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.
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