Facebook is one of those things that can trigger a lot of emotion, thoughts and memories, and all thanks to a website and a few brain-boxes.
It wasn't until September (when it dawned uni had finished) that it gradually became more and more trivial. If that's the correct word?
While at uni Facebook was one of the main sources of news, contacts and Saturday night entertainment. But back home it really just appears to be a giant invasion of privacy.
Its hard to write an opinion piece on something I found very hard to live without at the beginning of the year, but I really think there is an element of childishness about it.
There's constantly irrelevant information displayed and what do you do with this knowledge? The answer is nothing.
I remember reading an article on it a few years ago where the writer said, you know you're in trouble when you start calling your friends by their full names, including their middle names. And this is true. You end up knowing more than is good for you.
Last year I dated a guy who was renown for being a ladies man and every other Facebook photo was of him and different girls. They was no evidence to suggest these girls weren't just friends, but as I flicked through his photos I became more and more paranoid.
It is because of things like this that make Facebook (in my eyes) too intrusive. Everyone has a past, but why splash it to the world, especially if its a past that you're not proud of.
So Facebook gives you the ability to check up on your ex's, laugh at their weight gain, hideous new partners and disastrous dress sense, but at what expense? All that does is keeps you in the past by reminding you of what was.
Why not live for the future, for the present and for the now!
Facebook should be used to store photos and videos and nothing else. Get out there, meet up with your friends, take new photos, make new videos and live for the moment.
There's too little spontaneity in the world as it is and staring at screen want solve any problems (or help your degree or A Levels!)
But above all life is too short. You only have one shot at this the way you want and don't relay your life to the sentence 'What's on your mind?' Stop thinking about it and do it.
Friday 31 December 2010
Wednesday 29 December 2010
Bad bad Laura Ashley.
I have always wondered why people move back home after finishing uni. Apart from finances, it always seemed odd that people would spend three/ four years growing up and becoming independent, and then essentially give it all up by moving back home once uni had finished.
I guess I saw it as kind of a failure. If you went to university in hope of becoming an adult (as well as gaining a degree) and then ended up back at home what did you gain?
Its kind of ironic that after being so determined NOT to move home after uni that I ended up back in Guildford.
So their is always food on the table, hot water in the pipes and the rent is very affordable, but it does on occasion leave me feeling like a child.
The main downside is the freedom that went hand-in-hand with university life is at its most non existent.
Unfortunately this isn't helped by my (sometimes very annoying) obsession with pretty things i.e household objects. As a result there is a rapidly expanding collection of kitchenware for a kitchen I don't yet own. Along with throws and cushions for sofas I have not yet purchased and my latest addition, table mats and coasters. (They're red with white spots, 100% adorable, couldn't say no really!)
It has got to the point where I will have to move out in order to stop buying household goods! My Mother even made the point I have to stop buying soft furnishings or her house will have massive gaps when I do eventually leave. That's how bad this is starting to get.
On a positive note it does mean I can move in with a man who has one suitcase of clothes to his name and we'll bet set for life. Laura Ashley doorstops and all.
I guess I saw it as kind of a failure. If you went to university in hope of becoming an adult (as well as gaining a degree) and then ended up back at home what did you gain?
Its kind of ironic that after being so determined NOT to move home after uni that I ended up back in Guildford.
So their is always food on the table, hot water in the pipes and the rent is very affordable, but it does on occasion leave me feeling like a child.
The main downside is the freedom that went hand-in-hand with university life is at its most non existent.
Unfortunately this isn't helped by my (sometimes very annoying) obsession with pretty things i.e household objects. As a result there is a rapidly expanding collection of kitchenware for a kitchen I don't yet own. Along with throws and cushions for sofas I have not yet purchased and my latest addition, table mats and coasters. (They're red with white spots, 100% adorable, couldn't say no really!)
It has got to the point where I will have to move out in order to stop buying household goods! My Mother even made the point I have to stop buying soft furnishings or her house will have massive gaps when I do eventually leave. That's how bad this is starting to get.
On a positive note it does mean I can move in with a man who has one suitcase of clothes to his name and we'll bet set for life. Laura Ashley doorstops and all.
Tuesday 21 December 2010
Eggnog amused.
This is where the trouble starts, blog three of the day.
The first topic that came to mind was, and surprise surprise, love. And then like a thief in the night I had a brainwave…Eggnog! Let me explain.
Now getting out of bed in the morning has never really been too much of a challenge, the alarm goes off, followed by your brain going ‘Errrrg need more sleep’ and then you eventually lug yourself out of bed and voilá.
But sadly there is one slight difference this week. The weather is officially rubbish (again!) and the thought of queuing for the bus is about as exciting as depositing of cat sick, however, it does leave you with one comforting thought, Starbucks.
This is the one happy little moment that makes braving the cold all worth it, the grandé Eggnog Latté. In short, this is happiness in a little paper cup.
However, today there was no happiness, there wasn’t even any paper cup and there was definitely no smiley customer response. Oh yes, you’ve guessed it. They had run out of Eggnog.
To be honest I thought I had handled the situation quite well, and it wasn’t until the lady behind the counter looked terrified and sincerely apologetic ,that I released I hadn’t hidden my anger as well as I had hoped.
Jaw-dropping and furious I may have stormed out of the shop. I can’t quite remember, it was all a bit of a blur. This was the second Starbucks in 24 hours they had ‘allegedly’ run out of Eggnog, what was happening to Guildford?
Perhaps they have used the stock to grit the roads, but with the amount of aquaplaning going on I highly doubt that.
Either way, not amused. If things do not improve I may have to resort to making my own and let’s face it that will only end in a disaster or Salmonella. Most likely both!
The first topic that came to mind was, and surprise surprise, love. And then like a thief in the night I had a brainwave…Eggnog! Let me explain.
Now getting out of bed in the morning has never really been too much of a challenge, the alarm goes off, followed by your brain going ‘Errrrg need more sleep’ and then you eventually lug yourself out of bed and voilá.
But sadly there is one slight difference this week. The weather is officially rubbish (again!) and the thought of queuing for the bus is about as exciting as depositing of cat sick, however, it does leave you with one comforting thought, Starbucks.
This is the one happy little moment that makes braving the cold all worth it, the grandé Eggnog Latté. In short, this is happiness in a little paper cup.
However, today there was no happiness, there wasn’t even any paper cup and there was definitely no smiley customer response. Oh yes, you’ve guessed it. They had run out of Eggnog.
To be honest I thought I had handled the situation quite well, and it wasn’t until the lady behind the counter looked terrified and sincerely apologetic ,that I released I hadn’t hidden my anger as well as I had hoped.
Jaw-dropping and furious I may have stormed out of the shop. I can’t quite remember, it was all a bit of a blur. This was the second Starbucks in 24 hours they had ‘allegedly’ run out of Eggnog, what was happening to Guildford?
Perhaps they have used the stock to grit the roads, but with the amount of aquaplaning going on I highly doubt that.
Either way, not amused. If things do not improve I may have to resort to making my own and let’s face it that will only end in a disaster or Salmonella. Most likely both!
Writing is the essence of love.
Everybody has different ways of letting go, letting go of stress, letting go of emotion and letting go of the things they love.
For me, this catharsis is through writing.
Once upon a time it was whenever I put on a pair of ballet shoes, and at the time I didn’t know it, but with those shoes on my feet I was a free woman, no stress, no rules, no pressures, nothing could stop me and I was just Amie. Admittedly I had to be dancing in a room on my own, preferably with the lights off, but it was still the same effect.
Nowadays these shoes are packed away in the loft along with the rest of my childhood/ teenage life, but I like to think if I ever needed them again they would be there.
Perhaps it’s an age thing that makes you want to pick up a pen and scribble the first thing that pops into your head, perhaps its madness, but trying telling that to an author.
In a way my writing now is similar to my dancing patterns as a child, when I was in a good mood I floated across the floor (I like to think) and in a bad mood I looked like an idiot dressed from head to toe in pink. If I’m in a good mood now my diary will be full of gibberish, this blog will also be full of utter rubbish and there will be a permanent smile on my face. When I’m in a bad mood or trying to put something off, there will still be a smile on my face but my diary will be empty and this blog will gradually get forgotten about.
It is through this unruly obsession with writing that this emotional code has come about.
So as you can tell I am either bored, flexing my ‘artistic muscles’ or on the verge of wanting to jump in the car and just drive somewhere. Unfortunately the days of jumping in the car and driving have long gone and all that remains is the overwhelming guilt that I should be doing something very important that I am unconsciously avoiding.
The biggest problem is all I want to do is write, and if it’s via a job I love and get paid for then even better. Its agony not being able to do what feels natural and patiently wait until life has prioritised itself, especially when patients was never a strong point to begin with.
I took the wrong degree and am paying for it, but the lack of will power is phenomenal. I could write an article on any given topic instantly, it sounds stupid but the temptation to stand on a tall building and shout ‘I am a journalist, not an English scholar!’ is very very strong.
Perhaps in another life I was Herbert out of Monty Pythons ‘The Holy Grail’... all I want to do is write! (Obviously wouldn’t want to be an exact replica of Herbert as I would probably blow up birds with my singing. Much like Princess Fiona actually. In fact that might be a better match, We both have hideous taste in men and both like weed rats, cooked rotisserie style.)
I guess one day I will find another way to start a sentence that doesn’t involve the word ‘I’ and will die happy if I could make a living from writing utter nonsense 365 days a year.
But for now the writing must keep flowing to maintain sanity and to get back to where we left off six months ago.
It has been an interesting start to life as a graduate, but I am now ready to face the world with a pen in my hand and await the arrival of January the 28th 2011.
For me, this catharsis is through writing.
Once upon a time it was whenever I put on a pair of ballet shoes, and at the time I didn’t know it, but with those shoes on my feet I was a free woman, no stress, no rules, no pressures, nothing could stop me and I was just Amie. Admittedly I had to be dancing in a room on my own, preferably with the lights off, but it was still the same effect.
Nowadays these shoes are packed away in the loft along with the rest of my childhood/ teenage life, but I like to think if I ever needed them again they would be there.
Perhaps it’s an age thing that makes you want to pick up a pen and scribble the first thing that pops into your head, perhaps its madness, but trying telling that to an author.
In a way my writing now is similar to my dancing patterns as a child, when I was in a good mood I floated across the floor (I like to think) and in a bad mood I looked like an idiot dressed from head to toe in pink. If I’m in a good mood now my diary will be full of gibberish, this blog will also be full of utter rubbish and there will be a permanent smile on my face. When I’m in a bad mood or trying to put something off, there will still be a smile on my face but my diary will be empty and this blog will gradually get forgotten about.
It is through this unruly obsession with writing that this emotional code has come about.
So as you can tell I am either bored, flexing my ‘artistic muscles’ or on the verge of wanting to jump in the car and just drive somewhere. Unfortunately the days of jumping in the car and driving have long gone and all that remains is the overwhelming guilt that I should be doing something very important that I am unconsciously avoiding.
The biggest problem is all I want to do is write, and if it’s via a job I love and get paid for then even better. Its agony not being able to do what feels natural and patiently wait until life has prioritised itself, especially when patients was never a strong point to begin with.
I took the wrong degree and am paying for it, but the lack of will power is phenomenal. I could write an article on any given topic instantly, it sounds stupid but the temptation to stand on a tall building and shout ‘I am a journalist, not an English scholar!’ is very very strong.
Perhaps in another life I was Herbert out of Monty Pythons ‘The Holy Grail’... all I want to do is write! (Obviously wouldn’t want to be an exact replica of Herbert as I would probably blow up birds with my singing. Much like Princess Fiona actually. In fact that might be a better match, We both have hideous taste in men and both like weed rats, cooked rotisserie style.)
I guess one day I will find another way to start a sentence that doesn’t involve the word ‘I’ and will die happy if I could make a living from writing utter nonsense 365 days a year.
But for now the writing must keep flowing to maintain sanity and to get back to where we left off six months ago.
It has been an interesting start to life as a graduate, but I am now ready to face the world with a pen in my hand and await the arrival of January the 28th 2011.
Sunday 19 December 2010
PhonesRUs
Modern technology. If the cavemen knew how to work Blackberrys
I'm sure they too would be nodding in accordance to what I am about to say...
Blackberrys are fantastic!
Ignoring the lack of punctuation and disgusted Iphone fans, there really is nothing a phone cannot do these days.
It even got me wondering if students shouldn't just opt for Blackberrys instead of laptops. Not only would their internet bills be lower, but lugging around cables and USB sticks would be a thing of the past.
It goes without saying that after a few bottles of Lambrini (or what ever students drink these days), it would be advisable to check you're not posting your facebook photos onto your dissertation, but it would only increase the final mark I'm sure.
It is getting to the stage where I would rather save my phone in a house fire than my cat!
I'm sure she would be fine and I'd hate to miss a tweet from Matt Baker (current future husband #5.)
So as you can see, definite evidence to suppoort why life without modern technology, would in short, be the death of us.
To be honest this is probably still the excitement of being able to blog from a phone more than anything, but if we can't ramble on in our blogs when can we?
I'm sure they too would be nodding in accordance to what I am about to say...
Blackberrys are fantastic!
Ignoring the lack of punctuation and disgusted Iphone fans, there really is nothing a phone cannot do these days.
It even got me wondering if students shouldn't just opt for Blackberrys instead of laptops. Not only would their internet bills be lower, but lugging around cables and USB sticks would be a thing of the past.
It goes without saying that after a few bottles of Lambrini (or what ever students drink these days), it would be advisable to check you're not posting your facebook photos onto your dissertation, but it would only increase the final mark I'm sure.
It is getting to the stage where I would rather save my phone in a house fire than my cat!
I'm sure she would be fine and I'd hate to miss a tweet from Matt Baker (current future husband #5.)
So as you can see, definite evidence to suppoort why life without modern technology, would in short, be the death of us.
To be honest this is probably still the excitement of being able to blog from a phone more than anything, but if we can't ramble on in our blogs when can we?
Monday 13 December 2010
The honourable Sheriff of Nottingham
Somebody once told me that in order to write well, you must write what you know. This is what I know…
Tax. It is a three letter word that can transform (get ready for a loud cough) intelligent students into money-hoarding-cheap-skates.
The second thing I know is if I wanted to learn about politics, I would become a politician.
Putting two and two together gives a very bleak out look on a subject which I clearly know very little about.
So with this in mind, I did what any other 22 year-old does when trying to get new information and opened up Google.
The first two searches flagged up HM Revenue and Customs, these both sounded very exciting and I immediately opened up the link.
My brain was awash with P800s and tax codes. How had I ignored all this information for so long?
The third link was something called Wikipedia, finally a familiar name. It spoke of Latin origins, legal entities and incarcerations, and the words flowed off the page as if written by Homer.
The forth search was also posted by this so-called Wikipedia and after having read the previous search I decided to skip this one, having already read everything they had to offer.
The following search was a picture of Obama. I was a little confused so skipped that link too, although he did look edible.
The sixth search was written by the Guardian and as a journalist (another cough for the time being) I know that they tend to fabricate, so decided to save time and told myself ‘Reveal’ would have a far better article so would read that tomorrow instead.
The next five searches didn’t look that mentally challenging so I passed them by.
Thankfully the following search was another picture of Obama, so I pondered what he would think on the subject and agreed with his opinion.
(I then got a bit distracted when my brother switched channels to a ‘very important football match’ so had to postpone the research.)
Once the match was finished the searching could continue, but I was distraught to discover I had reached the bottom of page 1 and felt I could obtain no more.
So there you have it. Everything I know on tax.
Perhaps there is a hidden new years resolution here…
Tax. It is a three letter word that can transform (get ready for a loud cough) intelligent students into money-hoarding-cheap-skates.
The second thing I know is if I wanted to learn about politics, I would become a politician.
Putting two and two together gives a very bleak out look on a subject which I clearly know very little about.
So with this in mind, I did what any other 22 year-old does when trying to get new information and opened up Google.
The first two searches flagged up HM Revenue and Customs, these both sounded very exciting and I immediately opened up the link.
My brain was awash with P800s and tax codes. How had I ignored all this information for so long?
The third link was something called Wikipedia, finally a familiar name. It spoke of Latin origins, legal entities and incarcerations, and the words flowed off the page as if written by Homer.
The forth search was also posted by this so-called Wikipedia and after having read the previous search I decided to skip this one, having already read everything they had to offer.
The following search was a picture of Obama. I was a little confused so skipped that link too, although he did look edible.
The sixth search was written by the Guardian and as a journalist (another cough for the time being) I know that they tend to fabricate, so decided to save time and told myself ‘Reveal’ would have a far better article so would read that tomorrow instead.
The next five searches didn’t look that mentally challenging so I passed them by.
Thankfully the following search was another picture of Obama, so I pondered what he would think on the subject and agreed with his opinion.
(I then got a bit distracted when my brother switched channels to a ‘very important football match’ so had to postpone the research.)
Once the match was finished the searching could continue, but I was distraught to discover I had reached the bottom of page 1 and felt I could obtain no more.
So there you have it. Everything I know on tax.
Perhaps there is a hidden new years resolution here…
Wednesday 8 December 2010
Blogger and the Blackberry.
(Just experimenting with techology. Couldn't sleep either!)
Sometimes in this big world you can feel so alone.
This loneliness is dark, and it sucks you in, securing it's fears around you.
But these fears do not belong to the darkness, they belong to you.
Just when you think you've outwitted their daylight appearances they consume you in
sleep: tossing and turning you through cycles of repression.
Denial is for the doomed and acceptance is for the aged.
Sometimes in this big world you can feel so alone.
This loneliness is dark, and it sucks you in, securing it's fears around you.
But these fears do not belong to the darkness, they belong to you.
Just when you think you've outwitted their daylight appearances they consume you in
sleep: tossing and turning you through cycles of repression.
Denial is for the doomed and acceptance is for the aged.
Wednesday 1 December 2010
Precipitation anyone?
What is it about England and weather that creates so much pandemonium?
Not only is it cold enough to snap steel in your bedroom, but the initial excitement of the white coated garden is replaced with the estimation of how quickly you can de-snow the car.
So you reluctantly drag yourself into the shower (still debating if you can get the car ready to go in under three minutes) and shovel some breakfast down your throat. This is shortly followed by throwing some clothes on, popping on some make-up and grabbing your handbag.
You then have a five second moment of madness while you try to find the car keys and head out the door.
This is where the first problem arises. Your feet are now drenched. For some reason whilst dashing around the house preparing yourself for the possibility of a break down/ blizzard responsible traffic jam/ unprovoked Yeti attack, you forgot that open toed stilettos probably weren’t your brightest idea.
As a modern woman you don’t not let this slight mishap slow you down and besides, the shoes needed a clean anyway. You whip out the ice scraper and rack your brains as to whether snow means you should drive in a higher or lower gear.
Once the car is 50% visible you belt up and head for the end of the drive, making sure not to injure any playful cats or unrecognisable children on your exit.
The journey is not pleasant. The heaters or on full blast, snow is flying everywhere, the radio signal is practically non existent (my Fleetwood Mac CD has once again sprouted legs) and everyone including the vicar is driving at 5mph.
Now, personally I’m not a bad driver and I know my wheels can reach 90mph in matter of minutes (yes, it should say ‘in a matter of seconds’ but the job doesn’t pay THAT well just yet!) but it’s easy to get frustrated when the residents of Guildford think snow is the dandruff of Hitler.
Half an hour later you reach the park-and-ride. On every fifth day of the month this is a wonderful invention, you save petrol, you save the environment and it gives you chance to check Twitter and grab a Starbucks before you roll into work.
However, for the other 325 days of the year the park-and-ride is a nightmare and especially when the ground is coated in wet sludge and you’re running late. Before you have even started your working day you have to clamber on the steamy bus. This is caused by the anticipation of 30 passengers eagerly awaiting you free-falling thud, as both you and your belongings plummet to the ground in a spectacular display of general flapping seal-ness.
With your wet feet, aching sides and elegantly wind swept hair you finally make it into work. All the previous agro deceases and the world is lovely again. All that is left to do is enjoy your Starbucks and laugh at the people who fall over outside the shop (don’t even try and deny it!)
The shop is dead and as the snow starts to settle and the day draws in, the only thing now on your mind is the journey home.
This is where problem three creeps in: how do you get home? Getting into work was hard enough, but now the snow has turned into sleet and the only way back to the car is on your hands and knees. In short, you’re buggered.
There are cars everywhere, everywhere you look it’s white and it finally pays off to have a black car. The cold weather may have disagreed with the central locking system, but when it’s the only visible car in a field of sheep then the game of ‘where did I park my car?’ becomes slightly easier.
It was at this point where I was great full not to have eaten my tin of soup for lunch, jut in case the worst was about to happen on the way home.
Fifteen minutes later the car pulls into the drive and you are home. No Yetis, no break downs, admittedly still no Fleetwood Mac, no emergency soup drinking and that was it. The one crazy day of white rain and it was all over.
All that is left to do is pop on a big hoody, a pair of thick socks, make a cup of tea and hit Bedfordshire.
I wonder what the snow forecast is for tomorrow, but have a feeling the wellies will be making a definite appearance.
Not only is it cold enough to snap steel in your bedroom, but the initial excitement of the white coated garden is replaced with the estimation of how quickly you can de-snow the car.
So you reluctantly drag yourself into the shower (still debating if you can get the car ready to go in under three minutes) and shovel some breakfast down your throat. This is shortly followed by throwing some clothes on, popping on some make-up and grabbing your handbag.
You then have a five second moment of madness while you try to find the car keys and head out the door.
This is where the first problem arises. Your feet are now drenched. For some reason whilst dashing around the house preparing yourself for the possibility of a break down/ blizzard responsible traffic jam/ unprovoked Yeti attack, you forgot that open toed stilettos probably weren’t your brightest idea.
As a modern woman you don’t not let this slight mishap slow you down and besides, the shoes needed a clean anyway. You whip out the ice scraper and rack your brains as to whether snow means you should drive in a higher or lower gear.
Once the car is 50% visible you belt up and head for the end of the drive, making sure not to injure any playful cats or unrecognisable children on your exit.
The journey is not pleasant. The heaters or on full blast, snow is flying everywhere, the radio signal is practically non existent (my Fleetwood Mac CD has once again sprouted legs) and everyone including the vicar is driving at 5mph.
Now, personally I’m not a bad driver and I know my wheels can reach 90mph in matter of minutes (yes, it should say ‘in a matter of seconds’ but the job doesn’t pay THAT well just yet!) but it’s easy to get frustrated when the residents of Guildford think snow is the dandruff of Hitler.
Half an hour later you reach the park-and-ride. On every fifth day of the month this is a wonderful invention, you save petrol, you save the environment and it gives you chance to check Twitter and grab a Starbucks before you roll into work.
However, for the other 325 days of the year the park-and-ride is a nightmare and especially when the ground is coated in wet sludge and you’re running late. Before you have even started your working day you have to clamber on the steamy bus. This is caused by the anticipation of 30 passengers eagerly awaiting you free-falling thud, as both you and your belongings plummet to the ground in a spectacular display of general flapping seal-ness.
With your wet feet, aching sides and elegantly wind swept hair you finally make it into work. All the previous agro deceases and the world is lovely again. All that is left to do is enjoy your Starbucks and laugh at the people who fall over outside the shop (don’t even try and deny it!)
The shop is dead and as the snow starts to settle and the day draws in, the only thing now on your mind is the journey home.
This is where problem three creeps in: how do you get home? Getting into work was hard enough, but now the snow has turned into sleet and the only way back to the car is on your hands and knees. In short, you’re buggered.
There are cars everywhere, everywhere you look it’s white and it finally pays off to have a black car. The cold weather may have disagreed with the central locking system, but when it’s the only visible car in a field of sheep then the game of ‘where did I park my car?’ becomes slightly easier.
It was at this point where I was great full not to have eaten my tin of soup for lunch, jut in case the worst was about to happen on the way home.
Fifteen minutes later the car pulls into the drive and you are home. No Yetis, no break downs, admittedly still no Fleetwood Mac, no emergency soup drinking and that was it. The one crazy day of white rain and it was all over.
All that is left to do is pop on a big hoody, a pair of thick socks, make a cup of tea and hit Bedfordshire.
I wonder what the snow forecast is for tomorrow, but have a feeling the wellies will be making a definite appearance.
Monday 15 November 2010
Parents do the funniest things
I’m all for parental guidance, advice and everything else that goes with it, but sometimes you just want to remove their voice box and watch them waddle round the kitchen like some kind of deranged headless chicken.
Don’t get me wrong everyone needs parents at some point, but for comical reasons I would occasionally love to shove my dad in the oven with a load of Aunt Bessie’s spuds and just see what happens.
Ok, so parents have to do the best thing and lets face it, they love any excuse to shout through the house (although it’s the first rule in the book of ‘what not to do and how to successfully annoy the neighbours’) but because they are the authoritive figures no one bats an eye.
The parental rar-rar-foot-stomp is also closely linked and most famously followed by the phrase ‘while you’re under this roof young lady…’ and this is when you know you’re in trouble. There is no amount of huffing that will stop your ears from blowing smoke and the urge to hurl something very heavy, or simply just kick the cat.
The up-side to these heavy hearted disputes is they are great to watch when it’s not you in the ring. Nothing beats the hyperbolic anger, stuttering and general nonsense that is spat out during a father/ mother and a miniature beast of burden ‘talk’. Arm actions are a favourite to keep an eye on: think charades, Hitler and YMCA
Long of the short is you are always in the wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what if it wasn’t you that forgot to close the door, so what if it wasn’t you that lost the trusty remote, so what if you forgot to feed the birds and one was accidently massacred by the neighbour’s pedigree feline…no matter what you plead. You’re guilty.
So what is left for the enraged parent to do? They have expressed their views on your repugnant behaviour, lost their voice through strenuous repetitions of ‘my house, my house…’ and used up so much energy that they have to go for a 30 minute nap.
In the mean time you have a biased discussion with parent number two, the first person in your phonebook or your one remaining cat (the one that didn’t get kicked half an hour ago) and try to piece together what just happened.
Then from the depths of the dark you begin to hear a rumble, parent number one has awoken and is slowly making its way down the stairs, and being extra careful not to trip and slide to the bottom. This will only result in you wetting yourself with laughter, crying through the pain and ending up in another argument on ‘how to not laugh at people when they fall down the stairs’.
So once the parent has tackled the stairs and your laughter is tightly locked away inside the apologies begin. They apologise, you apologise and everyone has a cup of tea.
What a fantastic way to spend your evening. You end up with several stress spots, mainly caused through irritation rather than stress, and spend the night needing to wee because you drank so much tea.
Well I guess it could be worse, you could be watching Xfactor.
Don’t get me wrong everyone needs parents at some point, but for comical reasons I would occasionally love to shove my dad in the oven with a load of Aunt Bessie’s spuds and just see what happens.
Ok, so parents have to do the best thing and lets face it, they love any excuse to shout through the house (although it’s the first rule in the book of ‘what not to do and how to successfully annoy the neighbours’) but because they are the authoritive figures no one bats an eye.
The parental rar-rar-foot-stomp is also closely linked and most famously followed by the phrase ‘while you’re under this roof young lady…’ and this is when you know you’re in trouble. There is no amount of huffing that will stop your ears from blowing smoke and the urge to hurl something very heavy, or simply just kick the cat.
The up-side to these heavy hearted disputes is they are great to watch when it’s not you in the ring. Nothing beats the hyperbolic anger, stuttering and general nonsense that is spat out during a father/ mother and a miniature beast of burden ‘talk’. Arm actions are a favourite to keep an eye on: think charades, Hitler and YMCA
Long of the short is you are always in the wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what if it wasn’t you that forgot to close the door, so what if it wasn’t you that lost the trusty remote, so what if you forgot to feed the birds and one was accidently massacred by the neighbour’s pedigree feline…no matter what you plead. You’re guilty.
So what is left for the enraged parent to do? They have expressed their views on your repugnant behaviour, lost their voice through strenuous repetitions of ‘my house, my house…’ and used up so much energy that they have to go for a 30 minute nap.
In the mean time you have a biased discussion with parent number two, the first person in your phonebook or your one remaining cat (the one that didn’t get kicked half an hour ago) and try to piece together what just happened.
Then from the depths of the dark you begin to hear a rumble, parent number one has awoken and is slowly making its way down the stairs, and being extra careful not to trip and slide to the bottom. This will only result in you wetting yourself with laughter, crying through the pain and ending up in another argument on ‘how to not laugh at people when they fall down the stairs’.
So once the parent has tackled the stairs and your laughter is tightly locked away inside the apologies begin. They apologise, you apologise and everyone has a cup of tea.
What a fantastic way to spend your evening. You end up with several stress spots, mainly caused through irritation rather than stress, and spend the night needing to wee because you drank so much tea.
Well I guess it could be worse, you could be watching Xfactor.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Christmas wishes
It’s official Christmas is starting to arrive, decorations are beginning to go on sale and the nights are drawing in. Thank goodness for big thick socks and university hoodies.
Anyway, all this premature Christmas excitement got me thinking about a blog I wrote last Christmas. It was a few paragraphs about what future Christmas days might be like, lots of burnt Christmas dinners and tucking my children into bed on Christmas Eve and telling them if they don’t go to sleep instantly Father Christmas won’t be able to drop off their presents.
Obviously this year won’t be any different to last Christmas, or the Christmas before that, which is in ways good and bad. It’s good because it means I haven’t unintentionally created any offspring and bad because I want to buy a load of decorations and literally ‘deck the halls.’
I think that’s the worst part about still being at home, not being about to coat the house in Christmas the way you want to. Admittedly that is terribly selfish, but it’s not as bad as it sounds…
When you have your own place and an income it’s very easy to make things ‘yours’ and new traditions are made and you don’t have the fear of treading on any toes.
When you’re at home there’s always a way of doing things and certain ways things are done.
In our house we usually send someone up to the loft to drag out the box of decorations, lights, left over crackers from pervious years and spend Christmas Eve in a mad rush trying to put it all up. The tree normally stays tied up in its packaging for at least a week before it goes into the lounge and Mum hides all the chocolates around the back of the tree so that nobody can find them and eat them.
This is a far cry from the giant Christmas box, full of red and white decorations, Christmas bunting, the Snowman DVD, candles, mistletoe, giant felt calendar (complete with chocolates), children’s Christmas books and much much more than will coat my future house. ..Cuddled up on the sofa on Christmas Eve, being kept warm by a log fire, with ‘Daddy’ reading ‘The night before Christmas’ to our twins and I.
However, back in reality and off planet Zogg my box of decorations will have to wait. At the end of the day not all traditions live on, some disappear. So I vow to put aside the new traditions for the time being and focus on those worth keeping.
Besides the perfect Christmas would involve me having to cook gingerbread men and let’s face it, I need a good 30 years to perfect that one!
Anyway, all this premature Christmas excitement got me thinking about a blog I wrote last Christmas. It was a few paragraphs about what future Christmas days might be like, lots of burnt Christmas dinners and tucking my children into bed on Christmas Eve and telling them if they don’t go to sleep instantly Father Christmas won’t be able to drop off their presents.
Obviously this year won’t be any different to last Christmas, or the Christmas before that, which is in ways good and bad. It’s good because it means I haven’t unintentionally created any offspring and bad because I want to buy a load of decorations and literally ‘deck the halls.’
I think that’s the worst part about still being at home, not being about to coat the house in Christmas the way you want to. Admittedly that is terribly selfish, but it’s not as bad as it sounds…
When you have your own place and an income it’s very easy to make things ‘yours’ and new traditions are made and you don’t have the fear of treading on any toes.
When you’re at home there’s always a way of doing things and certain ways things are done.
In our house we usually send someone up to the loft to drag out the box of decorations, lights, left over crackers from pervious years and spend Christmas Eve in a mad rush trying to put it all up. The tree normally stays tied up in its packaging for at least a week before it goes into the lounge and Mum hides all the chocolates around the back of the tree so that nobody can find them and eat them.
This is a far cry from the giant Christmas box, full of red and white decorations, Christmas bunting, the Snowman DVD, candles, mistletoe, giant felt calendar (complete with chocolates), children’s Christmas books and much much more than will coat my future house. ..Cuddled up on the sofa on Christmas Eve, being kept warm by a log fire, with ‘Daddy’ reading ‘The night before Christmas’ to our twins and I.
However, back in reality and off planet Zogg my box of decorations will have to wait. At the end of the day not all traditions live on, some disappear. So I vow to put aside the new traditions for the time being and focus on those worth keeping.
Besides the perfect Christmas would involve me having to cook gingerbread men and let’s face it, I need a good 30 years to perfect that one!
Monday 8 November 2010
How to chunder
I have an 18 year old brother and at times he can be the BIGGEST pain known to man. I guess this is pretty standard for any sibling, but I often wonder if he was born with powers to exceed any other pain in the neck and quite possibly take over the world with his general stupidity.
For the first time since my brother had passed his driving test (a whole year ago) he asked if I could run him and a friend into town, so they can get politely off their heads and wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi.
I guess this is fair enough and to be honest I did owe him at least one drop off, but with slippers, joggers and a ridiculously cosy hoody on, driving to town was the last thing on my mind. This does not include the cup of tea in my hand and Mock of the Week on the TV. In short I was not moving anywhere in a hurry.
So as fate goes 10 minutes later I was reluctantly driving the boys into town and discussing the beauty of student nights out and the best ways to handle drink.
It was around this time that the word ‘Chunder’ first made it’s way into the conversation. This word is slowly creeping its way up the list of genuinely horrible words, which if I ruled the world, or had any influence over the OED I would personally ban. (‘Moist’ is still the reining champion of words that should be removed from the English language.)
Anyway, the boys were trying to explain how deliberately throwing up before a night out will make you last longer and make your night better. Personally it sounds like child proof Viagra, but hey, who are we to judge if it works?
Minus the fact that this had been the stupidest comment I had heard all day, it was worrying that they thought this was ok to do. The youth of today are hopeless.
As students we were bad, but nothing along the lines of throwing up so we had a better night. It’s all about the pacing and fingers crossed this will be a habit that will soon be kicked out of the stadium.
Kids today…
For the first time since my brother had passed his driving test (a whole year ago) he asked if I could run him and a friend into town, so they can get politely off their heads and wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi.
I guess this is fair enough and to be honest I did owe him at least one drop off, but with slippers, joggers and a ridiculously cosy hoody on, driving to town was the last thing on my mind. This does not include the cup of tea in my hand and Mock of the Week on the TV. In short I was not moving anywhere in a hurry.
So as fate goes 10 minutes later I was reluctantly driving the boys into town and discussing the beauty of student nights out and the best ways to handle drink.
It was around this time that the word ‘Chunder’ first made it’s way into the conversation. This word is slowly creeping its way up the list of genuinely horrible words, which if I ruled the world, or had any influence over the OED I would personally ban. (‘Moist’ is still the reining champion of words that should be removed from the English language.)
Anyway, the boys were trying to explain how deliberately throwing up before a night out will make you last longer and make your night better. Personally it sounds like child proof Viagra, but hey, who are we to judge if it works?
Minus the fact that this had been the stupidest comment I had heard all day, it was worrying that they thought this was ok to do. The youth of today are hopeless.
As students we were bad, but nothing along the lines of throwing up so we had a better night. It’s all about the pacing and fingers crossed this will be a habit that will soon be kicked out of the stadium.
Kids today…
Sunday 7 November 2010
Fatal attraction
So last Thursday I packed the car, whacked Fleetwood Mac into the CD player, put my right foot to the floor and headed towards the M6. Just under three hours later I was back in Chester and began getting ready for what was guaranteed to be three crazy days.
Chester is one of those places that is, well, for want of a better word, lovely. Every time I come home the clogs turn and the words ‘I can’t wait to move back’ spill out of my mouth. The only fear is that after having three amazing years there, would moving back permanently ruin those memories? Would it be better in the long run to move to a new area code and continue life?
Becky and I stayed in the new travel lodge and armed with a gigantic box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne and some flowers we made the perfect couple. Shame about the small issues that we ate so many chocolates we (I) were close to regurgitating the entire box, the champagne lasted all of 10 minutes and it was 24 hours before the flower saw any water. The only things missing were our beautiful men and a few more pairs of shoes.
So we went out, met up with people we hadn’t seen for at least a week and were students for the last time. Minus the head banging, kebabs and Ikea trips it was just like old times.
The tears we all held back (apart from a small spell in Watergates during a bit of Ridin’ Solo- but it was our end of uni song so that’s acceptable) which was a surprise to us all. Obviously people may have been crying behind closed eyes, but it would be worrying if they weren’t. As you can see, deep and meaningful babbling is slowly creeping back in.
On Friday we hit the SU, which meant that a very passionate (note the sarcasm here) conversation with a guy who I had unnecessarily hated was finally aired. This left an odd sense of relief and admittedly he needed credit for letting a total stranger shout at him.
Then it was time for bed and after two nights of constant camera clicking, Becky and I plodded back to our hotel in the rain. I then kissed a stranger, fell asleep and dreamt I was somewhere else.
We checked out of our room at lunchtime, by which time Becky was 100% hangover free and I was missing my big comfy bed like never before.
And so this brings us back up to date on Sunday the 7th of November, in a cold house, still tired, with my cat pawing at my laptop and trying to read what I’m typing.
This rate I’m guaranteed to die a touch tying, cat-loving, spinster, whose best friend is her Blackberry and whose cooking skills can barely produce beans on toast. Ahhh, to be young, free and single. What a joy.
Chester is one of those places that is, well, for want of a better word, lovely. Every time I come home the clogs turn and the words ‘I can’t wait to move back’ spill out of my mouth. The only fear is that after having three amazing years there, would moving back permanently ruin those memories? Would it be better in the long run to move to a new area code and continue life?
Becky and I stayed in the new travel lodge and armed with a gigantic box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne and some flowers we made the perfect couple. Shame about the small issues that we ate so many chocolates we (I) were close to regurgitating the entire box, the champagne lasted all of 10 minutes and it was 24 hours before the flower saw any water. The only things missing were our beautiful men and a few more pairs of shoes.
So we went out, met up with people we hadn’t seen for at least a week and were students for the last time. Minus the head banging, kebabs and Ikea trips it was just like old times.
The tears we all held back (apart from a small spell in Watergates during a bit of Ridin’ Solo- but it was our end of uni song so that’s acceptable) which was a surprise to us all. Obviously people may have been crying behind closed eyes, but it would be worrying if they weren’t. As you can see, deep and meaningful babbling is slowly creeping back in.
On Friday we hit the SU, which meant that a very passionate (note the sarcasm here) conversation with a guy who I had unnecessarily hated was finally aired. This left an odd sense of relief and admittedly he needed credit for letting a total stranger shout at him.
Then it was time for bed and after two nights of constant camera clicking, Becky and I plodded back to our hotel in the rain. I then kissed a stranger, fell asleep and dreamt I was somewhere else.
We checked out of our room at lunchtime, by which time Becky was 100% hangover free and I was missing my big comfy bed like never before.
And so this brings us back up to date on Sunday the 7th of November, in a cold house, still tired, with my cat pawing at my laptop and trying to read what I’m typing.
This rate I’m guaranteed to die a touch tying, cat-loving, spinster, whose best friend is her Blackberry and whose cooking skills can barely produce beans on toast. Ahhh, to be young, free and single. What a joy.
Sunday 31 October 2010
Scary thoughts
This is the first time since I’ve started blogging that my blog has been the same as what I’ve written in my diary.
I love writing diaries, they’re great to read back when you’re bored or having doubts about certain things and it’s the little secret part of you that no one else has access to. A blog can be read by anyone and it can be written about anything, where as a diary is for your eyes only, it’s 100% personal and no one needs to know about the content.
My diary is titled ‘A note to my husband’ and is full of everything that this blog doesn’t contain: the little bits, the in between bits and the bits that will one day make a lot more sense. One day my husband will have full access to them, but until then they are going to line my bookshelf and make memorable reading for a rainy day.
Anyway… this is what I wrote:
“The weirdest thing happened last night. We (Becky, Nic, Gin, Brad, Tom, Will and I) went out, had a fantastic time, got back, were joined by two of my guy friends from here and then it hit me. I no longer wanted to drink.
They were knocking back bottles of wine- four in total and a bottle of Bucks Fizz- and I just didn’t want any more.
The thought of waking up today with a stinking headache, losing all dignity and being proud of it just felt stupid.
Maybe I’m getting old and sensible (some what doubt it, but it’s a possibility) but I just wanted to boot the guys out of the house, tidy up and go to bed.
Falling over and hitting my head really knocked some sense in to me. Ironic or what!”
As you can see this is a tad depressing having been a student for the past three years and living by the rules as every tax-dodger does and making the most of life. No matter how much my body was starting to love this ‘new me’ my head was still a bit confused.
Could this be the start of something beautiful or will the next blog start with ‘As if that were possible.’
I love writing diaries, they’re great to read back when you’re bored or having doubts about certain things and it’s the little secret part of you that no one else has access to. A blog can be read by anyone and it can be written about anything, where as a diary is for your eyes only, it’s 100% personal and no one needs to know about the content.
My diary is titled ‘A note to my husband’ and is full of everything that this blog doesn’t contain: the little bits, the in between bits and the bits that will one day make a lot more sense. One day my husband will have full access to them, but until then they are going to line my bookshelf and make memorable reading for a rainy day.
Anyway… this is what I wrote:
“The weirdest thing happened last night. We (Becky, Nic, Gin, Brad, Tom, Will and I) went out, had a fantastic time, got back, were joined by two of my guy friends from here and then it hit me. I no longer wanted to drink.
They were knocking back bottles of wine- four in total and a bottle of Bucks Fizz- and I just didn’t want any more.
The thought of waking up today with a stinking headache, losing all dignity and being proud of it just felt stupid.
Maybe I’m getting old and sensible (some what doubt it, but it’s a possibility) but I just wanted to boot the guys out of the house, tidy up and go to bed.
Falling over and hitting my head really knocked some sense in to me. Ironic or what!”
As you can see this is a tad depressing having been a student for the past three years and living by the rules as every tax-dodger does and making the most of life. No matter how much my body was starting to love this ‘new me’ my head was still a bit confused.
Could this be the start of something beautiful or will the next blog start with ‘As if that were possible.’
Monday 25 October 2010
Secret squirrel
Everyone has their secrets and nine times out of ten there’s a genuinely good reason for them. I guess you could say it’s what makes an individual individual and that can never be a bad thing.
However, this week my secret took its toll on what could potentially be the most amazing job ever.
Since I first discovered writing and men I have wanted to write for Cosmo magazine. I don’t know what it is about the male species, but for some reason when they are the topic I can write essays. So imagine the excitement, jumping up and down and general astonishment when I received a phone call from Cosmo offering me a month’s work experience with them starting this week…and then imagine the heart-break and anguish when I had to refuse the offer.
My general lack of intelligence had just blown a pretty huge opportunity and no amount of male experiences or ability to write was going to change that.
I had always thought honesty was easy, in male terms good guys are honest and bad ones get caught cheating. But when it comes to being honest with yourself it’s a whole other ball game. Your self esteem will instantly plummet; you’ll get sick of ‘encouraging’ comments and really wish you could re-write the past.
Sadly re-writing the past is a slight impossibility and no amount of chocolate will make it better. Besides you will just end up fat and let’s face it, no one wants to be a fat ugly journalist.
So it seems the dream job will have to hang on for a few months, while something a bit more important takes priority.
At this rate I will be paying somebody to write this essay for me, the real reason for having to turn Cosmo down, before anyone gets ideas about my unnamed love child…which by the way will either be called Hitler or Chardonnay.
However, this week my secret took its toll on what could potentially be the most amazing job ever.
Since I first discovered writing and men I have wanted to write for Cosmo magazine. I don’t know what it is about the male species, but for some reason when they are the topic I can write essays. So imagine the excitement, jumping up and down and general astonishment when I received a phone call from Cosmo offering me a month’s work experience with them starting this week…and then imagine the heart-break and anguish when I had to refuse the offer.
My general lack of intelligence had just blown a pretty huge opportunity and no amount of male experiences or ability to write was going to change that.
I had always thought honesty was easy, in male terms good guys are honest and bad ones get caught cheating. But when it comes to being honest with yourself it’s a whole other ball game. Your self esteem will instantly plummet; you’ll get sick of ‘encouraging’ comments and really wish you could re-write the past.
Sadly re-writing the past is a slight impossibility and no amount of chocolate will make it better. Besides you will just end up fat and let’s face it, no one wants to be a fat ugly journalist.
So it seems the dream job will have to hang on for a few months, while something a bit more important takes priority.
At this rate I will be paying somebody to write this essay for me, the real reason for having to turn Cosmo down, before anyone gets ideas about my unnamed love child…which by the way will either be called Hitler or Chardonnay.
Love rules
I never thought of myself as old fashioned, but in light of recent events I’m beginning to think my views on relationships are not only unrealistic, they’re also about as modern as bed pans.
Imagine this situation; you meet a guy 8 months ago, the pair of you go away for your birthday (which your parents pay for) and on this vacation he proposes and you say yes.
Now, is this romantic or is this sheer madness?
Perhaps if you had been living with your ‘now titled fiancé’ this may be easier to justify, similarly if you had been dating him for over 18 months that may be ok too. But if you were both living at your parents’ home, your parents had never met and your history of men and relationships wasn’t 100% faithful, would you think this was a tad daft?
This is where captain sensible comes in. I think this is nuts.
I have two friends who did get married early this year and they are the most loved up goons you’ll ever meet. They met at uni three years ago, the pair were inseparable-and if their sex noises were anything to go by-they will be happy for a long time to come.
If you love someone and want to spend the rest of your life with them, then do it. If you’re not 100% sure then don’t. It’s as simple as ABC.
Besides, you don’t want the guilt of increasing the population of children that were created due to the reply, ‘well I guess we should sleep together this year.’
Find a guy, date him, meet his parents, move in together, get married, have babies, spend the rest of your lives together and die happy.
Why should a girl have to settle for less?
Imagine this situation; you meet a guy 8 months ago, the pair of you go away for your birthday (which your parents pay for) and on this vacation he proposes and you say yes.
Now, is this romantic or is this sheer madness?
Perhaps if you had been living with your ‘now titled fiancé’ this may be easier to justify, similarly if you had been dating him for over 18 months that may be ok too. But if you were both living at your parents’ home, your parents had never met and your history of men and relationships wasn’t 100% faithful, would you think this was a tad daft?
This is where captain sensible comes in. I think this is nuts.
I have two friends who did get married early this year and they are the most loved up goons you’ll ever meet. They met at uni three years ago, the pair were inseparable-and if their sex noises were anything to go by-they will be happy for a long time to come.
If you love someone and want to spend the rest of your life with them, then do it. If you’re not 100% sure then don’t. It’s as simple as ABC.
Besides, you don’t want the guilt of increasing the population of children that were created due to the reply, ‘well I guess we should sleep together this year.’
Find a guy, date him, meet his parents, move in together, get married, have babies, spend the rest of your lives together and die happy.
Why should a girl have to settle for less?
Tuesday 5 October 2010
A little trip north
They say that home is where the heart is and well if that is the case, I should have two hearts.
I’ve always lived in Surrey and apart from three amazing years at Chester University the south has always been my home. This forms the basis of my little adventure down memory lane and with a few new experiences thrown in, will be one holiday I won’t forget in a hurry.
Fresher’s week at uni is every students dream and every graduate’s nightmare, so if you are neither student nor graduate this week is a free pass to party and re-live those university years. This is precisely what two of my ex-housemates and I did last Wednesday.
After packing bags, shoes and student friendly outfits I headed to Oxford, the first destination and homeland of the designated driver Becky. As tales of woe go this one was a good start to what was guaranteed to be four days of politely put hell. My car had broken down so I had to take the train to Oxford, been sent in totally the wrong direction by a bearded member of national rail, scuffed my new boots, engrossed myself in a copy of ‘Reveal’ and three hours later I was standing outside Oxford station in the pouring rain. A journey that was meant to take just under an hour had in fact tripled.
However, the sight of Becky in her BMW (and who said money was an object) was enough to lift my spirits and put us back on the road in the direction of the M6 and off to Chester.
We had decided to make a slight de-tour once we got north and headed to Shrewsbury to pick up Amy. Not only did this allow us quality girly time, but it also meant we could get ready in a clean and safe environment. This was something we knew that Simon (our beloved friend and now master student aka our hotel manager for the next few days) was less likely to give us.
Once we were scrubbed, straightened and on the way to CH1 we started to debate on just how cool we really were. Were we too old to be having our forth freshers week or should we be making the most of it, kissing every child in sight and having lots of unprotected sex?
The first night out (Wednesday) was to the new student destination D and E. To the students it’s called Destiny and Elite and to the locals it’s called Desperate and Easy, glad to see that the folk of Chester haven’t lost their classiness. This was great, hours queuing to get served, sweaty children and more VK’s than water. It wasn’t Brannies by a long shot, but it wasn’t far off.
We then bundled on a vomit coated bus and headed to back to Simons and bed. Now it is important to remember that we were not the only friends crashing at Simons, we were the only girls, but with a ratio of two men to women how bad could it really be? This is the point where I hold me head up high and smile at the thought of the other five squished into a bed and myself on the floor and slumming it as any student should. Bed sharing is something I’ve never enjoyed doing and this is no secret.
So our first night had been completed, we were feeling a little worse for wear, but our hearts and minds were strong and our urge for Pizza Hut buffet was to unite us all.
There is something magical about Pizza Hut buffet, every time I think of it I instantly think of Thursday mornings, scrolling through the previous nights photos, embarrassing stories and hiding from your previous conquests on the table opposite you. In short Pizza Hut hadn’t change, but we definitely had.
With our bellies full we headed back to Castle de Clague for hangover catch ups and to start making plans for another fun-filled night. Either way, the plans must have been slightly tainted because by 12:30 am on Friday morning we were back in our beds and snoring. Turns out all this ‘trying’ to be students is harder than it looks, thankfully this time us girlies had found a empty room complete with bed to sleep in. This meant the added bonus of no more floor to sleep on and the disadvantage of spooning with Becky and Amy.
Now, I hate moaning and really can’t stand people who do. But as with many contradictory things here goes nothing. Feminism should be made illegal, bed sharing should be made illegal and last but not least duvet hogging should be made illegal.
Allegedly I hog the duvet, kick in my sleep, continuously move and am probably not far off talking/ singing/ reciting Chaucer too. Yes, I am hell to share a bed with and it was due to this reason that I spent Thursday/ Friday night sleeping on the floor.
So after another interesting night sleep we waved Amy off and set about making plans for our final day in Chester. Top of the list was to have lunch with Kate, who had been my accomplice since we met on our English and Journalism course back September 2007.
Once Becky and I had dragged ourselves out of bed (see what I mean about contradictory) we ventured down to the Bouv. The Bouv is the shrine for second and third years. First years don’t really know about it and by third year you have memorized the menu, well maybe not everyone but certainly the members of 6 West Lorne 2009. After the worlds largest Toad in the Hole we decided to do the first of two things we had never done at uni before. Go to Ikea.
Ikea, it’s Swedish, it’s cheap and it can instantly lift any mood. More effective than alcohol and you get a free pencil, what more could you want? So the four of us Becky, Kate, Matt (poor innocent victim and friend of ours and Simons) and I pilled into Beckys black-mobile and headed west.
I am still unsure why this vast blue and yellow shop has so much mood control, but what I can say is that Matt bought an entire new room and Kate and I bought two matching cuddly rabbits.
Yes, Ikea is Toy R Us for adults. A few hours later Becky, Matt, Kate, myself and our two aptly named bunnies Rodger and Henry set sail back to Chester and our final night out.
As with any few days away/ holiday/ well earned time out, it would be rude not to end things with a bang. So for our last night we trekked it down to Chester SU, our own little SU and the one place where you could do pretty much anything and get away with it.
Due to it being the last night of freshers we (Simon, Becky and I) were prepared to queue and had accepted that we were not going to be getting inside in any hurry. This only added to the moment and surrounded by people from our year who had also come back to taste the glory, we laughed, talked and caught up on the four months that had past by. We were like celebrities in our own world, we knew where we were, we knew everyone and nothing could ruin our night.
Not even the moaning freshers demanding that our queue-pushing friends get to the back of the line could wipe the smiles off our faces. We were home.
The SU may have had a new lick of paint and may have bought up half of Ikea, but the same cheeky bar staff still strutted the counter, the floor still stick to our shoes and the DJ still sucked. It had finally paid off to know the men in high places and it left me itching to text and say thanks, followed by one seriously over due kiss.
I guess the fact that I fell/was pushed down the concrete stairs outside the SU, cracked my head open and woke up in hospital was probably a good thing. It certainly saved me a lot of phone credit that night.
All in all that last day we had managed the two things we had never done throughout our university experience, go to Ikea and go to A and E. Neither are really things to shout about, but both add to the beauty of our first trip back to Chester.
The drive back was so painful there are no words to sum it up and no matter how many ‘head banger’ nicknames get revealed I will always owe a huge amount to Becky. So here you go Becs, your own mention in my crazy little blog of wonder…thank you. It’s not easy to stick by someone when the are an uber pain in the arse or when they hog the duvet, but Miss Connell out did herself that night. She is a star in our tiny little world and a true friend.
So that brings me to the end of our little adventure back to Chester and I have probably missed loads out. The next step is to upload all the photos and see how much of a state we all really were. I had a fantastic time and will definitely move back to Chester one day.
I’ve always lived in Surrey and apart from three amazing years at Chester University the south has always been my home. This forms the basis of my little adventure down memory lane and with a few new experiences thrown in, will be one holiday I won’t forget in a hurry.
Fresher’s week at uni is every students dream and every graduate’s nightmare, so if you are neither student nor graduate this week is a free pass to party and re-live those university years. This is precisely what two of my ex-housemates and I did last Wednesday.
After packing bags, shoes and student friendly outfits I headed to Oxford, the first destination and homeland of the designated driver Becky. As tales of woe go this one was a good start to what was guaranteed to be four days of politely put hell. My car had broken down so I had to take the train to Oxford, been sent in totally the wrong direction by a bearded member of national rail, scuffed my new boots, engrossed myself in a copy of ‘Reveal’ and three hours later I was standing outside Oxford station in the pouring rain. A journey that was meant to take just under an hour had in fact tripled.
However, the sight of Becky in her BMW (and who said money was an object) was enough to lift my spirits and put us back on the road in the direction of the M6 and off to Chester.
We had decided to make a slight de-tour once we got north and headed to Shrewsbury to pick up Amy. Not only did this allow us quality girly time, but it also meant we could get ready in a clean and safe environment. This was something we knew that Simon (our beloved friend and now master student aka our hotel manager for the next few days) was less likely to give us.
Once we were scrubbed, straightened and on the way to CH1 we started to debate on just how cool we really were. Were we too old to be having our forth freshers week or should we be making the most of it, kissing every child in sight and having lots of unprotected sex?
The first night out (Wednesday) was to the new student destination D and E. To the students it’s called Destiny and Elite and to the locals it’s called Desperate and Easy, glad to see that the folk of Chester haven’t lost their classiness. This was great, hours queuing to get served, sweaty children and more VK’s than water. It wasn’t Brannies by a long shot, but it wasn’t far off.
We then bundled on a vomit coated bus and headed to back to Simons and bed. Now it is important to remember that we were not the only friends crashing at Simons, we were the only girls, but with a ratio of two men to women how bad could it really be? This is the point where I hold me head up high and smile at the thought of the other five squished into a bed and myself on the floor and slumming it as any student should. Bed sharing is something I’ve never enjoyed doing and this is no secret.
So our first night had been completed, we were feeling a little worse for wear, but our hearts and minds were strong and our urge for Pizza Hut buffet was to unite us all.
There is something magical about Pizza Hut buffet, every time I think of it I instantly think of Thursday mornings, scrolling through the previous nights photos, embarrassing stories and hiding from your previous conquests on the table opposite you. In short Pizza Hut hadn’t change, but we definitely had.
With our bellies full we headed back to Castle de Clague for hangover catch ups and to start making plans for another fun-filled night. Either way, the plans must have been slightly tainted because by 12:30 am on Friday morning we were back in our beds and snoring. Turns out all this ‘trying’ to be students is harder than it looks, thankfully this time us girlies had found a empty room complete with bed to sleep in. This meant the added bonus of no more floor to sleep on and the disadvantage of spooning with Becky and Amy.
Now, I hate moaning and really can’t stand people who do. But as with many contradictory things here goes nothing. Feminism should be made illegal, bed sharing should be made illegal and last but not least duvet hogging should be made illegal.
Allegedly I hog the duvet, kick in my sleep, continuously move and am probably not far off talking/ singing/ reciting Chaucer too. Yes, I am hell to share a bed with and it was due to this reason that I spent Thursday/ Friday night sleeping on the floor.
So after another interesting night sleep we waved Amy off and set about making plans for our final day in Chester. Top of the list was to have lunch with Kate, who had been my accomplice since we met on our English and Journalism course back September 2007.
Once Becky and I had dragged ourselves out of bed (see what I mean about contradictory) we ventured down to the Bouv. The Bouv is the shrine for second and third years. First years don’t really know about it and by third year you have memorized the menu, well maybe not everyone but certainly the members of 6 West Lorne 2009. After the worlds largest Toad in the Hole we decided to do the first of two things we had never done at uni before. Go to Ikea.
Ikea, it’s Swedish, it’s cheap and it can instantly lift any mood. More effective than alcohol and you get a free pencil, what more could you want? So the four of us Becky, Kate, Matt (poor innocent victim and friend of ours and Simons) and I pilled into Beckys black-mobile and headed west.
I am still unsure why this vast blue and yellow shop has so much mood control, but what I can say is that Matt bought an entire new room and Kate and I bought two matching cuddly rabbits.
Yes, Ikea is Toy R Us for adults. A few hours later Becky, Matt, Kate, myself and our two aptly named bunnies Rodger and Henry set sail back to Chester and our final night out.
As with any few days away/ holiday/ well earned time out, it would be rude not to end things with a bang. So for our last night we trekked it down to Chester SU, our own little SU and the one place where you could do pretty much anything and get away with it.
Due to it being the last night of freshers we (Simon, Becky and I) were prepared to queue and had accepted that we were not going to be getting inside in any hurry. This only added to the moment and surrounded by people from our year who had also come back to taste the glory, we laughed, talked and caught up on the four months that had past by. We were like celebrities in our own world, we knew where we were, we knew everyone and nothing could ruin our night.
Not even the moaning freshers demanding that our queue-pushing friends get to the back of the line could wipe the smiles off our faces. We were home.
The SU may have had a new lick of paint and may have bought up half of Ikea, but the same cheeky bar staff still strutted the counter, the floor still stick to our shoes and the DJ still sucked. It had finally paid off to know the men in high places and it left me itching to text and say thanks, followed by one seriously over due kiss.
I guess the fact that I fell/was pushed down the concrete stairs outside the SU, cracked my head open and woke up in hospital was probably a good thing. It certainly saved me a lot of phone credit that night.
All in all that last day we had managed the two things we had never done throughout our university experience, go to Ikea and go to A and E. Neither are really things to shout about, but both add to the beauty of our first trip back to Chester.
The drive back was so painful there are no words to sum it up and no matter how many ‘head banger’ nicknames get revealed I will always owe a huge amount to Becky. So here you go Becs, your own mention in my crazy little blog of wonder…thank you. It’s not easy to stick by someone when the are an uber pain in the arse or when they hog the duvet, but Miss Connell out did herself that night. She is a star in our tiny little world and a true friend.
So that brings me to the end of our little adventure back to Chester and I have probably missed loads out. The next step is to upload all the photos and see how much of a state we all really were. I had a fantastic time and will definitely move back to Chester one day.
Saturday 18 September 2010
Knights in white satin
I think you can always tell a good article by how quickly it takes the reader to go and write a similar piece themselves. Having recently applied on-line for the Cath Kidston catalogue I am now bombarded with magazines full of beautiful bits and bobs. Anyway, in the back of the latest magazine was an interview with an artist called Rob Ryan and one of the questions was “People have this idea about romance…” His answer was short and sweet, “To me, romance is seeing an 80-year-old couple…staying together…it’s about the long haul.”
It then took me a grand total of three minutes before I whipped out my laptop and began writing about romance.
Romance. The sheer thought makes me crave roses, chocolate and long country walks and if Jane Austen taught me anything it’s that on occasions getting your petticoat dirty will make Mr. Darcy smile that little bit more.
However, I do think Rob Ryan has a point. I remember walking along Chester river a few years back with an old friend and as we sat on an iron bench and watched the world go by an old couple walked past us arm in arm. My friend then told me his biggest fear was growing old. This seemed so contradictory as there seemed nothing scary about this old couple, two people couldn’t have looked more in love and happy if they tried. This couple summed up what romance was and it appears Rob Ryan saw the same couple.
That is another associating world-wind-word, love. The two are so closely linked it makes it hard to believe that you can have romance without love. I remember many a night when the stars have been out, the world has been silent and it has just been myself and a guy kissing under a full moon. But there was never any love there; even to this day there is no love there, just romantic situations that should have been shared with someone else.
I don’t think it helps that my parents have been together since they were kids, which means my personal expectations of romance are far more imaginary than most peoples. In my mind you find your soul mate, other half, spouse and that’s it, you two are set for life. Obviously there is more than one right person for everyone, or else the only reason these 80-year-old couples are so romantic, will be because they have spent there entire lives looking for each other. But maybe that’s why so many people get divorced?!
There is a quote from a film that says “I think attraction is often mistaken for love” but can’t remember the film…it was clearly a classic. Anyway, I think this quote is true and lust can disguise the obvious and why get involved with the viscous cycle of romance and love when you can save yourself from getting hurt and just play pretend.
Love is everything the world says it is, heart wrenching, hard work and beyond all, will make every emotion in your body go loopy. I fell in love once and he broke my heart, twice.
However, the memory of this old couple is worth a million more heart breaks and there is no reason why romance can’t be present when you’re 21, 30 or 80-years-old.
Until then dream of your prince, riding on his white stallion, ready and waiting to wrap you in his arms and whisk you off into the sunset…
It then took me a grand total of three minutes before I whipped out my laptop and began writing about romance.
Romance. The sheer thought makes me crave roses, chocolate and long country walks and if Jane Austen taught me anything it’s that on occasions getting your petticoat dirty will make Mr. Darcy smile that little bit more.
However, I do think Rob Ryan has a point. I remember walking along Chester river a few years back with an old friend and as we sat on an iron bench and watched the world go by an old couple walked past us arm in arm. My friend then told me his biggest fear was growing old. This seemed so contradictory as there seemed nothing scary about this old couple, two people couldn’t have looked more in love and happy if they tried. This couple summed up what romance was and it appears Rob Ryan saw the same couple.
That is another associating world-wind-word, love. The two are so closely linked it makes it hard to believe that you can have romance without love. I remember many a night when the stars have been out, the world has been silent and it has just been myself and a guy kissing under a full moon. But there was never any love there; even to this day there is no love there, just romantic situations that should have been shared with someone else.
I don’t think it helps that my parents have been together since they were kids, which means my personal expectations of romance are far more imaginary than most peoples. In my mind you find your soul mate, other half, spouse and that’s it, you two are set for life. Obviously there is more than one right person for everyone, or else the only reason these 80-year-old couples are so romantic, will be because they have spent there entire lives looking for each other. But maybe that’s why so many people get divorced?!
There is a quote from a film that says “I think attraction is often mistaken for love” but can’t remember the film…it was clearly a classic. Anyway, I think this quote is true and lust can disguise the obvious and why get involved with the viscous cycle of romance and love when you can save yourself from getting hurt and just play pretend.
Love is everything the world says it is, heart wrenching, hard work and beyond all, will make every emotion in your body go loopy. I fell in love once and he broke my heart, twice.
However, the memory of this old couple is worth a million more heart breaks and there is no reason why romance can’t be present when you’re 21, 30 or 80-years-old.
Until then dream of your prince, riding on his white stallion, ready and waiting to wrap you in his arms and whisk you off into the sunset…
Tuesday 7 September 2010
Mr Men
I have a theory about men. There are two types of them ones who are afraid of life and ones who are afraid of women.
Now is the time to ignore all stereotyping, previous experiences, general beliefs and just go with this idea for the moment…
The first group of men are terrified of the future and anything that involves change. Although they make plans to have a career, own such-an-such a car and live in a particular neighbourhood, chances are they won’t have a mortgage for another 20 years. In fact, they will probably have the same job and life as they did when they were 17 till they’re 70.
However, all is not lost for the non-committal man (as he is guaranteed to be) for he will have the power to seduce any woman who falls within his three meter radius. This may seem like total bliss to a non-changing man, every night a different woman, no strings and nine times out of ten no condom either.
The only real struggle is letting a girl go. Once the woman has made it clear to man number one that she is interested, man has a very tough decision to make-one which will no doubt decrease his brain cells by 50%-getting serious with this woman means potentially making future plans.
And worse yet, this would result in only being with one woman…and man knows that’s not enough, besides it would result in wasting their best asset.
Yes, the life for this one is easy and besides who would want to change it when it’s this good. There is a reason why this man will only use the mirror to do his hair in.
This vanity juxtaposes man number two, who will only look in a mirror accidently and even then never feel satisfied with what he sees. But who cares about physical appearances when there is so much life in the big wide world.
The increasing pessimism of this man means no woman will ever get a look in. If a woman manages to sneak through the net (most likely the girl next door) she better be ready for a relationship governed by rules and regulations and once a month sex (guaranteed to be missionary.)
In hindsight this loving, tender and doting male should not be far off perfect. He will rarely step out of line and apologises like there’s no tomorrow.
However, this is only because he is terrified of women. He has heard about their monthly fits, chocolate obsessions and raging hormones and what is there to like. If it wasn’t for his mother pressurising him to settle down he would still be single.
Plus if he treats his woman like a queen he won’t get on the wrong side of her. Right?
But holding hands aside, man number twos worse trait is his lack of cognition. Every decision made is controlled by his fear not to enrage woman. As a result a simple answer to the question ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ turns into ‘Don’t worry darling- ill make it for you-don’t you worry pumpkin bottom-I know how you like it-go put Friends on and ill give you a foot massage once I’m back.’
The once man (N.b slightly less manly than man number one) has turned into a mouse. This turn of events ironically ends in woman cheating on man number two with the likes of man number one. Consequently rendering man number two heartbroken and even more afraid of woman and the circle of life continues.
So perhaps there is some stereotyping and generalisations thrown in there and perhaps I have dated too many football captains to know they will always choose legs over brains. But at the end of the day the question is, are men all the same? There’s no correct answer to that one, but what I do know, is that life would be stupidly boring if they were.
Now is the time to ignore all stereotyping, previous experiences, general beliefs and just go with this idea for the moment…
The first group of men are terrified of the future and anything that involves change. Although they make plans to have a career, own such-an-such a car and live in a particular neighbourhood, chances are they won’t have a mortgage for another 20 years. In fact, they will probably have the same job and life as they did when they were 17 till they’re 70.
However, all is not lost for the non-committal man (as he is guaranteed to be) for he will have the power to seduce any woman who falls within his three meter radius. This may seem like total bliss to a non-changing man, every night a different woman, no strings and nine times out of ten no condom either.
The only real struggle is letting a girl go. Once the woman has made it clear to man number one that she is interested, man has a very tough decision to make-one which will no doubt decrease his brain cells by 50%-getting serious with this woman means potentially making future plans.
And worse yet, this would result in only being with one woman…and man knows that’s not enough, besides it would result in wasting their best asset.
Yes, the life for this one is easy and besides who would want to change it when it’s this good. There is a reason why this man will only use the mirror to do his hair in.
This vanity juxtaposes man number two, who will only look in a mirror accidently and even then never feel satisfied with what he sees. But who cares about physical appearances when there is so much life in the big wide world.
The increasing pessimism of this man means no woman will ever get a look in. If a woman manages to sneak through the net (most likely the girl next door) she better be ready for a relationship governed by rules and regulations and once a month sex (guaranteed to be missionary.)
In hindsight this loving, tender and doting male should not be far off perfect. He will rarely step out of line and apologises like there’s no tomorrow.
However, this is only because he is terrified of women. He has heard about their monthly fits, chocolate obsessions and raging hormones and what is there to like. If it wasn’t for his mother pressurising him to settle down he would still be single.
Plus if he treats his woman like a queen he won’t get on the wrong side of her. Right?
But holding hands aside, man number twos worse trait is his lack of cognition. Every decision made is controlled by his fear not to enrage woman. As a result a simple answer to the question ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ turns into ‘Don’t worry darling- ill make it for you-don’t you worry pumpkin bottom-I know how you like it-go put Friends on and ill give you a foot massage once I’m back.’
The once man (N.b slightly less manly than man number one) has turned into a mouse. This turn of events ironically ends in woman cheating on man number two with the likes of man number one. Consequently rendering man number two heartbroken and even more afraid of woman and the circle of life continues.
So perhaps there is some stereotyping and generalisations thrown in there and perhaps I have dated too many football captains to know they will always choose legs over brains. But at the end of the day the question is, are men all the same? There’s no correct answer to that one, but what I do know, is that life would be stupidly boring if they were.
Saturday 4 September 2010
Saturday night
Today was my first Saturday off in weeks and how did I choose to spend it…tidying the house and watching episode after episode of The Hills. It is official I have no life.
Domestic goddess aside it has been a good day. My parents are away and my brother has been at football all day, leaving me to have the laziest day of pampering and general female-ness. I expected the world of full-time work to be different, but I didn’t expect there to be so little time to keep oneself looking female.
So once the eyebrows had been tackled, nails buffed and legs stripped of about three layers of skin, I was back to my female self again. Men have it so easy it is unfair; they simply roll out of bed and put on the nearest (and cleanest) clothes.
Talking of men…apparently there are some nice ones out there. Enough said (she smiles.)
Domestic goddess aside it has been a good day. My parents are away and my brother has been at football all day, leaving me to have the laziest day of pampering and general female-ness. I expected the world of full-time work to be different, but I didn’t expect there to be so little time to keep oneself looking female.
So once the eyebrows had been tackled, nails buffed and legs stripped of about three layers of skin, I was back to my female self again. Men have it so easy it is unfair; they simply roll out of bed and put on the nearest (and cleanest) clothes.
Talking of men…apparently there are some nice ones out there. Enough said (she smiles.)
Saturday 28 August 2010
Life outside of tax dodging.
Wow. So this is the new blog. It’s like a shiny, newer version of the previous blog, without the student input.
My Name is Amie, I am 21 years old (still) and have moved back home to Guildford and am working full time in a clothes shop called Kew. It’s a far cry from Cosmo’s newest columnist, but everyone has a dream.
Life in the real world is great. I can’t explain how nice it is to have money in my account and not to have to worry about when the next loan is coming in-or not. However, I do miss the sleeping patterns and the 24 hour pizza delivery.
The student life has officially come and gone and the life of a graduate starts now…
My Name is Amie, I am 21 years old (still) and have moved back home to Guildford and am working full time in a clothes shop called Kew. It’s a far cry from Cosmo’s newest columnist, but everyone has a dream.
Life in the real world is great. I can’t explain how nice it is to have money in my account and not to have to worry about when the next loan is coming in-or not. However, I do miss the sleeping patterns and the 24 hour pizza delivery.
The student life has officially come and gone and the life of a graduate starts now…
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