Well…I made the summit!

I’m not sure how…but I did it.

This brings 7 months of volunteering to a nice conclusion. I reached the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro very early on Friday morning, and in doing so, raised over £4000 for the children of Amani.

I know there’s a couple of you that were waiting to see if I completed it before donating…so here’s the link:

http://www.justgiving.com/Nick-Hippo-Hall

Massive, massive thanks to all of you that sent messages of support and especially to all those of you who donated. You’re absolute legends.

There were times on that final ascent when I just wanted to turn back. It was horrific and one of the darkest and hardest nights of my life. But I felt a real duty to get to the top. Both to you guys and to the children at Amani.

Myself and 5 nice Norwegians took the very steep and challenging Machame Route, where you summit on only the 5th day. Many people will tell you that this is too early to summit and that you need more acclimatisation before attempting to reach the top…and by Jove, they were right!

No one in our group had an easy ride…and there were people throwing up, having fevers, really intense headaches, collapsing etc etc. I took homeopathic remedies instead of Diamox and had good results. But the final ascent was horrific whatever we took.

I took myself way beyond my normal boundaries and pushed myself to the absolute limits. Apart from a 5 hour respite, we did about 28 hours continuous trekking/climbing including the infamous and rather scary ‘Breakfast Wall’.

Anyway…after 4 days of climbing, we set off for the final ascent at 11.30pm (Thurs). It is done in the dark for 2 reasons: first, any sunshine would be make it incredibly hard to climb and secondly, if anyone actually saw in broad daylight what they were trying to attempt…they probably wouldn’t even bother starting out.

For six and a half hours you just freeze like hell, put one foot in front of the other, you struggle for breath, your legs collapse to jelly and you start to hallucinate.

So often, I just felt I had nothing left to offer.

It’s really steep and you keep slipping on the scree.

You can see beams from other head torches above you, but they are so high you’re not sure if you’re confusing them for stars.

You have no idea where you are going or how long it is going to take you.

You just keep going.

You past Stella Point (where many people conclude their climb) and for some stupid reason keep going for another hour of intense pain until you reach Uhuru Peak, the highest point on Kilimanjaro. Knackered, battered and shattered, only a bizarre stubbornness got me to the top.

I wanted it so, so badly…and I don’t mind admitting that when I got there, I wept like a baby.

I know it’s a Kili cliché, but that really was the hardest thing I have ever done. After 4 years of M.E., I wasn’t sure the body would take it. But thrilled that it did. It was by far, the worst night of my life.

But then again…I haven’t even told you how we got all the way down, which turned into probably the worst day of my life.

But that’s another story…

Thank you everyone for your amazing support and generosity.

For all your lifestyle new and features, whatever your lifestyle…Fingertips.net – The news you choose.

“What’s your ‘number’?” he said, smiling slightly as if he knew full well he was bordering on bad-mannered. Granted, I’d had a couple of drinks but I certainly wasn’t willing to take it there.
“Ummmm…” I mumbled as I stuffed food into my mouth, secretly hoping I would start to choke and save myself the awkwardness of having to answer. God wasn’t on my side that night, the food slipped down quite easily and my mouth was again free to disclose.
“Some wine for you sir?” Ah-ha the waiter, my saviour, my hero. A house white was ordered and the conversation moved on.

It was our third date and we had reached the flirty we-can-mention-sex-but-it-ain’t-happening-yet stage, and conversation was flowing. I knew this question would come up eventually but why must it? What is our fascination with knowing how many people a new partner has slept with? Is it because human beings are inherently inquisitive, or is it that for some reason self-torture is the preferred method of humility among the people of today? Was it so much easier in my mother’s day where you courted men and giggled about them from afar, where there was always that desire to find ‘the one’, settle down and be happily attached to him alone, forever. Has it really changed that much? I love the courting, and the flirty stage and certainly don’t want to end up a spinster with just an overly notched bed post as company.

When I first started dating my current boyfriend, he told me quite proudly after saying with a false coyness “do you really want to know?” (as if the truth would hurt me), that his number exceeded forty. At this point, we weren’t in love and when he told me his rather large number, I thought it was a sign that he was going to be fantastic in bed. It was also at this moment that I decided, right there and then, that he was never to know mine. Men can’t handle this type of information. If your number is higher than theirs they think you’re a promiscuous tramp and if your number is lower they think of themselves as the superior in terms of sexual prowess and become all arrogant and precious. Almost always, both these conclusions are way off the mark.

The over 40

Is 40 too many? Obviously, a lot depends on age. If you’re 60 and your number’s 40 then hats off to you. That’s about one a year, assuming you started at about 20, and by my reckoning, you’ve done pretty well for yourself. However, I’m not talking about our parents; I’m talking about those of us who are between the ages of 20 and 30, us twenty-somethings who have been around long enough to know what sex is and how much we want it. This is where the gender issue rears it’s ugly head. I had a chat with my boyfriend and the first thing he said when I asked how many is too many was “for men there is no ‘too many’”. Why is this? Is a woman’s virginity more sacred than a man’s? In fairness to him, and in proof that he’s not sexist, my boyfriend did go on to say no number would put him off a woman – although having thought about this more…in fact, no, I don’t want to. He then pulled out the math card on me; if someone has been sexually active since they were 16 and they are now 30 and they have slept with 150 people and they are a serial dater, that makes it about 10 a year so almost one a month which isn’t bad at all! And he’s right, this makes it sound much less shocking.

The 0’s

Then there are the girls who number remains at 0. I recently read an article about a girl who wore a chastity ring to school and was asked to remove it as it breached the school’s health and safety regulations. Now, besides the fact that I fail to see how the ring could be seen as dangerous, I still have mixed feelings about the wearing of something that represents so much by someone so young. I think it’s great that these girls are thinking for themselves and consider their bodies and virginity to be precious and of value but I can’t understand why the wearing of a ring to represent this is so important. For a start, many boys will see it as a challenge, a point of mockery or simply a constant reminder of sex and their desire to have it, making it all the more difficult for them to not try and get it. Does this not complicate the very meaning behind the wearing of it? I’m not sure. My understanding of it is like this; I once went to a traffic light party (my first and last) and for those of you who don’t know what a traffic light party is (anyone who didn’t go to university), let me briefly explain. A traffic light party is, for all intents and purposes, an opportunity to flirt outrageously and slap peoples’ bums due to the implicit invite of the green light. There was me, in my red light (no, thanks), trying to remain under the radar, deliberately staying close to my trio of ‘green’ friends hoping that they would keep the attention off me. A bad move. These three gorgeous girls in their short skirts, high heels and red lippy were all but pushed aside as men became mesmerised by my red light. “Playing hard to get are you?” and “’Red’ hot for me, you are” were just some of the things thrown at me that night. You see, men love a challenge and that is exactly what I was providing – the peak of a very high mountain that boys want to climb. I fear the chastity ring wearing girls are seen the same way. I suggest we all just make up our own minds but not feel we have to tell the world for it to be correct in an ‘I’m-better-than-you’ type fashion, with brazen readiness to judge anyone not thinking the same.

The Sex and the City gritty of it

Whenever I have a question which relates to sex or relationships, I turn to the SATC quartet to put me back on the right path. They have conquered taboos and brought to light the fundamental issues surrounding sex and show that it’s good to know what you want and don’t be ashamed to go get it. They have fun, they get burnt, they regret things (the rabbit and the face-licker to name but a few) but none of it actually harms anyone. There are lessons to learn though – be safe, do what makes you happy and be honest – but all in all, there is no wrong or right. We’re all different and if you’re happy with your number then wear it loud and proud (not literally, like a birthday badge, but you understand) and the next time someone asks you “what’s your number?”, try telling them the truth. And if they flinch or look disgusted, laugh and say you were joking.

For all your lifestyle news and features, whatever lifestyle you lead…Fingertips.net

I first met Nick ‘Hippo’ Hall somewhere between Christchurch and Wellington in 2005. The British and Irish Lions supporters party had taken in an ill-advised wine tasting afternoon in the New Zealand countryside, and in amongst slurred post mortems of the First Test, an Old Etonian and an Old Harrovian got terrifically drunk. In amongst three heavy drubbings by the All-Blacks, I got to know Nick, and got to see first hand his infectious enthusiasm for life and his terrific sense of adventure. In the years since returning from the ‘land of the long white cloud’, or the land where the bars stay open until 5am, I speak to Hippo occasionally and I always envy his globetrotting life – his novelty Santa Claus costume has frequented many a foreign sports ground in support of touring British teams. This morning however, when I spoke to him, he told me he had been in the heart of Africa for the past 7 months volunteering.

It is of no surprise to me that on the 22nd February Nick will be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro – the world’s largest free-standing mountain, and it’s even less of a surprise that he’ll be doing it to raise money for the organisation he has been working for; the Amani Children’s Home in Tanzania.

Now in its ninth year, the organisation is dedicated to protecting as many of Tanzania’s orphaned population as possible. There can be fewer realities more harsh than being homeless and parentless in a third world country, and the Amani Children’s Home creates a much needed shield between the children and the synonyms of third world poverty – disease, crime, malnutrition and fear. The Home’s work does not end with the provision of sanctuary, it allows the children access to education, healthcare, and counselling. Cliched as it may be, the Amani Children’s Home’s primary function is to give these children an opportunity to live. The most effective testimony of the organisation’s success, comes from the many photographs of the children themselves – smiley, joyous faces beam out at you where once there would have only been fear. Given that over 2.5million children in Tanzania still face the horrendous reality of life alone on the street, the size of the task facing institutions like Amani is enormous – but one that still needs to be tackled.

The Amani Children’s Home relies on generosity to survive, that, and the fund raising of people like Nick Hall. Please visit the donations page and help him raise the money he needs to make a difference to these children’s lives, there really is no such thing as an insignificant donation.

Please also see Nick Hall’s article on the Amani Children’s Home, and see for yourself how urgently help is needed to defend the most vulnerable members of Tanzanian society.

Can a leopard change its spots? Not per se…however, if it donned a Dolce and Gabanna jacket and bought itself a house I may be able to blur the spots out. No, I’m joking of course. This is a tough one. I think it totally depends on the individual situation. I know women who have gone back to men after they’ve cheated and have gone on to have great relationships. However, I always feel that there would be an element of mistrust – every time he spends that little bit longer at work, the mobile vibrating in the middle of the night and the mention of a woman to whom you’ve yet to be introduced.

This is when the crazy lady, bunny boiler stuff kicks in…

She looks like you or me and is generally a level-headed, smiley happy person. But there are the secret things she does when nobody’s around. She won’t even have told her best friend these things – guilt, shame, heavy burdens for anyone to bear. We’ve all been there. He goes to have a shower and leaves his mobile on the side…would it be so bad to have a cheeky peek? – Not at him naked in the shower let me clarify, but perhaps a quick scroll through his messages – Mandy!? Who the f**k is Mandy!? Sounds like a nasty nympho name! You maniacally read on, heart pounding, a sweat threatening to break, hands shaking…hi Chris, just sending over those high res images you needed, hope they’re ok? Phew, you smile, a work email plain and simple, no kisses, no hey sexy – he’s coming back! You throw it back on the side and sit down far away, staring at the screen, willing the light to go off before he re-enters the room.

Frightening isn’t it? So, I’ve thought long and hard and no….I couldn’t shouldn’t wouldn’t do it. We all have a conscience and I don’t care how inebriated you get, we all know what we shouldn’t do….

Or do we..?

Imagine this…you’ve had a row over the bed making/not enough sex/hairs in the bath plug (omit as appropriate) and you’ve screamed and slammed and thrown till your throat and arm aches and you’ve gone out – in your desire to be dramatic and powerful, you did it quickly and are therefore in the cold with no coat and no key to get back in…shit…ah ha but you have a phone. Revenge! Unwise – yes, feels temporarily great – yes, always a bad idea – yes but you call Matt, the elusive ex anyway…”Hi, we had a row, I’ve left him, will you come and pick me up?” The prospect of a warm car and the conversation of a man you didn’t just throw a jar of honey at become too much – don’t be fooled into thinking these things are good, they are dangerous and judgment clouding tools of the devil on your shoulder.

It was supposed to be a simple cry-on-his-shoulder type of thing…never works that way.
You’re in his car, he’s not shouting at you – no, in fact he’s listening, a look of shared disbelief and concern in his eyes, a gentle nod in the appropriate places drives your teary story on. Familiar smells fill the car – his after shave, a subtle blend of manly odours, the leather interior as it warms with the car’s heating system – before you know it, you feel very much at home and if the game is good cop, bad cop, he is definitely the good cop – and us ladies love a man in uniform!

I am sure any women reading this are going “I would never cheat” (especially if your boyfriend is there with you) but I agree, I haven’t cheated and definitely can’t imagine doing so. I don’t know the statistics, the ’8 out of 10 cats’ of it, but I am pretty sure that on average men cheat more than women – Tiger Woods, John Terry to name a few – but this makes us wonder why people cheat?

Reason 1) Unhappy in current relationship.

This is the cowardly one…kind of; it’s easier said than done. These guys have been questioning the relationship for a while but every time they wanted to say something, there has been some kind of excuse not to. They still love their partner but have maybe lost the fundamental attraction or that something electric that keeps them interested. These guys will cheat because for one hour (more likely a couple of minutes) they forgot (alcohol fuels this lack of memory) that they are actually in a relationship. Stop! Do the right thing and end it before someone gets really hurt.

Reason 2) Greedy People

These are the smug buggers we all love to hate. The people who think they deserve it all and can have it all so why not. Reason and decency aren’t on their vocabulary radars and so they get overcome with excitement at the prospect of something new, something different, something intriguing. These guys will cheat more than once and not get caught until after the third time and then they will stay faithful for all of 5 minutes until they do it again…beware; this leopard’s spots are tattooed on.

Reason 3) Scared of commitment – The fake reason

This is the one you will have seen in the films when the two people inevitably get back together again at the end. Well I don’t believe it for one second!!! There is something fundamentally wrong with a relationship if the two of you can’t sit down and talk about your issues. Why cheat in this situation? To remind themselves of what they could have to make sure they are with the best for them? No! It is because they are either reason one or two above but know that this line will allow them to do the dirty. Come on guys, be honest…

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Stuck for Valentine’s Day ideas? Visit our new dedicated page…restaurants, gifts, last-minute getaways – everything to keep you out of the doghouse next Sunday.

My boyfriend was at first too astounded for words and then happy that he could remedy the situation when I told him I had never been to IKEA. Immediately, we planned a visit for that weekend and I was more excited than words could express. I had heard many comments thrown around about IKEA. “It’s like a huge warehouse”, “it’s like a home wares version of Mr. Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory”, “It’s amazing…look around my house. Everything you see came from IKEA!” There were also warnings; “Don’t go there. You’ll spend more than you care to.” All these thoughts aside, we had chosen our day and I had planned the perfect outfit; comfortable shoes (we were going to cover a fair amount of ground), loose, practical clothes and a well fitting bra. The day came and the drive was smooth. I could see the place long before we parked up outside this huge, blue building, people coming in and out – (The Willy Wonka Chocolate factory image gone for good [nobody ever went in and out of there]) and as the tall walls stared down at me from above and the yellow letters spelling out IKEA glared down at me, I was filled with excited anticipation.

What people don’t tell you about IKEA are the bags. I walked straight through the doors and up the escalator and when I reached the top, people milled around me with these lopsided, yellow bags, giving me patronizing looks of half-hearted sympathy as they noticed I didn’t have one. I quickly turned to my boyfriend in panic and there he was, my hero, clutching my very own yellow bag. As we walked around, I started to like the store. Looking down, arrows kept you going in the right direction and putting aside the feelings of cattle being herded along a narrow path, I did what the store suggested and made my way through futons and coffee tables and kitchen cabinets and sofas and beds, my eyes wide with excitement. We had made a small list of items we needed but when I started squealing at the sight of some round, black pebbles nestled together, filling the lower part of a rectangular glass jar and proclaimed loudly that “it would go so well in the bathroom baby next to the soap dish”, my boyfriend quickly buried the list in his back pocket, realizing that we wouldn’t be needing a list after all and placed the jar in the yellow bag around his shoulders; “you’re right baby, it would” he said, finding my childish rationalizing somewhat endearing. The whole trip remained in a similar vein with him a couple steps behind me, carrying the bag and smiling every now and then when prompted by my having found yet another gem for the living room mantelpiece. After we had paid and loaded the car and three overgrown cacti had taken up position between us in the front, I sighed. I was no longer an IKEA virgin and as I looked back over the goodies we had, ready to welcome them into our new home, I started a new shopping list in my head. Did IKEA do tampons?

The house now we’ve moved in

Well our new mattress has arrived (a ‘Relyon’ mattress – we’ll see) and the cacti have made a home for themselves on the kitchen windowsill. All this is making me feel most mature and domesticated. I lived alone in a small studio flat before this, a square room with a bed, wardrobe, desk and sink. It was the only thing I could afford when I moved to London. Had I any idea of the retail world that could be made available to you had I been a sharer, I’d have done it a long time ago! After our first couple of nights here, we noticed several things:

1.Living above a road is the noisiest place on earth (which we do) and living above a bar/pub is the second loudest place on earth (which we also do) so our sleeping patterns have become governed by these facts. I am choosing the afternoon nap option whereby I start to waver at around 3pm and so (often without realizing) head to the bedroom fully clothed and curl up in a ball for an hour or so. My boyfriend on the other hand has taken a very different approach. Because he’s a man, he thinks there must be a perfectly logical way to solve the problem so he has tried to beat the traffic and the nighttime debauchery. “The roads will start busying up around 10pm as people start going out and in theory that will apply to the pub too” he said slowly, as if painfully deciphering these facts a little at a time. I’ve yet to understand why this thought process relied so heavily on a pen hovering expectantly above a piece of paper as if it was some unfathomable mathematical equation but if it made him feel more intelligent and praiseworthy afterward, then who was I to stand in the way of genius. It kind of worked, except now we’re getting so much sleep, we’re both awake by 5am, twiddling our thumbs as the traffic builds on the roads and there’s no chance of further shut-eye.

2.There was also a rather frightening discovery that occurred in our first few nights. There were a number of things that the landlady left with us that we didn’t want – a bin, some coat hangers and an ironing board. There isn’t much storage space in our place but there was this one door in the side of the wall near the ceiling in the reception area. If there was storage space up there, then we were going to fill it. My boyfriend pulled the short straw so to speak (he’s a man and he has a daily quota of man jobs and this was one of them) and so his shoes were off and he was standing on our dining room table trying to prize open the door as there was no handle (perhaps our first sign that we shouldn’t have been going in there). Eventually it sprung open, and instead of smiling proudly at his accomplishment, he stared straight ahead, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I…I…think we should close this cupboard now” he said still looking dead ahead. “What, don’t be daft” I scolded “we’ve only just got it open!” I joined him on the table and looked inside. My breath caught in my chest and my expression mirrored his within seconds for staring back at us from inside was the most gruesome painting I had ever seen, scratched into the wall and taking up one whole side of this 5ft cupboard. There were horrible faces, grotesque and bloodied smiling and crying at the same time, captured forever in print, destined for a life in darkness. “Close it, close it” I shouted, pushing him out the way and slamming the door shut. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the day. Should we move house? Pretend we never saw it? We simply chose never to speak of it again and threw out the landlady’s stuff instead. Most likely we’d have to replace the items at our own cost. I’d sooner buy her a new house than open that cupboard again so this option was fine with me!

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Choosing what to keep and what to throw out

I never in my wildest dreams could ever have imagined how stressful moving in could be! We decided to tackle my stuff first. With this began the initial cull. Now, I’m not going to admit to being a hoarder (unlike my parents, who still have unpacked boxes from when they moved 20 years ago!) but I do like shoes and clothes and toiletries (just one of everything never seems enough) like most girls. Anyway, there was no way all my bits and bobs (let’s call them that) were going to fit into the new place. I had a ‘keep’ pile, a ‘reject’ pile and a ‘maybe’ pile. By the end of the first go at it, there was one thing in the maybe pile, none in the reject pile and the rest was to keep. It quickly became clear to me that I was going to have to be more ruthless and ignore the inevitable tears that would stream down my face the minute I tossed out my black and white, vintage snake-skin platforms – they were too old to wear but made my current wardrobe all the more sophisticated. It was going to be a sad day. After casting aside my hole ridden denim jacket that was too small, 3 identical pairs of flip flops (something everyone buys new every year no?!), myriad colorful clothes I no longer wore and endless necklaces and earrings knotted together in a pitiful display of togetherness, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. Painful but done. I was cold with my boyfriend for the rest of the day. Of course it was his fault I had to get rid of so much stuff and blaming him made me feel less of a traitor to my possessions, lying abandoned in a black bag ready to be archived, boxed and buried at my parent’s place. The only thing keeping me going was that next time…it was his turn.

His cull

Had I known he was going to be far less ruthless, employing instead a way of arguing the use and investment status of each and every item he owned, I would have held on to my archaic, ten-branched candelabra. I have definitely been practicing the art of the ‘purchase reasoning’ for many years, I just thought that if we needed to make room for our love to endure, nothing would stand in our way…especially not a baby blue pair of Victoria’s (a make of men’s shoe apparently). This was not the case. He owns more shoes than I do, most of which I had never set eyes on during the whole time we had been together. Was this why he had designated a small draw for my stuff that meant I never had to open his wardrobe and be faced with this small man mountain of designer apparel? I think so. I decided I was going to have to put my mean face on if this whole fiasco was going be sorted out. Public enemy number one I became and with it arrived ‘the heartless finger’ (as it became known) pointing it at anything I had either never seen on him, off him or never wanted to see within an inch of him. It was not a quick job and by the end of it, I had done enough bending and sorting to have worked up quite a sweat. Not quite enough to burn off the calories of the family sized bag of minstrels I had seen off during the whole process but nevertheless it was a start in the right direction. And so he relented. Half of my stuff and half of his makes a whole. Job done.

Moving in

The place we were moving into was semi-furnished. It was fully furnished for a time but we fought long and hard with our faceless landlady via the estate agent to get rid of her ugly, rotten table and tiny bed frames and although the recession was obviously putting a strain on her too, we eventually won our fight. The deal was, however, that we had to keep her two brown, leather chairs and once we had made peace with their uncompromising presence, we had allocated them a little place and they actually fitted in quite nicely with their immediate surroundings. You see, the furniture we brought was all coming from my boyfriend’s flat and as a throw-back to his bachelor years; everything he owned was also brown leather. It was as if he and the landlady had some allegiance with a nearby tannery and I was the unknowing fool holding the door open as five strapping, young men carried them in. Measuring the place for all his bigger items was also more complicated that we had first assumed it would be. However, he loved the fact that for once he had a real reason to carry around with him a tape-measure and any excuse to get it out was exploited to the full. It came with us to IKEA, B&Q, The Furniture Store and even the scrap yard “one man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure” he spouted loudly on more than one occasion. That tape measure became an extension of his manhood, a socially acceptable alternative to getting his bits out in public. I’ve now weaned him off it but it was no mean feat. There was a time when I swore I could see it peeking out from under his pillow.

It was going to be a tight squeeze but it was all going to fit. I secretly cursed this fact as a poo colored living room had not been my vision for co-habiting perfection. In fact, it had been my worst nightmare. I couldn’t afford to buy new ones and so couldn’t afford to state my argument for a neutral, cream sofa set and so, instead, I embarked on seeking out accessories – cushions, throws and candles were all bought in my fight for a feminine touch. In fact because I had been so gracefully accepting (on the outside maybe) of the brown furniture, the man about the house gave me full reign over the entire rest of the house – “you’re the boss” he’d say accompanied by a kiss on the cheek. “He’ll regret that” I mumbled to myself as the ever growing stack of home improvement catalogues was brought back onto the table with a heavy thud.

The third and final part will be here tomorrow…only on Fingertips.
For all your lifestyle news and features, whatever your lifestyle…Fingertips.net.

Fingertips’ newest columnist, Sarah Sole, begins her blog on the scary steps into the world of living with your partner…

The decision to move in with my boyfriend came about in quite a strange way. When we told people, most of them nodded and said “yes of course, recession has made us all do things we wouldn’t necessarily do…” but that wasn’t it at all for us. We actually wanted to!

How we met

My boyfriend and I met just less than nine months ago at Earl’s Court tube station. I was on the phone to my mum ranting about something or other and up walks this “beautiful creature” (embarrassingly enough those were my exact words according to my mother). He was tall, dark and handsome (hideously clichéd I know) and so after donning my best pout and care-free look of casual ‘I’m-not-noticing-you-but-I-secretly-am-really’ look, he passed me by and I continued chatting on the phone, looking up now and again to see if he had come back, becoming more anxious as I realised he hadn’t.

I stood on my tiptoes and surveyed the platform which reached far past the awaiting commuters but there was no sign of him. Just as I was about to give up, I felt his presence behind me. He had come back but my train was also approaching fast and I needed to get home. As the doors opened and my fellow passengers stumbled out of the coach and past me, I felt a slight tug on my arm and a face at the other end of it.

“Sorry but can I just give you my card” he said, barely looking up.
“Of course” I replied politely, charmed by his apparent shyness.
“I never normally do this” he said, this time meeting my eyes for just a second and then looking away as quickly.

The tube doors began to beep interrupting the moment so as I stepped on to the train, I took the card and gathered it close to my chest as I rushed a goodbye and the doors closed between us.

I found a seat and sat down; looking around to see if anyone had witnessed our little moment and was strangely sad to see that nobody else was smiling as happily as me.

I text him immediately to pass on the responsibility of when best to meet again and he called me that evening.
Nine months later and here we are…moving in together.
If the above made your stomach turn, my apologies, but please be assured that I made this sound as romantic and film-like as possible. After this day the relationship, although great, has definitely had its ups and downs…

Finding a place

We initially started looking at little places in Maidenhead (where he lives) from standard ready-to-move-in flats to quaint little cottages fully fitted with a little garden for the children to play in (we have no children though). With this in mind, we decided that maybe we were jumping the gun a bit, reminding ourselves that we were in fact young, hip people and so London was the place for us! After all, he worked there and I already lived there so it made total sense.

Once that was agreed, it was deciding where in London. We went for West. I think mainly because it sounds good. We started our search and boy did we see some frightening, little places. One flat, we were locked in from the inside because the key got jammed in the door and another place, an old lady was brought out on a stretcher from the flat beside ours. We started to view these little setbacks (our word for them) as signs that perhaps we were being a little hasty but we were booked in for one last viewing that afternoon so we decided that would be our last for now.

The place stank. A mixture of curry and sewage, collided to create something ungodly. Dust coated every surface and the builder’s radio played loudly through the open kitchen window. The builders had also been using the toilet. Need I say more? We thanked the estate agent and sat for a welcome cup of tea in a nearby cafe. “I love it” he said grinning. “Me too” I said not believing the words coming out of my mouth. “The location is perfect, the price is well below our maximum and it has character” he continued (he had obviously practiced this in his head, anticipating resistance). Once he realised what I had said, he stopped himself and looked at me in bewilderment. “Really?!” His eyes widened with hope and relief and we both smiled. The search was over. We had found our place.

Sarah’s Blog continues tomorrow on Fingertips…
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Some like it haute while others like it cheap, and the Noughties has certainly come up trumps for label-loving fashionistas forced into frugality by the recession. Down the designers stepped from their ivory towers to protect our wardrobes from shopper’s restraint by going mass market on the high street.

First to form a designer alliance was H&M, launching its inaugural collection with fashion mogul Karl Lagerfeld as its spearhead. Since then the Swedish fashion house has become a designer savvy hub, emulating high-end luxury with Matthew Williamson, Roberto Cavalli, Jimmy Choo and many more entering the fold.

Pernilla Halldin, press officer for H&M said of their partnerships: “Our collaborations with designers and style icons communicate our business concept: fashion and quality at the best price, and clearly show that design is not a matter of price.”

And so the trend has continued with the likes of Topshop, Gap and even our local supermarkets becoming high-fashion connoisseurs, offering designer garments with perhaps a little less frosting than their Bond Street counterparts.

Paying homage to trend-setting design, fewer shop windows are dressed with catwalk copycats but instead flaunt genuine designer pieces. Admittedly they are less effervescent than ‘the real thing’ and often more costly than the high street stalwarts, yet a label without the blinding price tag is certainly something that the public desires. Satiating champagne tastes on a tap water budget has never been easier.

But has the ‘fashion for all’ ethic tarnished the je ne s’ais quoi of the designer line? As the fashion queen Coco Chanel herself conceded: “Fashion is made to become unfashionable”, and so to hone in on penny-wise consumerism is definitely shrewd, if a little cynical. But what of individuality, style and authenticity? Do we really want to become a flock of wannabe wearers of designer opulence? Or are we urging the revolt against price tag exclusivity to continue?

With hoards of shoppers hotly anticipating the next designer-high street tie up, this trend seems one that is unlikely to fade anytime soon.

Fashion is about raiding the dressing up box, and with fingers firmly on the fashion pulse bargain hungry shoppers have never been better dressed. No longer need we take a sidelong glance at the wonders of the catwalk, but strut instead along the runway of the high street.

Rebecca is appearing as a Guest Columnist @ www.fingertips.net.
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I like to know where my food, my drink and my clothing come from.

A few years have passed since the controversy surrounding Primark being named the least ethical place to buy clothes in Britain. But what is ‘ethical fashion’ and does it really exist?

There a number of factors which go into making anything – not just fashion – ethical.

It should be locally sourced and use fair trade; wages given to workers should be fair; and they should be able to work in a safe environment. The actual clothing should have no negative impact on the environment and be recyclable.

Often more expensive to buy, stores such as Gap, Harvey Nichols and Urban Outfitters are stocking eco-friendly designer jeans and larger companies such as Timberland and Marks & Spencer have launched their own fair-trade lines of eco-friendly footwear and organic clothing.

Stella McCartney is renowned for her love and respect for animals. She refuses to use fur in her designs, another important aspect of ethical fashion, and has been quoted saying, “I frankly don’t think most designers have the balls to watch animals writhing and being slaughtered; they don’t want to admit they’re responsible for such suffering.”

Her clothing line does not use any leather or furs and her website contains 30 top tips on how to stay eco-friendly.

It can be difficult to know that what we are buying is in fact ethical but you can always start making a particular effort by visiting ethical stores such as the ones mentioned before.

A good way to recycle is by having a clothes-swapping party (not what it sounds like). Or have a night in and invite all your friends and their unwanted clothes over and do exactly what it says on the tin, swap! Any leftovers can be given to charity.

Many retailers are now fighting to make fashion more ethical, so that in the future we can help achieve a better way of life for people in disadvantaged countries and save the planet at the same time.

For more news and views on all things fashion, log-on to Fingertips.net