (the ‘ph’ spelling made no difference), making a rebellious stand to save my individuality.

At the age of 16, I bore the nickname ‘Flakey’ on my t-shirt for my first ever girls’ holiday and enjoyed using the phrase “Flake like the chocolate” when spelling my name out on the phone. I had become so attached to my surname and so protective of it that I didn’t even think about what getting married would mean for poor old Flake.

When Darren, now my husband, proposed on New Year’s Eve 2010, it never occurred to me that I might have to give up my surname. It’s not as if I didn’t know that taking the man’s name was expected, (I’m not that stupid), it’s just that it hadn’t even crossed my mind, so much so, that when it came to the actual wedding day, I still hadn’t decided or even practiced a signature in my new surname ‘Joyce’.

It’s not that I was taking a feminist stance and protesting women’s equal rights, it was simply that I liked my surname and hyphenating Joyce and Flake sounds ridiculous. Darren didn’t pressure me at all and while I could tell that he would be slightly offended if I didn’t take it, he didn’t demand that I become a Joyce.

After the honeymoon, I took the plunge and changed my name formally with all my banks, insurance companies and card providers but decided to stay Flake at work and on Facebook. I couldn’t believe the backlash I received! After all, I joined Facebook to stay in touch with people from my childhood and believe it or not, I was not married at 8! If people are going to search for me, they are going to look for Charlie Flake not Charlie Joyce was Flake. What’s the big deal?

While I don’t agree with women that refuse to change their name simply because they are making a point, I do think we should be able to make compromises. I feel I have earned my surname and won’t let go completely - it is part of my identity!

PS: I’m quietly worrying about the fact that Flake won’t be carried on through my children, so I am devising a plan to boycott their birth certificates when they are born but sshh! Darren has no idea!