I often wonder whether the people around me know that I am talking to myself. Every week I walk home from work deep in conversation with myself, surely I am not the only one who does this? I like to talk politics and to argue my point and to explain my ideas. So many things seem far more clearer once I've aired it in out loud to no one in particular.
I tend to walk around sixth form talking to myself too. I think it's starting to get to the point in which I am unsure whether I'm talking to myself in my head or out loud. I have to stop my self mid thought, and wonder if the poor year 12 walking in front of me has just heard my entire weekend plans and my opinion of Boris Johnson or if in the middle of and English lesson I've listed all the places I'd rather be in the entire world than listen to extreme feminist poems. I think i'm slowly turning into a recluse, the type of person you'd most definitely avoid; she has bright green scarf fluff all over her black skirt and tights, her hair is always some what knotty and to top it all off she talks to herself constantly. I feel like any minute now the sixth form leadership team are going to set up a quarantine around me. Any minute.
I raised this issue with my brother not too long ago, his response: 'you know, it's the first sign of madness, don't you?'. Is it? Is it really? I mean, how can you be sure? Does it just means i'm a bit more of a thinker? Oh God I hope so. 17 and I've already been diagnosed as mad, although I can't say it came as a surprise to my parents.
I think that people use that excuse of 'it's the first sign of madness' to elevate themselves from us mere mortals to seem like they never ever talk to themselves which makes them, by logic, not completely off their rocker. Surely if you don't talk to yourself, there isn't much going on in your brain? That's a bit harsh, but maybe if you do talk to yourself, there is too much gunk in your brain to make much sense of it, so it pours from your mouth uncontrollably like a beautiful waterfall of words into a lagoon of some form of order. I hope it's like that.
I don't know. The more I write this blog post the more I'm realizing that everything we do,say, write, think is just a but muddled until you meet someone or find something to shake it up and sort it out. In my case I need some duct tape over my mouth and an editor.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Saturday, 18 August 2012
The Drunk Blog.
There is nothing quite like exam results to sober you up from sun kissed holiday bliss. Two weeks in Devon doesn't quite match up to the other 50 or so weeks of pure terror and hatred of my own A level capability, the other 50 or so weeks of doubting my university prospects, or the other 50 or so weeks of watching 'talking' cats on YouTube (they don't talk by the way, trust me, they just meow weirdly). The point i'm getting at is that I've been taking it easy this year, specifically the last month or two and a exam results, regardless of the results, are like being pelted in the face with several books simultaneously.
The idea of university scares me and the idea of paying a couple of thousand pounds doesn't bother me anymore, I know it will come back to haunt me for the rest of my life but I've just got to embrace that. If i'm honest, i'm sick of older people telling me the issues that come with going to university. Having gone through many many conferences and information evenings based solely on going to uni, and I've heard a tonne of horror stories but i think, and i must stress, i can make my own decisions and further to that, i can make my own mistakes.
If I'm brutally honest, bring on the next year; I'm petrified of you. It's going to make me wake up, and actually look at my future and assess what I'm capable of. I just hope that we can be friends and that every 4 weeks you and I can have a serious drink, because I don't think I will be able to cope other wise.
But right now, I'd like a litre of vodka and a huge tub of ice cream. September isn't here yet and who needs a liver anyway. I'll see you then, exams, old friend.
The idea of university scares me and the idea of paying a couple of thousand pounds doesn't bother me anymore, I know it will come back to haunt me for the rest of my life but I've just got to embrace that. If i'm honest, i'm sick of older people telling me the issues that come with going to university. Having gone through many many conferences and information evenings based solely on going to uni, and I've heard a tonne of horror stories but i think, and i must stress, i can make my own decisions and further to that, i can make my own mistakes.
If I'm brutally honest, bring on the next year; I'm petrified of you. It's going to make me wake up, and actually look at my future and assess what I'm capable of. I just hope that we can be friends and that every 4 weeks you and I can have a serious drink, because I don't think I will be able to cope other wise.
But right now, I'd like a litre of vodka and a huge tub of ice cream. September isn't here yet and who needs a liver anyway. I'll see you then, exams, old friend.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Do What You Want
If there is one topic that had been so severely over done that I makes me want to remove my face, it's 'I hate Hipsters'. There is an unnatural amount videos and blogs just going on and on about how silly these individuals that call themselves 'Hipsters' are. I'm not trying to dig out any person who has said that they don't like the idea of hipsterism, because you are allowed to say you aren't a fan of something. I love our right to free speech and that we are in a society that, for the most part, is completely open to you having a distaste to a fashion or music or whatever. But it's completely over done, and I understand that there are pressures to put out new material regularly, however there is nothing new or original about just saying what you don't like and not suggesting a compromise.
You may notice this is kind of going against the grain of the usual blogs and shit, I know that this subculture is often criticised, I will stand up for the Hipsters, not that they really care for my input when they hang up side down in their caves drinking their tea, but you should be able to do whatever the hell you want. I mean that generally, but also more specifically in terms of what you wear or what you upload to Tumblr or Instagram. If you want to wear minimal amount of clothes or wear knitted jumpers with Aztec patterns all over it (which admittedly I like), then fine. It's totally fine. Similarly, if you like to wear turtle necks or read poetry in the countryside, then why shouldn't that be acceptable?
Admittedly, the word mainstream makes me want to vomit, maybe it's because I hear it all the time or if you do anything that's not like everyone else, clearly it's 'too mainstream' blah blah blah blah. However great movements have sparked from not complying with mainstream society. For example, the Punk era, this was a movement of sticking it to the authority or to anyone; wearing things that were obscene, getting tattoos and piercings and with a do it yourself ethos. I'm not comparing Punk with Hipsters entirely, if anything they were merely slightly influenced.
It almost makes me sad that we are so critical of wearing glasses without proper lenses, I mean seriously, we moan about plastic glasses. It's just insane that there are so many other more important issues in the world, if anything, the tedious issue of what day the rubbish truck come to collect your recycling is far more of a problem than whether you wear fake glasses. Jesus, and even that annoys me, who's world simple revolves around when your rubbish get's collected?!
Do what you want, why should you care what people think of you? It's your personal choice, so go forth Hipster, embrace the world with the strange shapes in your twitter name, go forth and kick mud at 'the mainstream'.
I dare you.
You may notice this is kind of going against the grain of the usual blogs and shit, I know that this subculture is often criticised, I will stand up for the Hipsters, not that they really care for my input when they hang up side down in their caves drinking their tea, but you should be able to do whatever the hell you want. I mean that generally, but also more specifically in terms of what you wear or what you upload to Tumblr or Instagram. If you want to wear minimal amount of clothes or wear knitted jumpers with Aztec patterns all over it (which admittedly I like), then fine. It's totally fine. Similarly, if you like to wear turtle necks or read poetry in the countryside, then why shouldn't that be acceptable?
Admittedly, the word mainstream makes me want to vomit, maybe it's because I hear it all the time or if you do anything that's not like everyone else, clearly it's 'too mainstream' blah blah blah blah. However great movements have sparked from not complying with mainstream society. For example, the Punk era, this was a movement of sticking it to the authority or to anyone; wearing things that were obscene, getting tattoos and piercings and with a do it yourself ethos. I'm not comparing Punk with Hipsters entirely, if anything they were merely slightly influenced.
It almost makes me sad that we are so critical of wearing glasses without proper lenses, I mean seriously, we moan about plastic glasses. It's just insane that there are so many other more important issues in the world, if anything, the tedious issue of what day the rubbish truck come to collect your recycling is far more of a problem than whether you wear fake glasses. Jesus, and even that annoys me, who's world simple revolves around when your rubbish get's collected?!
Do what you want, why should you care what people think of you? It's your personal choice, so go forth Hipster, embrace the world with the strange shapes in your twitter name, go forth and kick mud at 'the mainstream'.
I dare you.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
I Want To Be In A Band
The trill of concerts are what I live for. I'm never going to be the one that says that 'music has changed my life' because it hasn't, the people who are gifted enough to produce such sweetness for your ear holes have changed your life, not the petty 6 strings or the sequence of drums. I love to feel the passion of a band. When I haven't heard a band's song before I look at how they portray it, regardless of their background, for example I have no idea why, but the Carly Rae Jepson track, Call Me Maybe, makes me feel like a 7 year old pop fan girl whenever I listen it, and more surprisingly I love it. I don't even care about how she has no initial fan base in the UK. Pop should be feel good music, none of this pretentious rapping about diamonds and taking pictures with some hot girl, which in reality probably works in dead end job or some shit.
I'm the girl that will happily sing and/or (if possible) mime to my favourite songs in her bedroom and perform to an 'in the brain audience' - I would say an imaginary but I'm fear of being locked up in some sort of institute. So when I got to a concert, I don't care for the theatrics. I want the feeling of being in your band, not just a fan. I want to feel the adrenaline, the alcohol, the drugs, the guitar, everything. And when you perform you should be showcasing you, not the corporate hot shots, because they have no musical talent, you do. When I hear new bands I love just standing in a crowd and feeling totally free about jumping around like a fruit loop. Support bands in venues like Brixton are the best because they're like wine tasting, you see their influences, who they're supporting and the vibe off the crowd to get the overall flavour. Mayday Parade for example, are all of this. They have great great hair, I could probably join their band with the length of hair on my head, and they probably have an initiation process in which you have to show you're preferred conditioner, which by default isn't a problem for me. But regardless, they made me feel like I wanted to be in their band and shake my brain around a bit.
I like the feeling of being involved with an artist. I'm going to be really really sad when they stop producing CDs. They're special aren't they? Not in a 'special' way but more of a glittery shiny way. Literally. Whenever I buy one I feel like I'm contributing to the artist personally, like I'm physically holding a piece of their talent in my hands. Let's face it is the closest I'm going to get to actually making an album, so holding someone else's is the way to go.
2012 is going to be the year that some major labels are going to stop producing CDs, I understand that it's more ethical for our beautiful planet and technology is evolving rapidly, but what am I going to get my Mum for Mother's Day 2013?! I love getting a cheap album now and then off of Amazon or somewhere, but my Mum doesn't have an iPod, we have a record player and a CD player, that be all, somehow I don't see how she's appreciate an iTunes voucher.
But back to concerts, - and FYI mum, I've learn't how to spell concerts now. The best ones are the loudest. Basement Jaxx, put simply, blew my mind. I have no connection with mediocre volume concerts, I like it loud and there should be a law against non-ear shattering concerts. Always.
I realise I'm rambling, however there is one last important point I must stress; NEVER WEAR A SUIT TO A CONCERT. I hate it. I think it annoys me to the point were I will push you into a mosh pit and not care about your further well being. I've not had great experience with people in suits at gigs, one pushed me whilst trying to get out of a circle of death and knocked me over with his briefcase and backpack, maybe the world will never know how much I wanted to shout briefcase wanker at him, but hey, my dad simply said something on the lines of 'watch where you are going' and the overweight bald guy, I can't even believe it, poked my dad in the cheek. IN THE CHEEK, not even in a treating way, just like 'I'm not going to punch you, or even have a come back but this poke, this here poke entering your cheek right now, will let you know how much I wish I even wasn't here'. I don't know, maybe that's were my aggression stems from, one guy that was too busy to change from work and foolishly had a brought standing ticket at Shepard's Bush.
And the moral of the story kids is to never chuck a full cup of beer over a man with a suitcase and join a band at the nearest opportunity.
I'm the girl that will happily sing and/or (if possible) mime to my favourite songs in her bedroom and perform to an 'in the brain audience' - I would say an imaginary but I'm fear of being locked up in some sort of institute. So when I got to a concert, I don't care for the theatrics. I want the feeling of being in your band, not just a fan. I want to feel the adrenaline, the alcohol, the drugs, the guitar, everything. And when you perform you should be showcasing you, not the corporate hot shots, because they have no musical talent, you do. When I hear new bands I love just standing in a crowd and feeling totally free about jumping around like a fruit loop. Support bands in venues like Brixton are the best because they're like wine tasting, you see their influences, who they're supporting and the vibe off the crowd to get the overall flavour. Mayday Parade for example, are all of this. They have great great hair, I could probably join their band with the length of hair on my head, and they probably have an initiation process in which you have to show you're preferred conditioner, which by default isn't a problem for me. But regardless, they made me feel like I wanted to be in their band and shake my brain around a bit.
I like the feeling of being involved with an artist. I'm going to be really really sad when they stop producing CDs. They're special aren't they? Not in a 'special' way but more of a glittery shiny way. Literally. Whenever I buy one I feel like I'm contributing to the artist personally, like I'm physically holding a piece of their talent in my hands. Let's face it is the closest I'm going to get to actually making an album, so holding someone else's is the way to go.
But back to concerts, - and FYI mum, I've learn't how to spell concerts now. The best ones are the loudest. Basement Jaxx, put simply, blew my mind. I have no connection with mediocre volume concerts, I like it loud and there should be a law against non-ear shattering concerts. Always.
I realise I'm rambling, however there is one last important point I must stress; NEVER WEAR A SUIT TO A CONCERT. I hate it. I think it annoys me to the point were I will push you into a mosh pit and not care about your further well being. I've not had great experience with people in suits at gigs, one pushed me whilst trying to get out of a circle of death and knocked me over with his briefcase and backpack, maybe the world will never know how much I wanted to shout briefcase wanker at him, but hey, my dad simply said something on the lines of 'watch where you are going' and the overweight bald guy, I can't even believe it, poked my dad in the cheek. IN THE CHEEK, not even in a treating way, just like 'I'm not going to punch you, or even have a come back but this poke, this here poke entering your cheek right now, will let you know how much I wish I even wasn't here'. I don't know, maybe that's were my aggression stems from, one guy that was too busy to change from work and foolishly had a brought standing ticket at Shepard's Bush.
And the moral of the story kids is to never chuck a full cup of beer over a man with a suitcase and join a band at the nearest opportunity.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Just A Teenager In A 90 Year Old's Jumper.
'Just be you' is the hardest phrase to adapt to in the English language. For years I've really struggled with it, years 7, 8 and 9 didn't see much individuality on my part what so ever and it seems only recently have I become remotely comfortable with who I am and what I like.
I'm self conscious, and that annoys me the most. I'm not a fan of my own body, the shape that is. In general, I love the human body, as much as I hate veins and wrists our bodies are absolutely amazing, self healing and creative beings and we should celebrate it more than we care to do. I appreciate my body, the things it allows me to do and enjoy but cosmetically, I'm not lover of it. But as much as I don't like it I will never have plastic surgery. Ever. I don't believe in surgery , in my personal opinion it doesn't change a person what so ever, and more often than not the person was far better looking before they had anything done. But what do I know? I'm 16.
My wardrobe is so bad, doors and the contents. I have a really horrible habit of buying things that i think are hideous, but in a way that they are so bad they're good-kind-of-way? that does make sense right? yeah? well, apparently not to my mum, she doesn't understand the ideas in my brain. I love old jumpers, preferably hand knitted or from Marks and Spenser in the 80s. I'm also beginning to collect blazers and sunglasses, apparently it's not socially acceptable to look like John Lennon in a tartan blazer, well, you win some and lose some. But that is how I dress, and to be perfectly honest it's hideous but it's what I'm comfortable with, and I'm ok if you hate it, and I'll accept that and I won't question what you're wearing in your dress that barely covers your bum, because clearly that's what what you like. Deal? I have a huge issue with the people that judge you for what you wear. If you looked at my clothes you'd probably think I'm a bit 'different' or whatever but I'm not, in reality or if you got to know me you'd probably find we're all similar, I like singing in the shower and I like to drink alot of vodka, but I shop in charity shops and not River Island.
Secondary school really does shape you, I can't imagine going to anywhere else and turning out the same or having the friends that I do or having experienced the lows and the unexplainable laughs and highs. I'm socially awkward the majority of the time, so I have no idea how I have friends. But I love them, and I'd hate to have people around me that simply judge me on the way that I look, then I would definitely hate no friends at all and I'd probably end up hugging trees, buying a caravan and driving to Holland.
Granted, I'll probably end up doing that anyway, but hopefully it will in a Ferrai from the 60s or at a push a Cadillac Eldorado. I think we both know that is very much out of my league.
Secondary school really does shape you, I can't imagine going to anywhere else and turning out the same or having the friends that I do or having experienced the lows and the unexplainable laughs and highs. I'm socially awkward the majority of the time, so I have no idea how I have friends. But I love them, and I'd hate to have people around me that simply judge me on the way that I look, then I would definitely hate no friends at all and I'd probably end up hugging trees, buying a caravan and driving to Holland.
Granted, I'll probably end up doing that anyway, but hopefully it will in a Ferrai from the 60s or at a push a Cadillac Eldorado. I think we both know that is very much out of my league.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Politicians. Urgh
Taking Government and Politics for A levels is one of the many mistakes I regret making in the last year, maybe not regret, maybe more like despise? Or hate? In the beginning I thought that I could debate my way through 2 years and 51647 folders and case studies and yet 7 months in I've come to realise that I have no trust in our democracy or Government or the way it's run or everything for that matter. I hate not having an opinion on important matters but in all honesty I don't care for any politicians as a collective, and if a student that studies it has no clue what to think then what can be said for the public? Is it any wonder that radical groups are becoming more powerful? I hate when people are unsure of a reasonable political group they dive for the radicals.
I can't write about this anymore it gets me too wound up.
Voting is so important, I guess I've been brought up to think that if you haven't tried to change anything then you don't have a right to moan and complain about it. I cannot stress enough how grateful I am to be living in a country that has the privilege to decide the fate of the people, that sounded really ominous but what i meant is that we can choose and we have the choice. People have died for the vote and Emmeline Pankhurst, I owe a lot to you. To throw away votes angers me, maybe even sadden?
Recently I've been starting to think that the majority of politicians are all the same and completely ridiculous, regardless of party. As their job they should be listening to their constituency and making decisions based on that opinion not what the party wants. If the MP continuously agrees with the main party opinion they will get further and further up the party hierarchy. That's disgusting. In a country that celebrates democracy and how we as the public each have the right to vote, none of that amounts to anything in individual situations. It would appear that having a better office is far more important than the welfare of the public, how fucking responsible of you. Another thing, if I was being paid to sit in meetings, I would sit in meetings, but it seems that that this is far too difficult for politicians to handle. I understand that being in the constituency is important and hence why I believe they should introduce Skype or some form of video chat so that they actually do their job in both London and in the Midlands or wherever. Surely this will will be more economically healthy and be less restricting for the MP. Urgh, logic is impossible.
Recently I've been starting to think that the majority of politicians are all the same and completely ridiculous, regardless of party. As their job they should be listening to their constituency and making decisions based on that opinion not what the party wants. If the MP continuously agrees with the main party opinion they will get further and further up the party hierarchy. That's disgusting. In a country that celebrates democracy and how we as the public each have the right to vote, none of that amounts to anything in individual situations. It would appear that having a better office is far more important than the welfare of the public, how fucking responsible of you. Another thing, if I was being paid to sit in meetings, I would sit in meetings, but it seems that that this is far too difficult for politicians to handle. I understand that being in the constituency is important and hence why I believe they should introduce Skype or some form of video chat so that they actually do their job in both London and in the Midlands or wherever. Surely this will will be more economically healthy and be less restricting for the MP. Urgh, logic is impossible.
Parliament as a whole is not representative of people it's meant to be representing. Clearly not male and clearly not everyone has gone to Eton for their secondary school education or Oxford or Cambridge for uni, or lived sheltered lives away from complete poverty. Politicians need to wake up look at the country as people not as an economy or statistics, I'm sure as hell I'm not a statistic so why should we put up with being treated like one.
Responsibly also escapes the the average Member of Parliament and this is apparent in the expenses scandals. Cleaning swimming pools Christmas tree decorations, duck houses and Kit Kats were claimed for, I understand that they are only human and they can make mistakes but seriously? They lack some morals, why take advantage of a gift?
I feel like I have no connection to my local MP, he hasn't come to my school or made a significant impact on my life, 7 months ago I didn't even know who he was. I wish that with out embarrassing themselves the MPs and politics in general could appeal to young people, but as far as I can see their idea of relating to the wider audience is putting on a cockney accent. Well done, snaps for you.
I can't write about this anymore it gets me too wound up.
Politicians. Urgh.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Weddings and Spread
Where my childhood had been cut off at 14 by the removal of all the children's channels from the TV by my Dad, I have significantly made up for in the last 2 years; I discovered chocolate spread. If being a mid teenager has taught me anything it's that chocolate spread on toast can solve all problems, apart from obesity, that not so much. For example: Hungover? Chocolate spread. Bad day? Chocolate spread. Can't find the right dress for the wedding you've got next weekend? Shove that Adele album on the CD player, pop the top off that jar and you know what to do.
Recently I've been too deprived for this glorious substance, I don't know what it is about weddings which prompts you to look differently, or better or whatever from when you last saw the bride or groom but suddenly my Mum has gone on a huge healthy eating diet kick in the face for this and therefore had banished all chocolate spread, biscuits and 'Satan foods' as she puts it from the house. Not that I mind, I understand her, we are similar and I did feel the same way, I'm just too lazy to actually put that into practice.
Weddings are beautiful aren't they? I love the walking down the isle, the small nervous glances. The meaning of it all, the forever part. The reception, getting pulled on to the floor by an odd old uncle in green braces. Getting lost in the reception grounds, causing a bit of trouble with my cousins. Meeting group of new people of which I'm likely to never see again. Dancing with my dad. Finding the random glow sticks. Listening to all sorts of couples talk about their weddings. I love that the most.
I'm a fan of weddings, maybe I am an old romantic soul after all.
Recently I've been too deprived for this glorious substance, I don't know what it is about weddings which prompts you to look differently, or better or whatever from when you last saw the bride or groom but suddenly my Mum has gone on a huge healthy eating diet kick in the face for this and therefore had banished all chocolate spread, biscuits and 'Satan foods' as she puts it from the house. Not that I mind, I understand her, we are similar and I did feel the same way, I'm just too lazy to actually put that into practice.
Weddings are beautiful aren't they? I love the walking down the isle, the small nervous glances. The meaning of it all, the forever part. The reception, getting pulled on to the floor by an odd old uncle in green braces. Getting lost in the reception grounds, causing a bit of trouble with my cousins. Meeting group of new people of which I'm likely to never see again. Dancing with my dad. Finding the random glow sticks. Listening to all sorts of couples talk about their weddings. I love that the most.
I'm a fan of weddings, maybe I am an old romantic soul after all.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Painting and Cushions
I think that the more time I spend on Tumblr, Ebay and in Liberty the more I want to move out. It's not that I don't love my family or we've had a huge argument or anything, I just have this want to move out and create a flat that is completely my own. I know that realistically I will be 38 before it is even possible for me to afford a flat, let alone paint it orange, but this girl can dream. Alot.
My flat would be exactly who I am, none of this neutral shit. There will be Lego and it won't be kept under the bed for small children only, oh no, there will be sculptures of an Ewok and a narwhal on the dinner table. I will eat off mix and match vintage plates and and drink from glass jars. I also like fairy lights and I don't have enough in my life right now, especially after Christmas. There will be record players and typewriters. There will be embroidered birds strung from the ceiling. There will be a huge canvas painting above the fire place, it will be of something beautiful like fire or heaven or aubergines. I want to collect vinyl and use the album covers as wallpaper. I want to make my own cushion covers. I like cushions.
I want to paint a Banksy piece on my staircase. If I could succesfully spray a wall I'd go into a carreer in it, but I struggle with hairspray cans. Struggle.
I'd also like a terrapin turtle, it's something about their skin that is infinitely beautiful. Stripes. In hindsight, I think I'm a fan of stripes. The White Stripes, yes. Racing stripes, yes. Tigers, yes. I reckon that covers it, I am a fan. I will not own a cat or dog, they do not belong in my flat of dreams, they might eat the sofas. I'm not into that.
In ways I hope my mum doesn't read this, she might move me into the shed at the end of the garden with ten thousand spiders. Please no, I won't paint the hallway, I promise I wont. I'm house trained now.
I want to paint a Banksy piece on my staircase. If I could succesfully spray a wall I'd go into a carreer in it, but I struggle with hairspray cans. Struggle.
I'd also like a terrapin turtle, it's something about their skin that is infinitely beautiful. Stripes. In hindsight, I think I'm a fan of stripes. The White Stripes, yes. Racing stripes, yes. Tigers, yes. I reckon that covers it, I am a fan. I will not own a cat or dog, they do not belong in my flat of dreams, they might eat the sofas. I'm not into that.
In ways I hope my mum doesn't read this, she might move me into the shed at the end of the garden with ten thousand spiders. Please no, I won't paint the hallway, I promise I wont. I'm house trained now.
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Just a Thought
If the world was torn apart, born again, would we act the same? The corrupt grey politics were gone, hunger, famine and idiocy wash away like an oil emulsified and swirling down the plug hole. But what would we replace it with? A perfect world or dance in self destructive behaviours?
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Stop Human Trafficking
I met with them in April, the light chilled rain managed to stop the flower buds blooming as I walked down to the town’s centre. I met them in a small coffee shop, which was busy with a steady trickle of people trying to avoid the raindrops. The man was dressed in a clean grey suit, new, with brown buttons. Rich. His shoes consisted of a brown Chelsea boot, polished and rain spattered, but clean. The woman’s haute couture was a Vivienne Westwood coral knee length dress with fuchsia pink and black flower detail. High black dramatic heels and small dainty black bag gave her the attention which she evidently deserved. High class bankers, I assumed. Their accents were clean and precise, with a cinematic essence. They were offering me the world; 2 months in London. The advisement seemed perfection. They gave me a series of documents and I filled them in. The couple then asked me to pay a £700 deposit for travel; this was unfeasible for me alone. I come from a poor family, this money transfer was a huge risk but still, we paid for it. Swirls of city dreams were becoming a reality.
June crept up quickly as I prepared for my overseas journey. 2 months away from home had been a long time coming. I was anticipating the journey every night: closing my eyes opened a spin of city lights, taxis the London red buses. Iconic London landmarks. My departure was heart breaking; I saw my father cry tears of joy as I went through the security checks. I was growing up. The couple which I met in April greeted me at the airport; I handed over my documents and began my travels.
I thought I was just going directly to London, I was wrong. I went via Prague, Spain, Germany, France and Dublin. I was given an Italian passport to use between Spain and France. At first I thought that this round trip would encompass their other businesses. I soon caught on, I was travelling illegally.
Landing at London City Airport late on a Wednesday night had taken its toll on me; my body clock was a mess. The couple had a small intimate conversation with each other before the woman hailed 2 cabs; without another word she stepped into one and it drove away. The other black taxi held me and the suited man and drove steadily away to an unknown place, Soho.
I arrived at my worst nightmare, a scummy dark alley lined with secret brothels which lead to a studio flat. My perfect ideals of London were shattered into small shards of glass which stabbed at my heart. I entered up to the flat lead by the man, his shoes clipped at the metal rims of each of the steps of the twisting stairs. He unlocked the door and entered, I followed anxiously behind. My heart sank as I saw the amount of girls in that flat. He turned and addressed me in a serious tone. Informing me that this is it, he had brought me to London. I owe him £20,000 for the travel costs and I must pay it off by working for him as a prostitute.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call my family, but I couldn’t see a phone. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.
There was a dormitory, almost. The room was the length of the flat, but it was small still. The beds for the ‘workers’ were equally spread apart along the walls of the room, reminiscent of a hospital ward except dirty and all the girls groaned, slept, cried and were half naked. The single bed which I had been assigned consisted of a single sheet that covered the mattress and a dirty grey woollen blanket which was most likely crawling with lice. The frame was metal and was once painted a pea green, although it had been chipped off so all that remained was a dirty brown, rusted metal.
The man took my belongings. After a while of sitting alone on my new bed I was called to him, he never entered the dormitory. He handed me back my clothes in a clear plastic bag, he had sorted through my stuff, and he’d taken my purse, phone... anything of value. He wasn’t nervous or edgy, this was routine for him. He explained to me that I will receive £15 pounds every day to spend on anything I wished, but then informed me that I will not be fed or given anything here. He spelt out to me tips on how to make quicker money. The man who initially seemed honest was suddenly looking more and more twisted and sinister the longer I spent with him.
This can’t be happening to me.
The man then brought me up a flight of stairs above the dormitory; at this place another man was waiting. This was reality. I’d lost my innocence, my naivety. I’d lost it to him.
I quickly learnt that my daily £15 brought me nothing. I often went hungry. Instead I brought cigarettes and condoms. I'd seen what it would be like bringing up a child in these drug ridden conditions. It was horrific.
I spent 4 months in Soho, working all day every day; there was no end to my job. I saw 20 men a day in 3 different flats. It was repulsive. I was locked in the flat and only let out for ‘work’ and I was banned from contacting any other women.
I had no-one.
I lived in fear and no-one should live in overwhelming fear at the age of 17. The girls in the dormitory were mostly younger, some were thirteen. They’d been sold to the suited man by their families for money. I thought of my family back home. I thought of my sisters who were the same age as these girls. That hurt. I thought of my father. What was he thinking? What had he been told? The man told me that if I tell anyone about what he does here, he will threaten and hurt my family. Once the police visited the premises, none of the girls spoke to them. The police couldn’t get any evidence of what was going on there. It was business as usual once again.
I’d lay awake at night thinking about running away, just waiting of the opportune moment. How I’d jump from the window. How I’d kill the suited man and his wife. How I’d take all the girls with me. How I’d get the police to shut this place down. How I’d...go home.
Towards the end of my 4 months many of the girls moved on. No-one knew where they went or where they were going. But I was alone in that flat. There was my moment. Stealing was not in my morals, but nor was this life that I was living. I had found and kept a key to the window secret, I took it out unlocked the window.
I pulled out a hooded jacket which I’d found lying on the floor in the alley, and slipped it on. It was the warmest thing I had after sharing out my original clothes to the other girls out of pity.
I looked out of the window at the drop...It wasn’t too far. I jumped. A small sensation of freedom flowed through me until I landed on the pavement.
Pain. There was an obscene ache in my legs. My left leg especially, I thought It was broken, it probably was. But I hadn’t spent 4 months of hell waiting for my leg to break, no. I spent 4 months ready to escape. I struggled through the streets, limping. I had £18 pounds in my pocket. Had no idea where to go, and there was not a chance that I’d get back home with £18 pounds. I slept rough for 3 days in the cold with just a jacket.
I was picked up by a local homeless charity. I felt as if someone cared. I was truly loved. I told them everything. Still 17 and I’m too scared to go out alone, a constant fear sears through me at the thought of the man. And what of my family, my education, my home? There are so many questions that need to be answered...
STOP HUMAN TRAFFICKING. For more information please visit: http://www.stopthetraffik.org/
Thank you.
June crept up quickly as I prepared for my overseas journey. 2 months away from home had been a long time coming. I was anticipating the journey every night: closing my eyes opened a spin of city lights, taxis the London red buses. Iconic London landmarks. My departure was heart breaking; I saw my father cry tears of joy as I went through the security checks. I was growing up. The couple which I met in April greeted me at the airport; I handed over my documents and began my travels.
I thought I was just going directly to London, I was wrong. I went via Prague, Spain, Germany, France and Dublin. I was given an Italian passport to use between Spain and France. At first I thought that this round trip would encompass their other businesses. I soon caught on, I was travelling illegally.
Landing at London City Airport late on a Wednesday night had taken its toll on me; my body clock was a mess. The couple had a small intimate conversation with each other before the woman hailed 2 cabs; without another word she stepped into one and it drove away. The other black taxi held me and the suited man and drove steadily away to an unknown place, Soho.
I arrived at my worst nightmare, a scummy dark alley lined with secret brothels which lead to a studio flat. My perfect ideals of London were shattered into small shards of glass which stabbed at my heart. I entered up to the flat lead by the man, his shoes clipped at the metal rims of each of the steps of the twisting stairs. He unlocked the door and entered, I followed anxiously behind. My heart sank as I saw the amount of girls in that flat. He turned and addressed me in a serious tone. Informing me that this is it, he had brought me to London. I owe him £20,000 for the travel costs and I must pay it off by working for him as a prostitute.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call my family, but I couldn’t see a phone. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.
There was a dormitory, almost. The room was the length of the flat, but it was small still. The beds for the ‘workers’ were equally spread apart along the walls of the room, reminiscent of a hospital ward except dirty and all the girls groaned, slept, cried and were half naked. The single bed which I had been assigned consisted of a single sheet that covered the mattress and a dirty grey woollen blanket which was most likely crawling with lice. The frame was metal and was once painted a pea green, although it had been chipped off so all that remained was a dirty brown, rusted metal.
The man took my belongings. After a while of sitting alone on my new bed I was called to him, he never entered the dormitory. He handed me back my clothes in a clear plastic bag, he had sorted through my stuff, and he’d taken my purse, phone... anything of value. He wasn’t nervous or edgy, this was routine for him. He explained to me that I will receive £15 pounds every day to spend on anything I wished, but then informed me that I will not be fed or given anything here. He spelt out to me tips on how to make quicker money. The man who initially seemed honest was suddenly looking more and more twisted and sinister the longer I spent with him.
This can’t be happening to me.
The man then brought me up a flight of stairs above the dormitory; at this place another man was waiting. This was reality. I’d lost my innocence, my naivety. I’d lost it to him.
I quickly learnt that my daily £15 brought me nothing. I often went hungry. Instead I brought cigarettes and condoms. I'd seen what it would be like bringing up a child in these drug ridden conditions. It was horrific.
I spent 4 months in Soho, working all day every day; there was no end to my job. I saw 20 men a day in 3 different flats. It was repulsive. I was locked in the flat and only let out for ‘work’ and I was banned from contacting any other women.
I had no-one.
I lived in fear and no-one should live in overwhelming fear at the age of 17. The girls in the dormitory were mostly younger, some were thirteen. They’d been sold to the suited man by their families for money. I thought of my family back home. I thought of my sisters who were the same age as these girls. That hurt. I thought of my father. What was he thinking? What had he been told? The man told me that if I tell anyone about what he does here, he will threaten and hurt my family. Once the police visited the premises, none of the girls spoke to them. The police couldn’t get any evidence of what was going on there. It was business as usual once again.
I’d lay awake at night thinking about running away, just waiting of the opportune moment. How I’d jump from the window. How I’d kill the suited man and his wife. How I’d take all the girls with me. How I’d get the police to shut this place down. How I’d...go home.
Towards the end of my 4 months many of the girls moved on. No-one knew where they went or where they were going. But I was alone in that flat. There was my moment. Stealing was not in my morals, but nor was this life that I was living. I had found and kept a key to the window secret, I took it out unlocked the window.
I pulled out a hooded jacket which I’d found lying on the floor in the alley, and slipped it on. It was the warmest thing I had after sharing out my original clothes to the other girls out of pity.
I looked out of the window at the drop...It wasn’t too far. I jumped. A small sensation of freedom flowed through me until I landed on the pavement.
Pain. There was an obscene ache in my legs. My left leg especially, I thought It was broken, it probably was. But I hadn’t spent 4 months of hell waiting for my leg to break, no. I spent 4 months ready to escape. I struggled through the streets, limping. I had £18 pounds in my pocket. Had no idea where to go, and there was not a chance that I’d get back home with £18 pounds. I slept rough for 3 days in the cold with just a jacket.
I was picked up by a local homeless charity. I felt as if someone cared. I was truly loved. I told them everything. Still 17 and I’m too scared to go out alone, a constant fear sears through me at the thought of the man. And what of my family, my education, my home? There are so many questions that need to be answered...
STOP HUMAN TRAFFICKING. For more information please visit: http://www.stopthetraffik.org/
Thank you.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
At the Dentist
I don't mind the dentist, I've never had a traumatic experience with one or been attacked by one of their tooth scalpels, it's been non-traumatic plain sailing for me and my dentist for a very long time now. I like the fact that my dentist knows me as a person and not just a patient, she asks how's my school's going and my brother all that, which is lovely. Well, it's lovely until she talks about my tea consumption. Because I'm British clearly the only thing that I am capable of drinking is tea. My dentist isn't really friends with fruit juice and has a moan at me when I drink that let alone a tooth staining sugary cup of death. It would seem she is not a fan of drinking in general, 'you must only drink water' is a popular saying of her's, which is the most anti-fun thing I've heard all week, and this week I've been learning about Stalin. It would seem that whenever I do anything it as always wrong at the dentist. I drink without a straw, i drink caffeine, i drink fruit juice, but this is the substance of life. Dental hygiene is a bit backwards. The NHS tell you to eat 5 bits of fruit per day but the dental people (not too sure on their organisation) say you can't because it will kill your teeth, and no one likes dead teeth. No one.
I also hate going to the dentist for only one reason: it's starts the debate for whether i should get braces. It comes every 9 months like an unwanted child to fester in the back of mine and my parent's minds to umm and ahh about cost and self image. The thing is, I don't need braces medically and as far as I'm concerned, if it's not essential then I'd rather spend two thousand pounds on an amazing family holiday and go somewhere where I have some memories that will last with me forever. Or a car, or driving lessons, or car insurance, I'll be needing that soon. My mum says that she wishes that she had braces when she was younger but never did and regrets it now, but quite honestly, I don't care about my teeth that much. Maybe it would be nice to have straight teeth but it's not that bad, sure enough, when I'm older I'll regret that too, but that will be my mistake. I'm not saying having straight teeth makes you vain, it's all up to you, it's your body and you can do what you want to it, but that stuff is wasted on me. Although my friend did say that my teeth look like God's playing a game of Tetris in my mouth and just can't make a straight line out of it.
Maybe i should call the orthodontist.
I also hate going to the dentist for only one reason: it's starts the debate for whether i should get braces. It comes every 9 months like an unwanted child to fester in the back of mine and my parent's minds to umm and ahh about cost and self image. The thing is, I don't need braces medically and as far as I'm concerned, if it's not essential then I'd rather spend two thousand pounds on an amazing family holiday and go somewhere where I have some memories that will last with me forever. Or a car, or driving lessons, or car insurance, I'll be needing that soon. My mum says that she wishes that she had braces when she was younger but never did and regrets it now, but quite honestly, I don't care about my teeth that much. Maybe it would be nice to have straight teeth but it's not that bad, sure enough, when I'm older I'll regret that too, but that will be my mistake. I'm not saying having straight teeth makes you vain, it's all up to you, it's your body and you can do what you want to it, but that stuff is wasted on me. Although my friend did say that my teeth look like God's playing a game of Tetris in my mouth and just can't make a straight line out of it.
Maybe i should call the orthodontist.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Less than Adequate Daredevil
It has occurred to me that there are some things in life I can certainly cross off my Bucket List. One of them being ,'become a daredevil'. My stunts are seemingly less than adequate. I can't ride a skateboard, motorcycle or drive and I can't surf. I have trouble standing still for too long and I have to check my right knee cap hasn't slipped out of it's place sometimes. I'm the least wild person on the planet. Sure, I'll avoid paths where I can and I'll walk through the woods at night but it's fine. Some times, I won't look where I am going when I cross the road or I'll use a knife to get a piece of toast out of the toaster. And once I put a spoon in the microwave. wild.
But to be fair, those are all potentially life threatening little things that I do more or less on an every day basis. Apart from the microwave and the spoon, it was like a firework, beautiful, glittery and cut the power from the downstairs of my house, uncool. But I do do them, and the fact that they could kill me just kinda demonstrates how much I don't really value the life I have and instead maybe I'll shove some metal in a toaster and kill myself. It's stupid. I should really take more care, or practise what I've been taught growing up. I can be obedient, like a dog but a tad less dribbly and I don't eat from the floor, but I will listen and do as you tell me... as long as I am supervised, the Internet is my weakness. It's ridiculous.
I love regret. A lot of people won't understand that straight off, but trust me it's one of the most important things in our lives that we have in order to learn. I've said some very stupid, inappropriate and just plain silly things, I won't lie to you. If you say you haven't well, no one likes a liar. I've made my self look like a fool on so many occasions it hurts. In my heart. But the fact I regret those words or those actions make sure that I won't do that thing again or I'll do it a different way which is ultimately better. I hate the saying 'Live life without any regrets'. Bullshit. Regret is so important. Regret is the guilt, we need a bit of guilt and conscience to give us a teeny bit of morals right? Without acknowledging regret you are ignorant, and choose to ignore that fact that you may have hurt someone or hurt yourself before and don't want to face the realities. And to be quite honest that seems all rosy and lovely, aside from the tiny fact we aren't in land of the fairies, which breaks my heart. Every day.
And so ladies and gentlemen, relish in regret and NEVER stick mental into plug sockets.
But to be fair, those are all potentially life threatening little things that I do more or less on an every day basis. Apart from the microwave and the spoon, it was like a firework, beautiful, glittery and cut the power from the downstairs of my house, uncool. But I do do them, and the fact that they could kill me just kinda demonstrates how much I don't really value the life I have and instead maybe I'll shove some metal in a toaster and kill myself. It's stupid. I should really take more care, or practise what I've been taught growing up. I can be obedient, like a dog but a tad less dribbly and I don't eat from the floor, but I will listen and do as you tell me... as long as I am supervised, the Internet is my weakness. It's ridiculous.
I love regret. A lot of people won't understand that straight off, but trust me it's one of the most important things in our lives that we have in order to learn. I've said some very stupid, inappropriate and just plain silly things, I won't lie to you. If you say you haven't well, no one likes a liar. I've made my self look like a fool on so many occasions it hurts. In my heart. But the fact I regret those words or those actions make sure that I won't do that thing again or I'll do it a different way which is ultimately better. I hate the saying 'Live life without any regrets'. Bullshit. Regret is so important. Regret is the guilt, we need a bit of guilt and conscience to give us a teeny bit of morals right? Without acknowledging regret you are ignorant, and choose to ignore that fact that you may have hurt someone or hurt yourself before and don't want to face the realities. And to be quite honest that seems all rosy and lovely, aside from the tiny fact we aren't in land of the fairies, which breaks my heart. Every day.
And so ladies and gentlemen, relish in regret and NEVER stick mental into plug sockets.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
The Next Picasso
In the last week I've discovered a trait that I never knew that existed. I am the Picasso of cake decorating. Strangely enough, I really am. If the definition of Picasso is abstract, contrasting colours and faces, well, I've ticked all those boxes. It may not have been the most realistic of faces that I made on that cake, but none of Picasso's art was particularly life like. I mean he painted his girlfriend and if I'm honest I think I would be a little bit insulted if the person I loved thought that I had a green tinge to my face. Not cool Pablo, Not cool at all.
I think as a society that we should use icing to portray feelings more often. Not like 'will you marry me?' that's a poor effort. I will not be content by being engaged via the medium of cake. I'm sorry, there is no effort in that. It will taste good, but seriously? I'm the least imaginative person for awe inspiring event planning but I'd hope that when I'm proposed to that it's better than a cake with a 4 word question on it. I was thinking more on the lines of 'put the kettle on'. This would be useful. I'd happily keep a stash of 12 in my bag in assorted colours, because if you give someone a gift they are guaranteed to make you tea. GUARANTEED. But be careful with that icing, wouldn't want to smudge that. You might end up saying some thing you don't mean. They may marry you. Maybe.
I think as a society that we should use icing to portray feelings more often. Not like 'will you marry me?' that's a poor effort. I will not be content by being engaged via the medium of cake. I'm sorry, there is no effort in that. It will taste good, but seriously? I'm the least imaginative person for awe inspiring event planning but I'd hope that when I'm proposed to that it's better than a cake with a 4 word question on it. I was thinking more on the lines of 'put the kettle on'. This would be useful. I'd happily keep a stash of 12 in my bag in assorted colours, because if you give someone a gift they are guaranteed to make you tea. GUARANTEED. But be careful with that icing, wouldn't want to smudge that. You might end up saying some thing you don't mean. They may marry you. Maybe.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
The Untamed Rabbit Trend
Some girls look so different without make up on it's almost like they are two different people. I can live without make up, I may feel a little more self conscious but I could do it, I did it for 13 years, it can't be that hard. I don't live for fake tan. A light glow is lovely, but the smell, oh my. It's actually disgusting. My mum told me it has the same chemicals in it as the chemicals which are used in browning biscuits. Biscuits do not smell like this. It just smells like vomit, and I refuse to use something on my body which resembles the odour of sick.
Back on the subject of no make up, some girls look prettier without make up and I am certainly not one of them. I look like a rabbit. Many people would associate rabbits with fluffy, cute or sweet. I am neither of them. no, I am the type of rabbit which has been caught in headlights and run over, survived and resented the human race forevermore. This rabbit would also be very very scruffy and maybe attack the odd tree.
Not that i look much better with make up actually on.
I think girls should embrace this feral rabbit look. This year I am going to have a whole week without make up. That may seem a little bit of a poor effort, but really, for me i don't realise how much i wear untill i put it into context of a whole week . A whole week. One whole week. I don't know, i'm definately doing it though.
Maybe my pores will be clearer, maybe my spots will clear up faster or maybe I will look like a widerbeast for a week. Time will tell....
Back on the subject of no make up, some girls look prettier without make up and I am certainly not one of them. I look like a rabbit. Many people would associate rabbits with fluffy, cute or sweet. I am neither of them. no, I am the type of rabbit which has been caught in headlights and run over, survived and resented the human race forevermore. This rabbit would also be very very scruffy and maybe attack the odd tree.
Not that i look much better with make up actually on.
I think girls should embrace this feral rabbit look. This year I am going to have a whole week without make up. That may seem a little bit of a poor effort, but really, for me i don't realise how much i wear untill i put it into context of a whole week . A whole week. One whole week. I don't know, i'm definately doing it though.
Maybe my pores will be clearer, maybe my spots will clear up faster or maybe I will look like a widerbeast for a week. Time will tell....
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Walking In Winter
Winter is beautiful. I love the cold nights, and the orange glow of the lampposts on the lightly wet pavement. The shimmer is stunning. I forget that these things happen. These small ridiculous things that are true beauty. It's simple, isn't it? Winter. Everyone complains about it but the cold is sharpens everything. I feel more awake, alive. Ready. I love it when it is dark at half 4 in the afternoon, it feels like the night will last forever. I love watching the sunrise and sunset. I love watching the mist rise every morning over the woods near my house. I love chunky knit scarves. I love mittens with panda faces on. I love the walks home from school in the dark, the danger keeps me on edge. I love the bright headlights of the cars that drive past. I love storms, the tiny disturbance floods my road. I like the crunch of the frost beneath my boots walking through the park in the morning. I love the excuse of getting into your pyjamas at 5 in the afternoon because you can. I love that feeling of nostalgia when all the old films are on. I love warm radiators that numb my hands after suffering without gloves. I love over sized jumpers.
Winter brings this out in me, this love-ish-ness (it's a new word). I appreciate things a lot more in winter. Mainly nature. But I also start new hobbies, or time wasters - depending on your opinion. Knitting is one of them. I am an old woman. But I've got into a bit of an odd habit lately: walking. I know that seems a bit regular, and yes I have used my legs for the past 16 years but I've been walking instead of getting the bus or a lift to places. Wanting to walk.
I think I'm more scared of walking through my local shopping centre than walking through the woods at night. Is that logical? Sensible? Or ridiculous? To be honest I don't really care. I have heavy shoes that will hurt anyone who approaches fast, threateningly, or with a skip in their step. Be warned.
Winter brings this out in me, this love-ish-ness (it's a new word). I appreciate things a lot more in winter. Mainly nature. But I also start new hobbies, or time wasters - depending on your opinion. Knitting is one of them. I am an old woman. But I've got into a bit of an odd habit lately: walking. I know that seems a bit regular, and yes I have used my legs for the past 16 years but I've been walking instead of getting the bus or a lift to places. Wanting to walk.
I think I'm more scared of walking through my local shopping centre than walking through the woods at night. Is that logical? Sensible? Or ridiculous? To be honest I don't really care. I have heavy shoes that will hurt anyone who approaches fast, threateningly, or with a skip in their step. Be warned.
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Face Planting Into Cake
I hate to say it but, I love dieting. I know I don't look it, but I really really do. I refuse to go on a post christmas diet on the 1st of January. That is digusting. For one, i'll be hungover and if Gillian McKeith is right in saying that 'you are what you eat' I am 3 quarters turkey and the rest biscuits. I imagine that canibals are all the rage after christmas, we probably taste quite nice.
Off topic. Anyway, in the week prior to the diet I set out a really regimented plan. I like order. It's not like OCD but more of, 'i'd better make something organised in my life because my room is certainly not going to cut it' - kinda way. I'm a disorganised person, I leave all essays till 2am the night before it's to be handed in or even sometimes the hour before, if you're lucky. Writing what I need to do down is a serious bonus. Plus I like glittery gel pens - no i'm not a ten year old child, even though I try to be.
I can only diet with my mum. If it was up to me i'd probably just melt on the floor after the first 3 hours of no commitment and cake. But my mum has a ridiculous amount of diet books, they're probably what this house is made of, icing and diet books. Sounds about right. She has an amazing ability to just stick at things even if she hates them; like Zumba. As much as I find it awful my mum goes every week for pure resiliance. I want to be like that. So dieting with my mum is the only way.
Also, diet food is often better than the food I have anyway. I'm not a fan of mash, yet my dad sees it necessary in every meal to have some form of potato. No. Sorry, it's with a roast or nothing. So diets are just full of salads and fruit, which I love and with not a potato in sight.
However, i'm the type of person that gets bored and distracted VERY easily and thats where I fail at the majority of things. After 2 weeks of eating 4 tonnes of celery a day, as soon as the oportunity arises that i'm 'allowed' 100 calories of sweetness, I go a little be mental. Think of face planting into a chocolate cake. Hello me.
We'll see where this leads...
Off topic. Anyway, in the week prior to the diet I set out a really regimented plan. I like order. It's not like OCD but more of, 'i'd better make something organised in my life because my room is certainly not going to cut it' - kinda way. I'm a disorganised person, I leave all essays till 2am the night before it's to be handed in or even sometimes the hour before, if you're lucky. Writing what I need to do down is a serious bonus. Plus I like glittery gel pens - no i'm not a ten year old child, even though I try to be.
I can only diet with my mum. If it was up to me i'd probably just melt on the floor after the first 3 hours of no commitment and cake. But my mum has a ridiculous amount of diet books, they're probably what this house is made of, icing and diet books. Sounds about right. She has an amazing ability to just stick at things even if she hates them; like Zumba. As much as I find it awful my mum goes every week for pure resiliance. I want to be like that. So dieting with my mum is the only way.
Also, diet food is often better than the food I have anyway. I'm not a fan of mash, yet my dad sees it necessary in every meal to have some form of potato. No. Sorry, it's with a roast or nothing. So diets are just full of salads and fruit, which I love and with not a potato in sight.
However, i'm the type of person that gets bored and distracted VERY easily and thats where I fail at the majority of things. After 2 weeks of eating 4 tonnes of celery a day, as soon as the oportunity arises that i'm 'allowed' 100 calories of sweetness, I go a little be mental. Think of face planting into a chocolate cake. Hello me.
We'll see where this leads...
Friday, 6 January 2012
Serenaded
Being serenaded is usually associated with writing your own song to your love and recording it on a tape, yes tape, or performing it in a park or on a beach during a sun set. This is so lovely, serenades are pretty rare, in universal terms, someone should be in charge of making them cool (I may say again, but I don't know if they ever were other than in 1563). Ask Shakespeare, he had all the ladies.
But, I have been serenaded and I'm not going to lie it wasn't the highlight of my life that I quite expected.
After work I needed to get buy a few things for my mum on a bit of an errand. And being in a post Christmas mega diet mode, I decided to walk to my local shopping centre. This is quite usual for me, it's only a half hour and I need feel like I'm doing something good for my body after the bottomless pit of Christmas biscuits.
When I'm by my self I have a strong tendency to talk. Not to anyone in particular, more to myself. Often arguing, most of the time singing. But this causes me to be quite oblivious to the things around me, sometimes I even cross the road without really noticing that I have.
But this occasion brought me out of the daze. As I was walking down a main road an old man in a greyish/muddy tracksuit-jumper combo, peddled towards me on his bike. This is usual, it was a Monday during the morning and everyone knows that an abnormal amount of old people creep out of their houses, safe in the knowledge that the monstrous fountain dwelling youths are at school.
This man was different. Probably drunk, or high. He stopped his bike a few metres in front of me, and began to slur 'i love you' quite loudly but almost with a tune.
I'm not a music critic or music teacher, and I couldn't tell you whether he was in the right pitch. But using my extensive experience as a X Factor viewer, my verdict is that he should not peruse a career in the music industry as a singer or song writer, to put it lightly.
But, I have been serenaded and I'm not going to lie it wasn't the highlight of my life that I quite expected.
After work I needed to get buy a few things for my mum on a bit of an errand. And being in a post Christmas mega diet mode, I decided to walk to my local shopping centre. This is quite usual for me, it's only a half hour and I need feel like I'm doing something good for my body after the bottomless pit of Christmas biscuits.
When I'm by my self I have a strong tendency to talk. Not to anyone in particular, more to myself. Often arguing, most of the time singing. But this causes me to be quite oblivious to the things around me, sometimes I even cross the road without really noticing that I have.
But this occasion brought me out of the daze. As I was walking down a main road an old man in a greyish/muddy tracksuit-jumper combo, peddled towards me on his bike. This is usual, it was a Monday during the morning and everyone knows that an abnormal amount of old people creep out of their houses, safe in the knowledge that the monstrous fountain dwelling youths are at school.
This man was different. Probably drunk, or high. He stopped his bike a few metres in front of me, and began to slur 'i love you' quite loudly but almost with a tune.
I'm not a music critic or music teacher, and I couldn't tell you whether he was in the right pitch. But using my extensive experience as a X Factor viewer, my verdict is that he should not peruse a career in the music industry as a singer or song writer, to put it lightly.
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