What do these people want, blood?!

When I was little I had a sort-of non-committal, Del Boy-esque attitude. I started my own tailoring service, where for one afternoon I slaved over some missing buttons and an elbow hole for about £2 in payment from my first client, Grandma Joannie. Myself and a friend started mucking out for £1 at the local livery yard - £1! what a touch! Needless to say for a quid, shovelling shit in the pissing rain, it wasn't worth it. The money making schemes I came up with always encountered problems.

I remember, or vaguely remember, people in general talking about how hard it is to set up your own business. And I believed them, its not like they were saying it to be a spoil-sport, apart from my pre-teen attempts I had no grand ideas of setting anything up, let alone my own company so I had no reason to doubt they were being honest about it. Business is hard, everyone knows that which is why most of us don't try and make a living at something we love but keep it as a hobby to relish in our spare time.

Frankly the Prophets of my youth did not come flooding into my mind when I embarked on this venture, and the excitement of potentially starting something I could believe in and make a living at quashed any previous forewarning. Its still early days for me, I haven't even started yet and I am literally overwhelmed by the red-tape and bureaucracy that smacks you in the face like a concrete fist.

I'm sure its the case in all industries, but the food industry in particular seems to be ridiculously formalised with certificates and applications and god knows what else. I have started a market stall selling hot food. So far its me and my partner that work behind the stall and to do this, beyond the things you need to do to make sure your food is safe to eat (quite rightly), there is a shed-load of utterly ridiculous paperwork and expense to get through. As I write a draft risk assessment lurks as a window at the bottom of my screen, blinking at me (I've saved it don't panic), a RISK ASSESSMENT!!! Other than 'watch that hot surface love' what else do this merry band of two need to communicate to each other? No, I must make sure that we both fully understand there is a likely risk of tripping over my recently certificated gas burners. Additionally, I must allocate myself the role of making sure we both know how to lift things properly, presumably to prevent my boyfriend and his 'where there's blame, there's a claim' attitude from taking me to the cleaners should he do his back in from putting the gazebo up. Ok but if that happens, he's dumped.

Its really unhelpful actually. Things are stressful enough at this stage of the game without some faceless voice over the telephone telling me that I will need to demonstrate to the fire brigade upon my arrival to my market to set up, that I have procedures in place should there be a fire. Is a fire blanket AND fire extinguisher not enough?! No no, there needs to be a procedure. A ruddy procedure beyond 'cover fire with fire blanket'? Apparently so.

So Dave Cammers gives it all of this chat about cutting red tape to make it easier for start ups, nurturing the industrious and wotnot. Well, lets see it then because in addition to the expense, the time, the lack of earnings, the exhaustion, the stress, the developing ticks, the chapped hands, non-existent fingernails and social life, it couldn't be much more bloody difficult.

30 is the New 20

I've been 30 for a whole day now and to be honest I really don't feel any different to how I did the day before that... In fact, I really don't feel all that different to when I was 20. My 91 year old Grandma said that her 30's were great but not as good as her 40's. I hope to have some really fantastic crow's feet by then...

I recently got back from an amazing (working-ish) holiday that culminated with an uber indulgent food jaunt in the States. Having recently started a wee food business with my chap specialising in this type of cuisine it was a necessity, really. We had to. California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and New York were thoroughly munched through all in the name of research, and by jingo did we do some research! Anyway I'm back now and Reality states in its small print that the cosmic wonder-bubble of 'going on your holidays' must come to an end eventually, when the money runs out. One must get back to one's day job.

And Reality stops for no man (or woman, bloody sexist saying). Not to be made giddy by the weight of a post-landmark-birthday hangover, the guilt of the self-employed that is almost Catholic in its magnitude lays heavy in my mind. Industry continues and a small food business I shall build!