­­­Social pariah: Charlotte Hogarth-Jones

*Sunday night, in the midst of a particularly grim production weekend*

*Sunday night, in the midst of a particularly grim production weekend.* My two glamorous female housemates arrive at Nouse HQ to escort me away for a cheeky pint (of wine) for my housemate’s birthday.

In a weak attempt to “freshen up”, I liberally douse myself with a can of Costcutters finest Impulse (sexykissrushsomething?!) on my way out. I am also sadly reminded that not only has my luxurious and ladylike French duty-free perfume been drained of its last dregs, but also that my bargain spray smells nothing like it. In fact, I now smell very strongly of ‘eau de baby changing rooms’, and not at all like Keira Knightley on a balmy summer’s evening.

As I totter home between Giselle and Eva Longoria, I become even more acutely aware of my pizza-stained school hoodie, and grubby Converse. I feel like the unwitting chubby lady with a moustache who always gets abducted by Trinny and Susannah.

However, following a much needed pep talk from Gok Wan squared, I finally breeze through my front door and stride confidently into a living room of hip’n’happening party people. An emo boy semi gets up off the sofa and leans dangerously close into my personal space aura.

“Do you wanna fuck the dealer?” Eh?! This was not the question I was expecting at all. I am thrown into a tumult of confusion and, as so often occurs, just say the first thing that comes into my head. “No.”

There is a very, very awkward silence. Neither of us says anything. I hold on, wondering if he’ll offer something a little more appropriate. I imagine he is thinking the same. I struggle to think of somewhere I could take the conversation from there, but there really isn’t anything to say after that.


I really like gadgets, and computer games, and internet thingys in general. I won the IT prize at school in Year 8, and have no shame in telling you it is my proudest achievement. This week I wholeheartedly embraced the stalker’s birthday present that is Foursquare, an application for smart phones which allows others to track your whereabouts. If, of course, you tell them where you are.

You also win points for going to certain places (remember, points mean prizes!) and become the ‘Mayor’ of places, which I very much like the idea of, and is really the main reason why I got it.

For six whole days I happily tweeted away, indulging in the bliss that was my new geek toy. @YusuPrez I’m in YUSU! @yorknouse I’m at the Deramore! @HouseOfApcar I’m Mayor Of Costcutter! Etc. etc. In fact, I was getting quite into it, collecting badges left, right and centre, and gaily tweeting that I was at ‘Isotoma Tower’, what I assumed was that mahussive rocket ship thingy near Derwent, which I pass every day and night on the way to and from home. In fact, I was reveling in the glory of being the only person sad enough to be ‘Mayor’ of not one but THREE Heslington establishments, when I noticed the following tweet: mitchellrj* Just been very confused to see that @localperson1 is mayor of the company I work for on Foursquare! Oh dear. What a tweeting twit.


“Bah! I bet my little basket comes to nearly the same amount as your massive trolley!” I joke to my two friends in the checkout. I always get a bit overexcited at Asda. Except that it actually did cost the same, and given that my student loan hadn’t yet come through, it wasn’t really that funny at all.

“I just, I just don’t understand!” I bemoaned to my pals, bringing the receipt ridiculously close to my eyes as if that would somehow make everything cheaper.

Practical friend to the rescue. “You spent over £30 on shower gel and toiletries,” she begins. But that’s not all.

“Parma Ham, Turkish Delight, a mixed box of 40 Toy Story icepops,” she begins.

“OK, stop stop, I can see now, enough!” I beg of her, but she continues with the list/death sentence.

“Four packets of Haribo Tangfastics, emmental, an ENORMOUS jar of olives, six bottles of wine of varying quality, avocados, hairgrips, AND WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

“It’s an elastic band thingy for toning your arms,” I meekly explain, hanging my head in shame. “I wanted to tone my arms for the summer?”

“What were you planning to EAT?!”

“The ice pops,” I explain. “There are forty of them, after all.” Checkmate. Mwahahahahahaha.

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