I can wear a bum bag and y'all can't say nuttin.

Today I saw something I haven't seen since I was a wee tot seeking a juice box. No, it wasn't Blue Peter (please, I watched that way into my teens) And no, it was not a 10p Fredo, they are gone, the sooner we deal with it the better. Today I saw 6am. For all of you Uni goers sitting with a laptop warming your ever increasing beer belly snuffing and huffing into your pot noodle at the concept that I, a graduate, have not seen 6am after nights busting a move, let me explain. Despite the rare (three nights dancing out of the week is less that half people) bare footed sulk at dusk, clutching heels in my hands, I have not seen 6am. And why be up at such a ghastly time? I was doing a carbooty.

The best thing about manning a carbooty stall, despite the bizarre sense of pride when you sell a bracelet you once bought for eight quid for a measly twenty pence, is that I get to wear a bum bag and y'all can't say nuttin. Now I know, I know, Rihanna wears one. But Rihanna also wore a red leather pair of trousers at the VMA's (coming to a magazine near you soon, look out for the red circle of shame), and you won't catch me donning those pantaloons for a trip to Solar any time soon.

Whoever invented the bum bag is one hell of a man (it's gotta be a man). If you don't know what a bum bag is, allow me. A bum bag is essentially an extension of the pockets. Strapped around the waist it sits, unsurprisingly, on yo ass, or for the safety conscious upon your front bottom. And I tell you this, they are a handy piece of equipment to own. Gone are the screams "I had a bag, I defiantly had a bag, where the hell is my bag!?". Gone is the need to look inside a bag prior to a purchase, seeking for that handy little pocket you can slip your iPhone into. Gone are the days we dance around our handbags. We, yes we, are now our handbags. Throw some shapes, hail a cab, fist pump until your hearts content. Anything is possible with a bum bag.

Do you know, I had a point....ah yes, carbootys. In between shouting "any item 50p or less, I don't wanna take it home with me", questions a'plenty popped into my muddled mind. The thought I could not shake was this: why is this carbooty reminding me of my love life!? Take the replica Lord of The Rings ring for example (it was "cool", I promise), the more the stubborn bat behind the stall said I could not have it for £2, the more I wanted it. And then, when walking past a stall where the attendees where basically throwing money at the punters in order to get rid, I was not interested!

When will the day come that someone in a straw hat offers me a Lord of The Rings replica ring at a reasonable price and I accept it!? Yes, that is a metaphor and no, I don't really get it either. The long and short of it is, will I ever stop wanting what I can't have and start opening my eyes to what I can? Or will I be bringing up cats under the names of Derek and Dave for the rest of my being?

Oh, and I didn't get the ring. The problem about wanting something you can't have is, nine times out of ten you still won't get it.