Ever since I can remember I’ve always wanted to write a book. The plot had always swayed between “Life at University” and a guide on “How to survive University Life”, but being the university expert that I am- one university and one degree certificate- it had always begged the question where am I going to get my research from?
…
I was going through my loft this morning in an attempt to find my 2007 copy of Microsoft Office Home and Student and I came across a book I had stashed away many years ago called “The Faber Book of Favourite Fairy Tales”. This particular book was not to be confused with any Disney Fairy Tales and in all honesty the reason it had been stashed away was because the illustrations terrified me. We’re not talking Brothers Grimm terrifying here, we are talking pictures that were draw by an old spine-chilling widow who loathes children.
One such tale in the book was called “Baba Yaga, the Bony-Legged, the Witch.” Now don’t get me wrong, the title of this book is definitely called “The Faber Book of Favourite Fairy Tales” but having never heard of this allusive “favourite fairy tale” the need to read on was second to none.
Ten minutes later and my knowledge on dodgy-legged Witches, who lived deep in the woods and residing in huts built on chicken legs, had vastly expanded. The only downside was there was no princess or castle insight. Instead you unearthed the moral that opposed every girl will end up satisfied, incredibly rich and unexplainably stunning over night. The message here was simple: a kind heart is all you need.
But is this what the kids of today really need to be told, that if you’re nice to people and have a kind heart others will too? Why not put them all in glass slippers and tell all of them their dreams will come true?
The most valuable thing I’ve learnt from fairy tales is that every time you reread them you notice something new. Perhaps this is a result of my degree and the practice to break literacy down and scavenge for deeper significance, or perhaps I am yet to read a fairy tale that totally captures the imagination.
If the original sources of fairy tales are fables passed down through generations then maybe it’s time some new ones were written…
Tuesday 8 November 2011
Monday 7 November 2011
Welcome back
They say the modern day woman has the ability to balance life, family and work. And all of this is on top of teaching her children a foreign language, while still managing to have dinner on the table by 5pm. So if this is the case then why can I not balance writing and having a boyfriend?
This has never before been a serious issue and writing about men (in fact all things male-related), has been as easy as the ability to drool over Daniel Craig's biceps. But six weeks and two days later the majority of my literary content is in the form of text messages and very little else!
For some bizarre reason I've always held back writing when I meet a nice man, the thought of him reading something terrible and having second thoughts maybe something to do with it. Perhaps this is a type of test...we shall see.
Anyway, now that I am unable to write about the trials and tribulations of single hood you could say I'm a little stumped on what to blog about. I could write about how couples-culture is utter bliss, or how kissing in public really does make people gag (I actually had a little boy look me in the eye and physically gagged while "The Man" and I were holding hands on a table in Jamie's) but where is the fun in that? If you're in a relationship you will probably think "aw I remember when we used to do that..." and if you're single you'll probably already be clutching your sick bucket.
So warning in advance, if you'd rather read about petit pois than mushy peas you may have to open another book.
Wednesday 28 September 2011
Daily commute.
So another day another dollar, will that phrase ever get old? Today my dollars are getting made in our Windsor store, which means over an hours train journey there and back.
I used to do a lot of covering in other branches, it was great sussing out other stores (seeing how badly they were run) meeting lots of new staff and getting a greater idea of all things 'Kew'. So its ironic that I should be spending my last week re-bonding with train timetables and covering another store.
Train stations are an absolute bugger at times and if I know they are my mode of transport the following day I can become a PMS driven woman. But when your sitting on the platform, sipping a coffee that isn't from Starbucks and watching the business world wake up all that Public Transport hatred vanishes.
That's not to say that I willingly got up an hour earlier, willingly burnt my mouth on my imposter coffee or willingly chose to spend 30 minutes (only 5 mins left now!) freezing at Weybridge station.
But that's not the biggest worry, not by a long shot. I'm currently sitting on a train waiting for it to leave and whisk me off to castle central, but this is the woman who left Gloucester at 7am one Sunday morning (to be in work for 11am) and ended up in Cardiff. Not only can I not cook, but my navigational skills also have a tendency to be non-existent: my negative dating credentials have just doubled!
But maybe that's half the fun of it, being paid to unintentionally tour the UK on British Rail. The sign outside my window currently still says Weybridge, but give it half an hour and who knows what station we'll pull into!
I used to do a lot of covering in other branches, it was great sussing out other stores (seeing how badly they were run) meeting lots of new staff and getting a greater idea of all things 'Kew'. So its ironic that I should be spending my last week re-bonding with train timetables and covering another store.
Train stations are an absolute bugger at times and if I know they are my mode of transport the following day I can become a PMS driven woman. But when your sitting on the platform, sipping a coffee that isn't from Starbucks and watching the business world wake up all that Public Transport hatred vanishes.
That's not to say that I willingly got up an hour earlier, willingly burnt my mouth on my imposter coffee or willingly chose to spend 30 minutes (only 5 mins left now!) freezing at Weybridge station.
But that's not the biggest worry, not by a long shot. I'm currently sitting on a train waiting for it to leave and whisk me off to castle central, but this is the woman who left Gloucester at 7am one Sunday morning (to be in work for 11am) and ended up in Cardiff. Not only can I not cook, but my navigational skills also have a tendency to be non-existent: my negative dating credentials have just doubled!
But maybe that's half the fun of it, being paid to unintentionally tour the UK on British Rail. The sign outside my window currently still says Weybridge, but give it half an hour and who knows what station we'll pull into!
Friday 26 August 2011
France: Could it be magic?
So here we are, a new time zone, a new language and an awful lot more crepes. In short, the Coussens family have arrived in France!
We left sunny old England at 5am yesterday morning (that's thursday the 25th depending on when this entry gets posted) headed for Dover, woke up in France and ended up in Serris some six hours later. Unfortunately what should have taken two hours had in fact tripled- Mum has some incredible navigational skills and let's leave it at that.
After flexing our French skills, who knew I could be so fluent, we located our hotel and made our way to Disneyland.
We decided to spend two days here before meeting up with the other three families tomorrow and heading on to Nièvre.
I would love to know how Disneyland has the power to transform even adults into children, it truly is magical. All that is stopping me from buying an overly-priced Disney princess dress is my boobs, apparently Cinderella and her princess crew didn't make it to puberty.
But not all is lost. While every little girl under the age of 11 is skipping around dressed as Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Belle, there is one Disney accessory that does cater for the older woman: the Minnie Mouse ears. Yes, you may not be able to fit into a dress, but you can wear a giant pair of black plastic mouse ears on your head. Great.
We had our final day in the park today and will be heading back later this evening to see the fireworks and parade. All I have to do is control the urge to rugby tackle one of the dancing princesses and rob her of her costume. Knowing my luck I would get caught (once the female victim had been bundled)with the Cinderella costume stuck round my neck- the result of eating far too many croissants- kiss the wrong prince and discover my parade dancing skills aren't as good as I thought they'd be.
So there you have it. I may have to admit defeat on my princess dreams for the time being, but with 10 days still to go in France who knows what magic will happen.
We left sunny old England at 5am yesterday morning (that's thursday the 25th depending on when this entry gets posted) headed for Dover, woke up in France and ended up in Serris some six hours later. Unfortunately what should have taken two hours had in fact tripled- Mum has some incredible navigational skills and let's leave it at that.
After flexing our French skills, who knew I could be so fluent, we located our hotel and made our way to Disneyland.
We decided to spend two days here before meeting up with the other three families tomorrow and heading on to Nièvre.
I would love to know how Disneyland has the power to transform even adults into children, it truly is magical. All that is stopping me from buying an overly-priced Disney princess dress is my boobs, apparently Cinderella and her princess crew didn't make it to puberty.
But not all is lost. While every little girl under the age of 11 is skipping around dressed as Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Belle, there is one Disney accessory that does cater for the older woman: the Minnie Mouse ears. Yes, you may not be able to fit into a dress, but you can wear a giant pair of black plastic mouse ears on your head. Great.
We had our final day in the park today and will be heading back later this evening to see the fireworks and parade. All I have to do is control the urge to rugby tackle one of the dancing princesses and rob her of her costume. Knowing my luck I would get caught (once the female victim had been bundled)with the Cinderella costume stuck round my neck- the result of eating far too many croissants- kiss the wrong prince and discover my parade dancing skills aren't as good as I thought they'd be.
So there you have it. I may have to admit defeat on my princess dreams for the time being, but with 10 days still to go in France who knows what magic will happen.
Saturday 20 August 2011
Serious note.
I'm all for writing things down and writing will always be a part of me. Granted most of what I write is female clamor and hormone induced, but that doesn't mean I can't write serious topical pieces too.
I suppose this is the perfect opportunity to write something serious and prove the above statement, but the truth is I would rather snort Smarties than write about politics, the economical crisis or similar subjects.
Obviously having such a nonchalant view on "serious" topics hinders my ability as a journalist and encourages words such as "ditsy" and quite frankly I dread to think what else. Either way, my writing certainly doesn't promote hard-hitting news, paper shuffling and "..from all of us here in the studio, goodnight."
I've been asked a lot recently about the area of journalism I'm most interested in and without a shadow of a doubt the answer is- and will always be- "features." That's the one thing I remember most about journalism in my third year, my willingness to work until dawn on any features that I had to do or needed to be done.
In an ideal world I would become a columnist, but I need to find some strong opinion that doesn't relate solely to men. I wonder if there are courses on how to become mean and opinionated?
But that is all by-the-by and for the time being the column of Captain P**s Off (my newly appointed nickname from the uni girls after my flamboyant rage about the world of retail) is on pause. Its on pause until an employer takes me from a retail scream into a feature writers dream- check out the degree-level rhyming there!
I suppose this is the perfect opportunity to write something serious and prove the above statement, but the truth is I would rather snort Smarties than write about politics, the economical crisis or similar subjects.
Obviously having such a nonchalant view on "serious" topics hinders my ability as a journalist and encourages words such as "ditsy" and quite frankly I dread to think what else. Either way, my writing certainly doesn't promote hard-hitting news, paper shuffling and "..from all of us here in the studio, goodnight."
I've been asked a lot recently about the area of journalism I'm most interested in and without a shadow of a doubt the answer is- and will always be- "features." That's the one thing I remember most about journalism in my third year, my willingness to work until dawn on any features that I had to do or needed to be done.
In an ideal world I would become a columnist, but I need to find some strong opinion that doesn't relate solely to men. I wonder if there are courses on how to become mean and opinionated?
But that is all by-the-by and for the time being the column of Captain P**s Off (my newly appointed nickname from the uni girls after my flamboyant rage about the world of retail) is on pause. Its on pause until an employer takes me from a retail scream into a feature writers dream- check out the degree-level rhyming there!
Saturday 13 August 2011
Motorway madness: re-writing the rules.
So its Saturday morning and I'm (yet again!) sitting in Starbucks having my morning dose of caffeine and willingly doubling the size of my hips.
My morning mocha does two things for me, firstly it keeps me from saving up too much money and secondly it makes up for spending the last 30 minutes on the M25 surrounded by madmen.
Now, this could be the part where I rant about female drivers- yes, I'm fully aware of the irony- or I could use this time to introduce my novel idea for a book.
I trust you've heard of the Highway Code and if you haven't then you should be shot. The Highway Code is a list of do's and don't's for road users, allowing all drivers to drive in a safe, albeit a tad slow, manner.
This is great, but is there a published book that tells people how to drive on a motorway?
As a result of my daily motorway journeys I have made a few observations and I believe these could seriously enhance the motorway experience for drivers and passengers alike.
Firstly, have you ever noticed that if you drive at 80 MPH in the middle lane (second lane if you're on M25) then the people in the left-hand lane drive faster to 'keep up'. This is a simple fact and one I believe we can use to our advantage. Not only does this eliminate slow drivers, but it also decreases accidents due to poor (slow) drivers as well.
The people that fall into the above category are the ones who drive at 50MPH in the slow lane, whilst listening to pre-recorded stories (read by themselves) in their car tape player and most likely driving a Volvo of some kind or another. This is of course excluding old people and wimps- lets face it neither should really be on the road.
My next motorway observation is the erratic driving and behaviour of the so called "Boy-racers."
Now, for this example I should point out that I currently drive a 2000 Reg, black Golf. It is not the most powerful vehicle on the road, but it does make a fantastic sound and bizarrely has the ability turn heads. Sadly the head turning isn't due to men looking at my car and thinking "Wow, what a set of wheels!" It tends to be a glance in my direction, a wink and a engine rev.
This is where I get a tad confused. Am I meant to participate in this testosterone race (you're in a 1.2 Saxo and you're not going to win) or just act my age and watch them accelerate into a lamppost. Believe me the latter is far more fun.
My initial thought was to discontinue the production of all Citren cars and ban all Saxo models from the road. But just as I congratulated myself on this genius plan a pimped-out Punto rattled past me at 95 MPH. Not impressed.
However, the world is not at an end and there is hope in the active culling of all body-kitted cars in Britain. It tends to come on those motorway-rammed rainy days, when the weather is so miserable you're left questioning your dedication to your job and when the radio stations are all playing the ultimate collection of suicidal anthems. There in the distance, pulled over in the lay-by, smoking away is a little hatchback. Through the blustering rain you can just make out a 17 year-old boy kicking his £5000 Alloy wheels (that's at least 5x more than the car is worth), swearing to the high heavens and wishing he'd bought a proper car.
If you are still not satisfied at the Boy-Racers comeuppance feel free to drive past them slowly, smirking away, windows down and singing through the rain "Things can only get better" by D:Ream. You may be surprised at how good it feels!
Alongside the children in their overpriced-pimp-machines a third motorway observation is the timid mid-life crisis men.
I'm not talking about the men in the DB9s, 911s or the SLRs here, I'm talking about the men who have the engine power but are too afraid to use it. Some cars are built to be practical and some are built to look, sound and drive like a dream. So why have a beautiful automobile if you're going to drive it like a child on its first day at school?
There is also a very simple solution to this one too, give me the car keys so I can race every boy-racer until their car self-destructs and voila, two birds with one stone.
So there you have the synopsis for my book: "How to drive on the motorway." Not exactly a work of art, but definitely something to mull over with a mocha in hand and a full days work ahead.
My morning mocha does two things for me, firstly it keeps me from saving up too much money and secondly it makes up for spending the last 30 minutes on the M25 surrounded by madmen.
Now, this could be the part where I rant about female drivers- yes, I'm fully aware of the irony- or I could use this time to introduce my novel idea for a book.
I trust you've heard of the Highway Code and if you haven't then you should be shot. The Highway Code is a list of do's and don't's for road users, allowing all drivers to drive in a safe, albeit a tad slow, manner.
This is great, but is there a published book that tells people how to drive on a motorway?
As a result of my daily motorway journeys I have made a few observations and I believe these could seriously enhance the motorway experience for drivers and passengers alike.
Firstly, have you ever noticed that if you drive at 80 MPH in the middle lane (second lane if you're on M25) then the people in the left-hand lane drive faster to 'keep up'. This is a simple fact and one I believe we can use to our advantage. Not only does this eliminate slow drivers, but it also decreases accidents due to poor (slow) drivers as well.
The people that fall into the above category are the ones who drive at 50MPH in the slow lane, whilst listening to pre-recorded stories (read by themselves) in their car tape player and most likely driving a Volvo of some kind or another. This is of course excluding old people and wimps- lets face it neither should really be on the road.
My next motorway observation is the erratic driving and behaviour of the so called "Boy-racers."
Now, for this example I should point out that I currently drive a 2000 Reg, black Golf. It is not the most powerful vehicle on the road, but it does make a fantastic sound and bizarrely has the ability turn heads. Sadly the head turning isn't due to men looking at my car and thinking "Wow, what a set of wheels!" It tends to be a glance in my direction, a wink and a engine rev.
This is where I get a tad confused. Am I meant to participate in this testosterone race (you're in a 1.2 Saxo and you're not going to win) or just act my age and watch them accelerate into a lamppost. Believe me the latter is far more fun.
My initial thought was to discontinue the production of all Citren cars and ban all Saxo models from the road. But just as I congratulated myself on this genius plan a pimped-out Punto rattled past me at 95 MPH. Not impressed.
However, the world is not at an end and there is hope in the active culling of all body-kitted cars in Britain. It tends to come on those motorway-rammed rainy days, when the weather is so miserable you're left questioning your dedication to your job and when the radio stations are all playing the ultimate collection of suicidal anthems. There in the distance, pulled over in the lay-by, smoking away is a little hatchback. Through the blustering rain you can just make out a 17 year-old boy kicking his £5000 Alloy wheels (that's at least 5x more than the car is worth), swearing to the high heavens and wishing he'd bought a proper car.
If you are still not satisfied at the Boy-Racers comeuppance feel free to drive past them slowly, smirking away, windows down and singing through the rain "Things can only get better" by D:Ream. You may be surprised at how good it feels!
Alongside the children in their overpriced-pimp-machines a third motorway observation is the timid mid-life crisis men.
I'm not talking about the men in the DB9s, 911s or the SLRs here, I'm talking about the men who have the engine power but are too afraid to use it. Some cars are built to be practical and some are built to look, sound and drive like a dream. So why have a beautiful automobile if you're going to drive it like a child on its first day at school?
There is also a very simple solution to this one too, give me the car keys so I can race every boy-racer until their car self-destructs and voila, two birds with one stone.
So there you have the synopsis for my book: "How to drive on the motorway." Not exactly a work of art, but definitely something to mull over with a mocha in hand and a full days work ahead.
Sunday 7 August 2011
Cheetah or Man?
It comes as no surprise that since leaving the university world some of my beliefs and attitudes have taken a new turn.
One such thing is my attitude to men in relationships.
This may sound callous but if a guy at university had a girlfriend, who wasn't at Chester University, then that meant you had the green light with him so to speak. There was nothing wrong with a few kisses and cuddles, everyone was young and there was no consequences.
However, now if I was approached by a guy and discovered he had a girlfriend he would be politely shown the door. Maybe this is the romantic inside and my determination not to share my non-existent sex god, or maybe I'm just normal after all?
This all sounds lovely, but there is only one flaw to this picturesque happiness: the good looking, smooth talking, instrument playing (9/10 he will play a guitar!) compulsive-cheating male.
They are out there, there's one in every Village and I can guarantee you will know at least one. These animals tend to be found eyeing up girls (and their mothers), wooing left right and centre, and charming the world with only a smile and a wink of the eye.
If you didn't think Prince Charming existed think again. He may not be straddling a six-foot stallion, but one touch of his bulging biceps and he will be straddling something else!
These are without a doubt the WORST type of men and there is absolutely nothing you can do about them.
I think it is men like this that are wiping out romance, they may not realise they are doing it- who are we trying to kid. With a First class degree in female-ology they know exactly what they're doing... but I truly believe romance is dying because of men like this.
What happened to roses, holding hands, love letters, kisses in the moonlight and that beautiful three worded sentence?
If you are after the meal deal instead of the real deal then join the queue and don't look back. But if your philosophy circulates around love being patient then I don't believe you shouldn't have to compromise your own happiness and your heart.
So grab a brown paper bag to catch your love sick: The time of the non-cheating male has begun!
One such thing is my attitude to men in relationships.
This may sound callous but if a guy at university had a girlfriend, who wasn't at Chester University, then that meant you had the green light with him so to speak. There was nothing wrong with a few kisses and cuddles, everyone was young and there was no consequences.
However, now if I was approached by a guy and discovered he had a girlfriend he would be politely shown the door. Maybe this is the romantic inside and my determination not to share my non-existent sex god, or maybe I'm just normal after all?
This all sounds lovely, but there is only one flaw to this picturesque happiness: the good looking, smooth talking, instrument playing (9/10 he will play a guitar!) compulsive-cheating male.
They are out there, there's one in every Village and I can guarantee you will know at least one. These animals tend to be found eyeing up girls (and their mothers), wooing left right and centre, and charming the world with only a smile and a wink of the eye.
If you didn't think Prince Charming existed think again. He may not be straddling a six-foot stallion, but one touch of his bulging biceps and he will be straddling something else!
These are without a doubt the WORST type of men and there is absolutely nothing you can do about them.
I think it is men like this that are wiping out romance, they may not realise they are doing it- who are we trying to kid. With a First class degree in female-ology they know exactly what they're doing... but I truly believe romance is dying because of men like this.
What happened to roses, holding hands, love letters, kisses in the moonlight and that beautiful three worded sentence?
If you are after the meal deal instead of the real deal then join the queue and don't look back. But if your philosophy circulates around love being patient then I don't believe you shouldn't have to compromise your own happiness and your heart.
So grab a brown paper bag to catch your love sick: The time of the non-cheating male has begun!
Saturday 6 August 2011
Shoe-looms
I'm not one for splashing cash and I've been brought up on the proverb "don't spend more than you can afford." But sometimes you do get hungry and your eyes do get bigger than your stomach.
Today Mum and I went to London. We spent the morning plodding around the National Portrait Gallery, peaking at black and white photographs of Movie stars from years gone by. Then in the afternoon we hit the shops!
In three weeks time 15 of us are heading to France to take on their waterways and to test our navigational skills- I'm not responsible for the map reading so we should be ok.
On the shopping list today was the usual holiday attire, shorts, flip-flops and a french guidebook full of useful phrases (thankfully my French does not require a phrase book, unlike my brothers! He learnt German at school instead of French.)
It was while we were walking down Savile Row that I felt a twinge in my bank account. You see I've been planning to treat myself to a certain pair of heels for a certain event that is due to take place in November.
This is admittedly not the wisest of things to do and if I was to tell you that it will take till November to pay for them you will see my predicament.
I made the decision on the shoes a few months back, and as my rent is not too expensive and I have no other bills to pay/ children to feed and dress I decided now was the only time I could really afford to be so extravagant.
Ordinarily I would have laughed and thought "Keep wishing Miss Coussens" but for some reason these shoes seem to scream at me "You messed up, but you know what? You came back fighting and you did it!"
I know that every time I look at these shoes it will be a reminder that no matter what the hurdle is you can always jump it and land upright on the other side.
They will probably only be worn about three times in my life (November being the first occasion) but they will be left in my will to my daughter and become the first of many heirlooms I hope to pass on down and add to the existing collection.
They say that money makes people mad. I'm glad I am poor.
Today Mum and I went to London. We spent the morning plodding around the National Portrait Gallery, peaking at black and white photographs of Movie stars from years gone by. Then in the afternoon we hit the shops!
In three weeks time 15 of us are heading to France to take on their waterways and to test our navigational skills- I'm not responsible for the map reading so we should be ok.
On the shopping list today was the usual holiday attire, shorts, flip-flops and a french guidebook full of useful phrases (thankfully my French does not require a phrase book, unlike my brothers! He learnt German at school instead of French.)
It was while we were walking down Savile Row that I felt a twinge in my bank account. You see I've been planning to treat myself to a certain pair of heels for a certain event that is due to take place in November.
This is admittedly not the wisest of things to do and if I was to tell you that it will take till November to pay for them you will see my predicament.
I made the decision on the shoes a few months back, and as my rent is not too expensive and I have no other bills to pay/ children to feed and dress I decided now was the only time I could really afford to be so extravagant.
Ordinarily I would have laughed and thought "Keep wishing Miss Coussens" but for some reason these shoes seem to scream at me "You messed up, but you know what? You came back fighting and you did it!"
I know that every time I look at these shoes it will be a reminder that no matter what the hurdle is you can always jump it and land upright on the other side.
They will probably only be worn about three times in my life (November being the first occasion) but they will be left in my will to my daughter and become the first of many heirlooms I hope to pass on down and add to the existing collection.
They say that money makes people mad. I'm glad I am poor.
Thursday 4 August 2011
To Morocco and beyond.
Apologies first. My lack of blogging has been appalling and as I am not really one for excuses you will have to settle for "I'm sorry."
Secondly after a very spontaneous trip to Gloucester last weekend it would appear that the Uni girls and myself are suffering from our first real batch of separation anxiety. As a result when the word "Morocco" followed by the words "One week all inclusive" was uttered you can imagine the excitement.
We know from past experiences that we can all live together so that won't be an issue, and we all get along like family so that won't be a problem either. The only exception to this theory is when I'm having a huffy moment or Becky is having to battle her Mac and Blazin' Squad- both instances cause great amusement and there would be much rejoicing.
Anyway, this is my breakdown of events when we land in Morocco: Claire spooning the toilet within 20 minutes of arriving at the hotel, after accepting a few too many welcome drinks. Amy on the balcony gazing out over Morocco and most likely humming and trying to be very very mature. Becky jumping on the bed and laughing to herself. And myself hyperventilating until I find my phone charger.
In reality we will probably lose our suitcases and Claire, get food poisoning on the first night and then get sold off for marriage. Note how I didn't write: "and then WE get sold off for marriage." Yup you've guessed it the victimisation is back!
The Sex and the City girls may have done it with camels, but we will be taking Morocco by force. (Unless we find a better deal for Butlins at Bogner first!)
Secondly after a very spontaneous trip to Gloucester last weekend it would appear that the Uni girls and myself are suffering from our first real batch of separation anxiety. As a result when the word "Morocco" followed by the words "One week all inclusive" was uttered you can imagine the excitement.
We know from past experiences that we can all live together so that won't be an issue, and we all get along like family so that won't be a problem either. The only exception to this theory is when I'm having a huffy moment or Becky is having to battle her Mac and Blazin' Squad- both instances cause great amusement and there would be much rejoicing.
Anyway, this is my breakdown of events when we land in Morocco: Claire spooning the toilet within 20 minutes of arriving at the hotel, after accepting a few too many welcome drinks. Amy on the balcony gazing out over Morocco and most likely humming and trying to be very very mature. Becky jumping on the bed and laughing to herself. And myself hyperventilating until I find my phone charger.
In reality we will probably lose our suitcases and Claire, get food poisoning on the first night and then get sold off for marriage. Note how I didn't write: "and then WE get sold off for marriage." Yup you've guessed it the victimisation is back!
The Sex and the City girls may have done it with camels, but we will be taking Morocco by force. (Unless we find a better deal for Butlins at Bogner first!)
Wednesday 20 July 2011
Lost boys
Only having four senses really does open your eyes to the world around you. I know it is no comparison to people who are blind or deaf but nonetheless sometimes its easy to feel a little inhuman.
Self-pity isn't an admirable trait in anybody but at the end of the day it happens for a reason. Much like everything in life, and if we spent every hour wishing we had done things differently or said something else then that would be a lot of time wasted.
I have a sneaky suspicion I'm just rambling now. It wouldn't be the first time.
Confused? Me too.
Self-pity isn't an admirable trait in anybody but at the end of the day it happens for a reason. Much like everything in life, and if we spent every hour wishing we had done things differently or said something else then that would be a lot of time wasted.
I have a sneaky suspicion I'm just rambling now. It wouldn't be the first time.
Confused? Me too.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
Still shining bright.
So its that time of day again, sitting in Starbucks and sipping on my daily dose of caffeine, the only difference being today I have opted for a Mocha instead of the usual Macchiato. How cultured is that!
I would love to know why Starbucks is such a satisfactory way to start the day? I'm sure its not the same as starting your day in a non-branded one of a kind coffee house but I'm sure the overall feeling that you can conquer the world once you leave is the same.
Life without this ritual of liquid would be a tad odd and I doubt my body could function without it.
With the cup in my hand and new sandals on my feet I am invincible and nothing can faze me. Not even the news of a past datee settling down with someone new can bother me, ok that may be a tiddly lie, but after all I am female.
Onwards and upwards!
I would love to know why Starbucks is such a satisfactory way to start the day? I'm sure its not the same as starting your day in a non-branded one of a kind coffee house but I'm sure the overall feeling that you can conquer the world once you leave is the same.
Life without this ritual of liquid would be a tad odd and I doubt my body could function without it.
With the cup in my hand and new sandals on my feet I am invincible and nothing can faze me. Not even the news of a past datee settling down with someone new can bother me, ok that may be a tiddly lie, but after all I am female.
Onwards and upwards!
Tuesday 5 July 2011
Retail in Reigate
Working in Reigate is lovely. Once again that is a very poor attempt at describing a place but that will have to do for now.
Anyway, I'm on my lunch break blogging from Reigate park and munching my way through a tuna and cheese melt- the quicker this is eaten the sooner I can attack my YumYum!
Sitting here reminds me of uni, lying on the field by the SU without a care in the world, just watching it all whirl past us and polishing off Snakebite after Snakebite.
Obviously I'm not drinking and although there are other people in the park/ sitting/ lying on the grass and eating their lunch it feels like its just me here.
*Amie takes a huge mouthful of her YumYum. It is very yummy!*
I guess what I am trying to get at is that I'm sitting by myself in a place I'm unfamiliar with and it doesn't faze me.
A few years ago the sheer thought of being alone in a field of strangers would have made me head straight back to the staffroom. But not today.
Somethings changed and I can't quite out my finger on it.
Anyway, I'm on my lunch break blogging from Reigate park and munching my way through a tuna and cheese melt- the quicker this is eaten the sooner I can attack my YumYum!
Sitting here reminds me of uni, lying on the field by the SU without a care in the world, just watching it all whirl past us and polishing off Snakebite after Snakebite.
Obviously I'm not drinking and although there are other people in the park/ sitting/ lying on the grass and eating their lunch it feels like its just me here.
*Amie takes a huge mouthful of her YumYum. It is very yummy!*
I guess what I am trying to get at is that I'm sitting by myself in a place I'm unfamiliar with and it doesn't faze me.
A few years ago the sheer thought of being alone in a field of strangers would have made me head straight back to the staffroom. But not today.
Somethings changed and I can't quite out my finger on it.
Tuesday 28 June 2011
Day seven/ Home Sweet Home
We arrived back on Friday afternoon and after a swift drive from the airport to our sunny house in Surrey the unpacking began- sunny in a very English and rainy sense of the word.
I then spent saturday, sunday and monday back in the role of supervisor in Reigate and all memories of sun, sea and sand rapidly disappeared along with my tan.
Today was the first time I was able to sit back and have a proper look at the photos. This probably isn't the best time to have a moan about facebook and their ever increasing 'photo uploading' time. But what I will say is six hours and several cups of tea later, my bum had left me and I had seen an awful lot of sunset photos.
It was lovely to get away and I hadn't realised how cluttered my thoughts had been recently, bordering on dangerous that's for sure.
So with some 375 photos, a few very impressive tan lines and a taste for travel, I begin settling back into retail routine and life as a graduate.
Roll on August when 14 of us take to France with four cars, two boats and what I fear may be an awful lot of onions!
I then spent saturday, sunday and monday back in the role of supervisor in Reigate and all memories of sun, sea and sand rapidly disappeared along with my tan.
Today was the first time I was able to sit back and have a proper look at the photos. This probably isn't the best time to have a moan about facebook and their ever increasing 'photo uploading' time. But what I will say is six hours and several cups of tea later, my bum had left me and I had seen an awful lot of sunset photos.
It was lovely to get away and I hadn't realised how cluttered my thoughts had been recently, bordering on dangerous that's for sure.
So with some 375 photos, a few very impressive tan lines and a taste for travel, I begin settling back into retail routine and life as a graduate.
Roll on August when 14 of us take to France with four cars, two boats and what I fear may be an awful lot of onions!
Friday 24 June 2011
Day Six: Greek participation
As is customary in all hotels the night time entertainment is not only provided but generally shunned as well. Maybe us Brits have come to expect too much on the entertainment front or maybe cabaret acts have all but had their day.
Last night we were lucky enough to witness our third Greek dancing act. Mum and I had previously seen the dancers earlier in the week, and after an embarrassing dragging on stage and horrific attempt at their national dancers we thought we were safe.
The dancers were not bad- I like to think that with my history of dancing I can distinguish between talent and the cause of Simon Cowell's next culinary heart attack.
It was probably the lead male dancer coming up to Mum and I after the show on the first night and attempting to Chat us up that was a tad unprofessional. I think it was his repetition of the words "I like rich woman" (his english wasn't the Queen's) whilst contently ogling Mums boobs that almost made me fall off the stall in a fit of giggles.
But like all females we managed to get control of the situation and our plan of escape was flawless: "We're lovers" we told him. The response we were after was a nod, him walking off, accepting defeat and understanding he had no chance.
Sadly the response we got was a colossal grin, further more ogling and a serious invasion of personal space. He also put his stool leg on my foot, but having already stood on my foot twice whilst dancing I was able to overlook this!
So when last night rolled up and the dancers took centre stage you can imagine Mum and my excitement- I knew I should have worn boots on my feet.
It was a lovely evening a BBQ by the sea, fairy lights, bunting (Another British trait. Why do we love bunting?) Ouzo and Greek dancing.
I was half way through a glass of white wine and mid conversation when I felt my hand tugged, and before I knew it I was on stage forcefully demonstrating my natural flare for all things Greek, again. I think this is called victimisation?!
The only difference was this time my participation involved dancing around fire and happy holiday goers throwing plates at the dancers. I was going to die!
Thankfully it was around this time that our camera ran out of battery, there clearly is a higher power.
After I had played with fire, literally, and retrieved my dignity (thankfully with my feet still intact) we were able to sit back and enjoy the rest of our night.
Maybe next time we should venture to a destination where they don't dance...
Last night we were lucky enough to witness our third Greek dancing act. Mum and I had previously seen the dancers earlier in the week, and after an embarrassing dragging on stage and horrific attempt at their national dancers we thought we were safe.
The dancers were not bad- I like to think that with my history of dancing I can distinguish between talent and the cause of Simon Cowell's next culinary heart attack.
It was probably the lead male dancer coming up to Mum and I after the show on the first night and attempting to Chat us up that was a tad unprofessional. I think it was his repetition of the words "I like rich woman" (his english wasn't the Queen's) whilst contently ogling Mums boobs that almost made me fall off the stall in a fit of giggles.
But like all females we managed to get control of the situation and our plan of escape was flawless: "We're lovers" we told him. The response we were after was a nod, him walking off, accepting defeat and understanding he had no chance.
Sadly the response we got was a colossal grin, further more ogling and a serious invasion of personal space. He also put his stool leg on my foot, but having already stood on my foot twice whilst dancing I was able to overlook this!
So when last night rolled up and the dancers took centre stage you can imagine Mum and my excitement- I knew I should have worn boots on my feet.
It was a lovely evening a BBQ by the sea, fairy lights, bunting (Another British trait. Why do we love bunting?) Ouzo and Greek dancing.
I was half way through a glass of white wine and mid conversation when I felt my hand tugged, and before I knew it I was on stage forcefully demonstrating my natural flare for all things Greek, again. I think this is called victimisation?!
The only difference was this time my participation involved dancing around fire and happy holiday goers throwing plates at the dancers. I was going to die!
Thankfully it was around this time that our camera ran out of battery, there clearly is a higher power.
After I had played with fire, literally, and retrieved my dignity (thankfully with my feet still intact) we were able to sit back and enjoy the rest of our night.
Maybe next time we should venture to a destination where they don't dance...
Wednesday 22 June 2011
The climb
Good morning world, thought I would add a blog in-between the daily ones, partly to prove that Mum and I have been experiencing some of Corfu's culture and partly to prove we've not just been tanning/ burning and drinking cocktails for the past five days.
Yesterday we toddled in to Corfu town, some how managing to conquer their bus system, arrive at our desired destination and leave in one piece.
However, what Mum had failed to mention to me was the gigantic lighthouse she planned to climb once we got there.
I use the word 'gigantic' purely because it wasn't until we reached the bottom that the sentence: "We probably should have got a guide book" was ushered by Mum. Therefore it was a gigantic climb and as I'm not 100% sure the actual distance in height so 'gigantic' will do for now.
If Dad had been with us he would have insisted we got a guide book and done things properly. As it was just Mum and I we played the tourist card to the maximum taking a ridiculous amount of photos and oooing and ahhing at the views as we snaked up the hill.
The views from the top of the lighthouse were fantastic and as a camera enthusiast I was furthermore kicking myself for leaving my SLR at home.
I could describe the view from peak, over the ocean, the teal reflections and general allurement of what we were looking at but I don't think I could do it justice.
After our hike we played hide and seek in the never-ending corridors of streets, munched our way through a packet of limoncello flavoured turkish delight, grabbed two tubs of ice cream and headed to the bus stop and back to Dassia.
Normally I'm a sucker for historic monuments abroad- not a lot will beat crawling on my hands and knees through the pyramids of Giza- but at least we got to see a little piece of Corfu.
The town was lovely, but it is a shame we didn't really have the opportunity to get lost and discover the country outside of its tourist attractions.
Yesterday we toddled in to Corfu town, some how managing to conquer their bus system, arrive at our desired destination and leave in one piece.
However, what Mum had failed to mention to me was the gigantic lighthouse she planned to climb once we got there.
I use the word 'gigantic' purely because it wasn't until we reached the bottom that the sentence: "We probably should have got a guide book" was ushered by Mum. Therefore it was a gigantic climb and as I'm not 100% sure the actual distance in height so 'gigantic' will do for now.
If Dad had been with us he would have insisted we got a guide book and done things properly. As it was just Mum and I we played the tourist card to the maximum taking a ridiculous amount of photos and oooing and ahhing at the views as we snaked up the hill.
The views from the top of the lighthouse were fantastic and as a camera enthusiast I was furthermore kicking myself for leaving my SLR at home.
I could describe the view from peak, over the ocean, the teal reflections and general allurement of what we were looking at but I don't think I could do it justice.
After our hike we played hide and seek in the never-ending corridors of streets, munched our way through a packet of limoncello flavoured turkish delight, grabbed two tubs of ice cream and headed to the bus stop and back to Dassia.
Normally I'm a sucker for historic monuments abroad- not a lot will beat crawling on my hands and knees through the pyramids of Giza- but at least we got to see a little piece of Corfu.
The town was lovely, but it is a shame we didn't really have the opportunity to get lost and discover the country outside of its tourist attractions.
Tuesday 21 June 2011
Day Five: Burnt
Sun tan lotion and holidays go hand in hand like cocktails and cocktail umbrellas, left shoes and right shoes and newly formed couples.
However, it will always puzzle me that no matter how much lotion you apply you are guaranteed to burn at least one part of your body.
As I type this blog I am currently nursing a burnt ear, two feet (both my own) and a pair of elbows (also belonging to me). Call me Charlie but the above body parts are not normally first on the list of anatomy to brun!
When my brother and I were kids I remember being constantly drenched in sun tan lotion and to the point where we resembled a couple of arctic creatures as opposed to children on a family holiday.
This importance of lotioning up has stuck with me throughout adulthood and my own children will become little lotion monsters too, so it remains a mystery as to why I have fallen victim to burnt skin.
On a positive note at least it's not the soles of my feet that caught the brunt of the sun- that would take some very special tanning skills!
Thankfully I've been blessed with the ability to tan very easily, this is something that the recessive ginger gene in my body is not a fan of.
So that's another reason why I'm baffled by this burntness and I'm refusing to let Corfu ruin my 22 years on non-burning.
Corfu may have distorted my speedo innocence, it may have throw numerous boobs at me (and a few male Greek dancers. Mum and I had to pretend we were lovers and than ran off- but that's another story) but I will not be beaten by a few frazzled body parts!
However, it will always puzzle me that no matter how much lotion you apply you are guaranteed to burn at least one part of your body.
As I type this blog I am currently nursing a burnt ear, two feet (both my own) and a pair of elbows (also belonging to me). Call me Charlie but the above body parts are not normally first on the list of anatomy to brun!
When my brother and I were kids I remember being constantly drenched in sun tan lotion and to the point where we resembled a couple of arctic creatures as opposed to children on a family holiday.
This importance of lotioning up has stuck with me throughout adulthood and my own children will become little lotion monsters too, so it remains a mystery as to why I have fallen victim to burnt skin.
On a positive note at least it's not the soles of my feet that caught the brunt of the sun- that would take some very special tanning skills!
Thankfully I've been blessed with the ability to tan very easily, this is something that the recessive ginger gene in my body is not a fan of.
So that's another reason why I'm baffled by this burntness and I'm refusing to let Corfu ruin my 22 years on non-burning.
Corfu may have distorted my speedo innocence, it may have throw numerous boobs at me (and a few male Greek dancers. Mum and I had to pretend we were lovers and than ran off- but that's another story) but I will not be beaten by a few frazzled body parts!
Monday 20 June 2011
Day three/ four: Books
I am the worst type of reader. I don't read continuously (not the best when you consider I have a degree in English lit) but when I do pick up a book I cannot put it down till the back cover is closed. This is normally fine unless you find yourself with four days of sunbathing to go and no more books to read!
I've just finished a beautiful novel by Victoria Connelly called 'The Perfect Hero'. Unsurprisingly it tells the story of a man and women who fall in love and their destiny is saved at the last minute when she realises he is her perfect man after all and she has fallen hook, line and sinker for him- already the book has a fantastic plot. Then throw in a million and one references to Jane Austen's 'Persuasion' and you can see why 48 hours later I am now bookless.
I bought my first Victoria Connelly novel back in January, another Austen themed read, and I couldn't put that one down either. It was called 'A weekend with Mr. Darcy' no prizes for the Austen novel this book was based upon!
Sadly she is quite a new author in the british seas so I will have to wait till July 2012 for my next instalment of Connelly's work. It's probably a good thing as too much fictional reading on heros, handsome men and old fashioned courting cannot be good for an already romantic brain.
I've just finished a beautiful novel by Victoria Connelly called 'The Perfect Hero'. Unsurprisingly it tells the story of a man and women who fall in love and their destiny is saved at the last minute when she realises he is her perfect man after all and she has fallen hook, line and sinker for him- already the book has a fantastic plot. Then throw in a million and one references to Jane Austen's 'Persuasion' and you can see why 48 hours later I am now bookless.
I bought my first Victoria Connelly novel back in January, another Austen themed read, and I couldn't put that one down either. It was called 'A weekend with Mr. Darcy' no prizes for the Austen novel this book was based upon!
Sadly she is quite a new author in the british seas so I will have to wait till July 2012 for my next instalment of Connelly's work. It's probably a good thing as too much fictional reading on heros, handsome men and old fashioned courting cannot be good for an already romantic brain.
Saturday 18 June 2011
Day two.
Maybe its my middle-class upbringing or my love for manly men but there is one item of clothing that sends shivers down my spine and puts fear in my heart: speedos.
Now I will accept that some women love men in banana hammocks- let's not forget Freddie Ljungberg's CK tighty whities- but is there a more undesirable sight?
We have been here for 30 hours now and it is total bliss. However, I have come to one conclusion: everywhere you look there are men in speedos. In short Mum and I left the UK and vacated to budgie smuggler heaven!
But you may be thinking: 'If that's the worst of your problems why are you complaining and secondly stop starring at old men!" but there's more...
Whilst averting my eyes from the above you also have watch out for the old topless women.
Now this is also a holiday norm for most women and there's nothing wrong with it- after my brief boobage escape yesterday I'm practically one of the team.
But the sight of another woman makes me realise just how shy and reserved I really am. Maybe tomorrow I shall set the beasts free and take on the world...even though knowing my luck I'd probably end up with my bikini top wrapped around my head, trip over and land head first in some unexpecting pair of dong definers.
Now I will accept that some women love men in banana hammocks- let's not forget Freddie Ljungberg's CK tighty whities- but is there a more undesirable sight?
We have been here for 30 hours now and it is total bliss. However, I have come to one conclusion: everywhere you look there are men in speedos. In short Mum and I left the UK and vacated to budgie smuggler heaven!
But you may be thinking: 'If that's the worst of your problems why are you complaining and secondly stop starring at old men!" but there's more...
Whilst averting my eyes from the above you also have watch out for the old topless women.
Now this is also a holiday norm for most women and there's nothing wrong with it- after my brief boobage escape yesterday I'm practically one of the team.
But the sight of another woman makes me realise just how shy and reserved I really am. Maybe tomorrow I shall set the beasts free and take on the world...even though knowing my luck I'd probably end up with my bikini top wrapped around my head, trip over and land head first in some unexpecting pair of dong definers.
Friday 17 June 2011
Bodily harn
It's official, my bikini hates me...just flashed half the beach including the 17 year-old male bar tender.
Miss Coussens 0: devil bikini and corrupted boobs 1.
Miss Coussens 0: devil bikini and corrupted boobs 1.
Greetings from Corfu
Hello and welcome to Corfu!
Mum and I have been here for three hours so far and all is well. The average age is 50+, I have been winked at by an old wrinkly and just walked past a false leg.
Sipping on an ice coffee, gazing out onto the ocean. So far so good!
Mum and I have been here for three hours so far and all is well. The average age is 50+, I have been winked at by an old wrinkly and just walked past a false leg.
Sipping on an ice coffee, gazing out onto the ocean. So far so good!
Thursday 16 June 2011
Creativity
I’ve been feeling a tad creative hence the design changes. The photo in the background- that has quite literally taken over-was taken by me six years ago on a very misty morning in a notorious part of Surrey. This is one of my favourite photos I have ever taken, it was not touched by photoshop and was taken with a click of the button on my 1968 Chinon CS (that’s my SLR to all you non-camera folk).
The aim is to include more photos into these blogs, spice it up a little, add some shades of black and white to these pages.
As for now I am off to pack my suitcase for a trip to Corfu with my lover...haha. If I had a lover I would have nothing to write about.
The aim is to include more photos into these blogs, spice it up a little, add some shades of black and white to these pages.
As for now I am off to pack my suitcase for a trip to Corfu with my lover...haha. If I had a lover I would have nothing to write about.
Out of the box
Some songs trigger memories and others arouse emotion. With or without you by U2 is one such song that makes my body numb. One day I will not listen to the lyrics word-by-word or think back to that crematorium that urge to run from my seat, drag back that curtain and erase that wooden coffin.
---
Sometimes in the dark your mind can wonder and as the night closes in the terrors appear. The terrors seep out from your subconscious and suffocate you in a transition from adult to child.
A simple cry is masculine and an uncontrollable emotion vociferates from within.
Selfishness dominates. Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you tell me? Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Whatever happened to you?
You were the one who brought us all together and like Pritt stick you stuck it out. You made us weep and you made us smile, and written in a blog you improved my mood for a while.
So no more tears and no more mess, apologies you never saw me out of my ...
See right now you’ve got me smiling and on a quick change of subject my nails need filing.
So without much ado I bid you goodnight, please don’t watch while I sleep it will give you a fright.
I would say “We’ll be seeing you” but we know that’s not true, we’ll all get through this together and it’s all because of you.
---
It almost seems wrong to turn such strong emotion into literature, even if writers have been doing it for centuries.
It is tipping it down with rain as I write this, how’s that for pathetic fallacy!
---
Sometimes in the dark your mind can wonder and as the night closes in the terrors appear. The terrors seep out from your subconscious and suffocate you in a transition from adult to child.
A simple cry is masculine and an uncontrollable emotion vociferates from within.
Selfishness dominates. Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you tell me? Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Whatever happened to you?
You were the one who brought us all together and like Pritt stick you stuck it out. You made us weep and you made us smile, and written in a blog you improved my mood for a while.
So no more tears and no more mess, apologies you never saw me out of my ...
See right now you’ve got me smiling and on a quick change of subject my nails need filing.
So without much ado I bid you goodnight, please don’t watch while I sleep it will give you a fright.
I would say “We’ll be seeing you” but we know that’s not true, we’ll all get through this together and it’s all because of you.
---
It almost seems wrong to turn such strong emotion into literature, even if writers have been doing it for centuries.
It is tipping it down with rain as I write this, how’s that for pathetic fallacy!
Sunday 12 June 2011
Ducking around
Hmmm what to write about? I'm in the mood to write, so the best thing to do would be to write. Right?
Today I popped to Oxford to see Becky poos (Old housemate and culinary expert.) I wish I knew my driving is so therapeutic? The girls at uni could tell you many a story in which I've been found crying in my car and the smile on my face when I get out the car and lock the door.
Anyway, I was driving down the M40 singing along to Stornoway (Becs may be able to cook but it took her three years to convince me the band were good!) just coming up to junction 6 through the chalk cliffs and I had a sudden thought...why don't you see birdwatchers traipsing the motorways? Granted the birds on the motorways are squished, mangled into a pulp and generally dead, but for all we know they could be rare species/ endangered types and so on.
It was around this time of constructive pondering that I almost hit the duck.
Now it still remains a mystery why I almost hit a duck whilst driving at 70mph on the M40, or more importantly where the duck came from? Apart from the duck clearly being suicidal and getting its poultry mixed up and playing chicken, it took a while to sink in what had just happened. So much so that I spent the next 15 minutes trying to recall if ducks could actually fly or not.
However it got worse. After surviving the killer duck incident and arriving in Poundon, Becs and I headed to MK for a bit of shopping and a spot of grub. We nominated Marks and Spencer as our lunch destination (their wraps are to die for!) and we set about scanning the selections for our belly liners. For some odd reason the wrap I normally go for didn't look to appealing, Hoisin duck.
I opted for the chicken wrap instead, but it didn't quite replace my urge for a duck wrap.
I guess in one respect I'm lucky, if Duck a la windscreen had been on the menu I may have been put of duck for life.
Sadly that didn't conquer my craving for a wrap though. Maybe that shall be lunch tomorrow...just hope I don't hit a chicken!
Today I popped to Oxford to see Becky poos (Old housemate and culinary expert.) I wish I knew my driving is so therapeutic? The girls at uni could tell you many a story in which I've been found crying in my car and the smile on my face when I get out the car and lock the door.
Anyway, I was driving down the M40 singing along to Stornoway (Becs may be able to cook but it took her three years to convince me the band were good!) just coming up to junction 6 through the chalk cliffs and I had a sudden thought...why don't you see birdwatchers traipsing the motorways? Granted the birds on the motorways are squished, mangled into a pulp and generally dead, but for all we know they could be rare species/ endangered types and so on.
It was around this time of constructive pondering that I almost hit the duck.
Now it still remains a mystery why I almost hit a duck whilst driving at 70mph on the M40, or more importantly where the duck came from? Apart from the duck clearly being suicidal and getting its poultry mixed up and playing chicken, it took a while to sink in what had just happened. So much so that I spent the next 15 minutes trying to recall if ducks could actually fly or not.
However it got worse. After surviving the killer duck incident and arriving in Poundon, Becs and I headed to MK for a bit of shopping and a spot of grub. We nominated Marks and Spencer as our lunch destination (their wraps are to die for!) and we set about scanning the selections for our belly liners. For some odd reason the wrap I normally go for didn't look to appealing, Hoisin duck.
I opted for the chicken wrap instead, but it didn't quite replace my urge for a duck wrap.
I guess in one respect I'm lucky, if Duck a la windscreen had been on the menu I may have been put of duck for life.
Sadly that didn't conquer my craving for a wrap though. Maybe that shall be lunch tomorrow...just hope I don't hit a chicken!
Thursday 9 June 2011
A sweet little mystery
There is something very odd and almost nostalgic about turning on my laptop. I never use it these days partly because it’s so slow that it drives me doo-dah and secondly I can do everything whether it be emailing/ blog updating/ Twitter/ Facebook on my phone. Never the less it does put a smile on my face when the background of my old house mates and I dress head-to-toe in orange clothing pops up.
I have had a few crazy weeks and life seems to have merged into a life of serious work and no play. Don’t get me wrong the experiences have been phenomenal, actually phenomenal may be too big a descriptive word perhaps insightful is better, but life outside of work has all but disappeared.
It was this realisation and a few recent comments about this blog being how shall we put it, slightly themed, that got my thinking about what I really want out of life.
There are many sayings and proverbs that tell us life is too short and that we should make the most of what we have, seize opportunities and so forth but what if taking that leap is more terrifying than length of life itself?
Unfortunately none of this is helped by the fact that I am about as decisive as a very indecisive person can be- I use to be indecisive and now I’m not sure- but it is as if the leap that should be taken is getting bigger and the time to take the leap is getting smaller.
I never planned to work in the shop for this long once Uni had ended, but then I never made a plan in the first place. In a cringing way (We are talking extremely cringing here- finding your 18 year-old brother’s friends modelling your knickers kind of cringing) after Uni you got married and had children. That’s what my parents did and that’s what all the adults I grew up with did.
I am not an anti-feminist although my housemates will disagree but life has never been grey for me, you got married and have children or have a career. How can you be with your family and work around the clock at the same time? You simply can’t.
To me family has always and will continue to be a big part of my life. When you come from a family of eight as in my Parents, Brother, Aunt, Uncle, Cousin and Nan the thought of not being close by is as daunting as the prospects of not fulfilling your life.
At the age of 22 the entire world and its oceans are at my feet and yet for some reason all I want to do is paddle around a bit and then put my feet back into my favourite pair of heels.
I was determined not to write a blog about men/ relationships or love, but the truth is everything else scares me. In fact it does more than scare me, it scares the life out of me.
There is only one thing niggling at the back of my head. If I really was too scared of the unknown then why am I curious about it? What is out there that I haven’t seen, what am I missing and what is waiting for me out there?
One of my old housemates “The Oxfordshirett” suggested to me that we should go travelling for a year. At the time I laughed. Now we are looking at plane tickets.
Maybe it is time for Amie to get of this wall and go find her bed of roses… just as soon as she gets her new Mac that is.
I have had a few crazy weeks and life seems to have merged into a life of serious work and no play. Don’t get me wrong the experiences have been phenomenal, actually phenomenal may be too big a descriptive word perhaps insightful is better, but life outside of work has all but disappeared.
It was this realisation and a few recent comments about this blog being how shall we put it, slightly themed, that got my thinking about what I really want out of life.
There are many sayings and proverbs that tell us life is too short and that we should make the most of what we have, seize opportunities and so forth but what if taking that leap is more terrifying than length of life itself?
Unfortunately none of this is helped by the fact that I am about as decisive as a very indecisive person can be- I use to be indecisive and now I’m not sure- but it is as if the leap that should be taken is getting bigger and the time to take the leap is getting smaller.
I never planned to work in the shop for this long once Uni had ended, but then I never made a plan in the first place. In a cringing way (We are talking extremely cringing here- finding your 18 year-old brother’s friends modelling your knickers kind of cringing) after Uni you got married and had children. That’s what my parents did and that’s what all the adults I grew up with did.
I am not an anti-feminist although my housemates will disagree but life has never been grey for me, you got married and have children or have a career. How can you be with your family and work around the clock at the same time? You simply can’t.
To me family has always and will continue to be a big part of my life. When you come from a family of eight as in my Parents, Brother, Aunt, Uncle, Cousin and Nan the thought of not being close by is as daunting as the prospects of not fulfilling your life.
At the age of 22 the entire world and its oceans are at my feet and yet for some reason all I want to do is paddle around a bit and then put my feet back into my favourite pair of heels.
I was determined not to write a blog about men/ relationships or love, but the truth is everything else scares me. In fact it does more than scare me, it scares the life out of me.
There is only one thing niggling at the back of my head. If I really was too scared of the unknown then why am I curious about it? What is out there that I haven’t seen, what am I missing and what is waiting for me out there?
One of my old housemates “The Oxfordshirett” suggested to me that we should go travelling for a year. At the time I laughed. Now we are looking at plane tickets.
Maybe it is time for Amie to get of this wall and go find her bed of roses… just as soon as she gets her new Mac that is.
Tuesday 7 June 2011
P. s Size issues
P.s Please note that I am not sizest.
I have dated many a small male: a person of below average height, a person un-blessed with tallness, a person whom shouldn't be kissed whilst wearing heels (you not the male- you may have others issues there), a male of the miniature department, an undersized individual, a pocket sized, squatty, stunted, sawed-off man.
I've dated tall ones too. Can you top 6' 6"? Talk about a pain in the neck.
I have dated many a small male: a person of below average height, a person un-blessed with tallness, a person whom shouldn't be kissed whilst wearing heels (you not the male- you may have others issues there), a male of the miniature department, an undersized individual, a pocket sized, squatty, stunted, sawed-off man.
I've dated tall ones too. Can you top 6' 6"? Talk about a pain in the neck.
For good measure
I am a little person. Not necessarily in height (all 5' 6" of me) but when it comes to having to do BIG things it scares me a bit.
It occurred to me the other day that I have been living at home for a year now and my memory of living in a home of my own is rapidly fading.
Don't get me wrong I can't complain, but when the imprisonment of a family home leaves you sneaking out in the middles of the night, you do start to question your living arrangements.
I also promised myself I would stop writing blogs about my university experiences and men, there are a million other topics to ramble on about and my brain must try harder.
The truth is it has been a year down the line and I still don't know what I'm doing. I'm still the same girl, but slightly nicer, calmer and far more mature (Willy willy willy.)
The only downside is my expensive taste has sky rocketed and the CD collection in my car contains more Rat Pack compilations and Power Ballads than is good for it.
Maybe I am prematurely ageing? Maybe there is a higher force telling me I've been a child for too long? Thank you Grandma but I will always be your little girl (x.)
So there you have it, grabbing life by the male bits has officially worn me out but it has got me thinking- again.
As the past haunts us the future daunts us.
If only Jiminy Cricket doubled as a life coach and a conscience, there would be no unnecessary panicking then. And when the right job, the right house and the right man come along we will be ready.
(So much for not writing about men!)
So I raise a hypothetical glass in the air and say something that sums up this blog.
...Size isn't everything.
It occurred to me the other day that I have been living at home for a year now and my memory of living in a home of my own is rapidly fading.
Don't get me wrong I can't complain, but when the imprisonment of a family home leaves you sneaking out in the middles of the night, you do start to question your living arrangements.
I also promised myself I would stop writing blogs about my university experiences and men, there are a million other topics to ramble on about and my brain must try harder.
The truth is it has been a year down the line and I still don't know what I'm doing. I'm still the same girl, but slightly nicer, calmer and far more mature (Willy willy willy.)
The only downside is my expensive taste has sky rocketed and the CD collection in my car contains more Rat Pack compilations and Power Ballads than is good for it.
Maybe I am prematurely ageing? Maybe there is a higher force telling me I've been a child for too long? Thank you Grandma but I will always be your little girl (x.)
So there you have it, grabbing life by the male bits has officially worn me out but it has got me thinking- again.
As the past haunts us the future daunts us.
If only Jiminy Cricket doubled as a life coach and a conscience, there would be no unnecessary panicking then. And when the right job, the right house and the right man come along we will be ready.
(So much for not writing about men!)
So I raise a hypothetical glass in the air and say something that sums up this blog.
...Size isn't everything.
Tuesday 24 May 2011
How to successfully bag a man
Every girl knows that somewhere out there in the big wide world their perfect man is waiting for them. According to legend this will happen when we least expect it and when we are definitely not looking for it!
He will elegantly leap off his well endowed horse (size also matters in the animal kingdom I’m sure) sweep us off our feet and whisk us off into the sunset to live in total bliss forever.
But what if he gets his foot caught in the stirrup, drops us mid-sweep, forgets to bring his TomTom and you end up a little north of Stoke?
Are we just meant to accept that this is the one, be content with our catch and capitalise the word smitten?
At the age of 22 I have been on many dates, met many men and yet I am still left wondering if this whole Prince Charming thing really is a fairy tale. Not one of these men has ever ticked all the boxes or made me think twice, one man actually bit my shoulder. Needless to say that was the first and LAST date we went on.
This is what got me thinking- not as a result of the biting incident, my shoulder has fully recovered now- how do you successfully bag a man?
The fact that there are women out there who are in relationships and who use the word love to describe their men that makes me think there must be ways to finding a man. If only they shared the information.
Why doesn’t someone write a book on the art of bagging a man? The complete works that contains a step-by-step guide on how to successfully find the one, how to spot one, how to keep one and how to continue the Prince Charming legend.
Obviously the novel would need a vast amount of research, numerous male interviews, numerous dates (just to ensure the male participants were being legitimate) and if necessary physical contact (in case the novel needed a chapter on what a Prince was like in bed. Harry is still single right?).
I think that would be a best seller and would bring a whole new spin to the classic ‘How to…’ column. Actually come to think of it I’ve always wanted to write a book…
He will elegantly leap off his well endowed horse (size also matters in the animal kingdom I’m sure) sweep us off our feet and whisk us off into the sunset to live in total bliss forever.
But what if he gets his foot caught in the stirrup, drops us mid-sweep, forgets to bring his TomTom and you end up a little north of Stoke?
Are we just meant to accept that this is the one, be content with our catch and capitalise the word smitten?
At the age of 22 I have been on many dates, met many men and yet I am still left wondering if this whole Prince Charming thing really is a fairy tale. Not one of these men has ever ticked all the boxes or made me think twice, one man actually bit my shoulder. Needless to say that was the first and LAST date we went on.
This is what got me thinking- not as a result of the biting incident, my shoulder has fully recovered now- how do you successfully bag a man?
The fact that there are women out there who are in relationships and who use the word love to describe their men that makes me think there must be ways to finding a man. If only they shared the information.
Why doesn’t someone write a book on the art of bagging a man? The complete works that contains a step-by-step guide on how to successfully find the one, how to spot one, how to keep one and how to continue the Prince Charming legend.
Obviously the novel would need a vast amount of research, numerous male interviews, numerous dates (just to ensure the male participants were being legitimate) and if necessary physical contact (in case the novel needed a chapter on what a Prince was like in bed. Harry is still single right?).
I think that would be a best seller and would bring a whole new spin to the classic ‘How to…’ column. Actually come to think of it I’ve always wanted to write a book…
Thursday 19 May 2011
The Romantics
I have a really stranger urge to write something romantic. However, seeing as I know little about romance and have experienced very little of it there seems very limited scope I can write about.
I think romance can come in many forms, unexpected flowers (that would be lovely), random little notes (that would be lovely too) or simply a good night kiss.
Obviously there's chocolates, candle lit dinners and roses, but they are all so cliché and I'd expect my man to have a little more imagination. Far be it from me to ever date a boring man, so lack of imagination should never be an issue!
I ended up catching the end of 'Dear John' tonight and I would love to know how Nicholas Sparks has the talent to reduce me to tears every time I read or watch an adaptation of his novels. It is now bordering on embarrassing and every time I end up thinking (from underneath a pile of tear coated tissues) why can't that be me?
Why can't I be that girl who has fallen hook, line and sinker for this wonderful man? Or the girl who took one look at a man and instantly knew he was the one she had spent her whole life waiting for. I mean do things like that really happen?
I've always thought that in order for people to write a truly great love story the author must have experienced truly great love. Or some where along the line an old married couple must have told their story and evoked such inspiration that a novel was written to tell the world.
The most romantic thing that I've experienced is...well, I don't know actually. I'm still waiting to be swept off my feet and transformed into a giddy teenage girl again.
LOVE is patient and kind, but I wonder if he will be carrying yellow roses, wearing armour and straddling a horse. I doubt it!
I think romance can come in many forms, unexpected flowers (that would be lovely), random little notes (that would be lovely too) or simply a good night kiss.
Obviously there's chocolates, candle lit dinners and roses, but they are all so cliché and I'd expect my man to have a little more imagination. Far be it from me to ever date a boring man, so lack of imagination should never be an issue!
I ended up catching the end of 'Dear John' tonight and I would love to know how Nicholas Sparks has the talent to reduce me to tears every time I read or watch an adaptation of his novels. It is now bordering on embarrassing and every time I end up thinking (from underneath a pile of tear coated tissues) why can't that be me?
Why can't I be that girl who has fallen hook, line and sinker for this wonderful man? Or the girl who took one look at a man and instantly knew he was the one she had spent her whole life waiting for. I mean do things like that really happen?
I've always thought that in order for people to write a truly great love story the author must have experienced truly great love. Or some where along the line an old married couple must have told their story and evoked such inspiration that a novel was written to tell the world.
The most romantic thing that I've experienced is...well, I don't know actually. I'm still waiting to be swept off my feet and transformed into a giddy teenage girl again.
LOVE is patient and kind, but I wonder if he will be carrying yellow roses, wearing armour and straddling a horse. I doubt it!
Wednesday 18 May 2011
Gibberish and Husbands
Ahhh Mr. Blogspot.
Firstly I would like to apologise for being so utterly rubbish with you lately. I know I should write more and I know I have very little excuse as to why you have been neglected.
Secondly I would like to introduce you to your nemesis and your biggest reason to fear for your written content...my notebook.
As a result of my laptop being rubbish and failing to smash into smithereens after a sudden flight of stairs sprang out of no where, I have taken to writing things down in a notebook. This note book is a permanent resident of my bag and accompanies me everywhere I go. It would make Austen very proud!
So this is why blogstop is a tad empty, because my notebook (which is named 'The book of general gibberish') is rapidly filling up with contents that should be blogged.
However, now that my diary (which is names 'A note to my husband') is competed/ finished/ full, I will be using you a lot more. I promise!
Sadly the husband is still yet to reveal himself or make an appearance of any sort, so I will need to start another diary soon. I hate the thought of him not being able to share my life- even the bits he wasn't around for.
So there you have it. Literary done and literally need to start some more literature.
Stickier than sticky the stick insect stuck on a sticky bun!:)
P.s Yes, I did just put a smiley face at the end of that sentence. And yes, I am aware that 12 year-olds do that. Bite me- but not too hard please.
Firstly I would like to apologise for being so utterly rubbish with you lately. I know I should write more and I know I have very little excuse as to why you have been neglected.
Secondly I would like to introduce you to your nemesis and your biggest reason to fear for your written content...my notebook.
As a result of my laptop being rubbish and failing to smash into smithereens after a sudden flight of stairs sprang out of no where, I have taken to writing things down in a notebook. This note book is a permanent resident of my bag and accompanies me everywhere I go. It would make Austen very proud!
So this is why blogstop is a tad empty, because my notebook (which is named 'The book of general gibberish') is rapidly filling up with contents that should be blogged.
However, now that my diary (which is names 'A note to my husband') is competed/ finished/ full, I will be using you a lot more. I promise!
Sadly the husband is still yet to reveal himself or make an appearance of any sort, so I will need to start another diary soon. I hate the thought of him not being able to share my life- even the bits he wasn't around for.
So there you have it. Literary done and literally need to start some more literature.
Stickier than sticky the stick insect stuck on a sticky bun!:)
P.s Yes, I did just put a smiley face at the end of that sentence. And yes, I am aware that 12 year-olds do that. Bite me- but not too hard please.
Saturday 7 May 2011
Instant blogging for Kate and her filming
*Doodling for Kate's filming*
Well that could have gone slightly better. Ok, so I accidentally drowned him in wine, called him my ex's name and then came out of the toilet with my dress tucked into my knickers, but hey. I thought it went according to plan!
At least he showed up.
So imagine the shock when he doesn't call back, text back or even text at all. That was about as productive as, well something very productive. I was so hoping this was going to be husband material too. Oh well, plenty more fish in the sea right? I'll just have to cast the net wider .
He had a beautiful chest and all. Ahh men. Who needs them
Friday 6 May 2011
Blogging for camera
It wasn't through choice or through lack of trying that's for sure, it was more likely as a result of trying far too hard, having far too many expectations and being about as successful in love a new vegetarian in a butchers with a serious urge for a large piece meat. Add on top of this the recent departure of prince William from the bachelor list and well it is officially getting tougher by the day. Thank god we sill have Harry the hardcore!
Maybe I should start rethinking my attractions to men, clearly i'm going for the wrong sort and well unless they're all gay (I would sacrifice the knowledge that its them and not me that is the problem) but there has to be something going fundamentally wrong. So what are my options?
Firstly I could go for the other type of man, the nice, sweet, gentile man that wont mess me around, will produce the bouquet of roses and ride me off in to the sunset on his white stallion and that will be that, eternal love and romantic yukiness.
But why would any girl want to trade in her dirty, up against the wall, rude-mouthered alpha male for the above? Clearly neither type are boyfriend material and neither are prince perfect.
So that leaves me me with the second option for bagging my prince. Online dating. I wonder if there is a website for potential royal rampings? Hmmm, maybe i should just stick to E harmony?
Tuesday 19 April 2011
Animal instincts
Okay so here is the dilemma: I have almost been working at Kew for a year now and how far have I got with my "paid byline by September!"...absolutely no where! I have more chance of successfully locating and milking a cow within the next five months than working for a magazine any time soon.
So maybe it's a sign that my beloved diary (this one was started around the time I started at Kew) is about 7 pages away from completion? Maybe the literary gods are stealing my blank pages and urging me to go forth and scribble- for money obviously, I'm not three years-old.
Another sign is there is now a vacancy for a supervisor at the shop, which I will apply for (I could do it standing on my head, one eye closed whilst reciting Chaucer), but once again where will my journalism degree come in handy? The chances of me serving Louise Court from Cosmo or Victoria White from Company are once again in the region of "it would be easier to feel up a farmyard animal...".
So there we have it. Do or die? Live or let lie? Shop assistant for life of feature write?
I know what my heart and head is saying...
So maybe it's a sign that my beloved diary (this one was started around the time I started at Kew) is about 7 pages away from completion? Maybe the literary gods are stealing my blank pages and urging me to go forth and scribble- for money obviously, I'm not three years-old.
Another sign is there is now a vacancy for a supervisor at the shop, which I will apply for (I could do it standing on my head, one eye closed whilst reciting Chaucer), but once again where will my journalism degree come in handy? The chances of me serving Louise Court from Cosmo or Victoria White from Company are once again in the region of "it would be easier to feel up a farmyard animal...".
So there we have it. Do or die? Live or let lie? Shop assistant for life of feature write?
I know what my heart and head is saying...
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Dedication to a friend
*This was written a few days/ weeks ago and it acts as an explanation for the lack of blogs recently.
If I could describe my life right now in terms of food it would resemble a liver stroganoff.
Firstly the smell of liver makes me sick, so much that I could hardly stand to be in the same room while it was being cooked. This is similar to the feeling life has now presented, sickness through fear and sickness through realisation.
Secondly the sauce in a liver stroganoff coats the rice with its heaving taste, to the point where every grain is blanketed with the same flavour. This is similar to the emotions that we are all now feeling; uselessness, empathy and waiting. Just waiting.
Thirdly my life resembles the eating of the meal itself. Someone has slaved away over the cooker to bring you a home comfort and make sure you are fit and healthy. And although you do not like the meal, you eat it, swallowing every mouthful and being grateful for the affection. This is similar to the knowledge that everyone has to make sacrifices in life, however little or small. And it makes you appreciate your ability to be able to make these choices.
For some people don't have these choices and some people have to deal with the hand that has been dealt. Unfortunately these people tend to go unnoticed and it is easy to forget how hard life can be and how it varies from person to person, and day to day.
These people are incredible. And prove why every life, no matter how long or short, is the most valuable memory a person can have.
That is why life is like a liver stroganoff. It smells bad, it looks bad, it tastes foul and everything about it makes me want to curl up. But at the end of the day there are a million other meals out there to be eaten and there have been a million wonderful meals that have already been eaten and that will never be forgotten.
So I propose a toast to the most boob-groping meal of them all, sometimes we suffered the pain (mostly from your sense of humour) but at the end of the day we all stood there and ate it with you.
We'll never stop believing. We know you never did.
Love all of us. xx
P.s If I catch you perving on us girls in the shower you'll be in serious trouble!
If I could describe my life right now in terms of food it would resemble a liver stroganoff.
Firstly the smell of liver makes me sick, so much that I could hardly stand to be in the same room while it was being cooked. This is similar to the feeling life has now presented, sickness through fear and sickness through realisation.
Secondly the sauce in a liver stroganoff coats the rice with its heaving taste, to the point where every grain is blanketed with the same flavour. This is similar to the emotions that we are all now feeling; uselessness, empathy and waiting. Just waiting.
Thirdly my life resembles the eating of the meal itself. Someone has slaved away over the cooker to bring you a home comfort and make sure you are fit and healthy. And although you do not like the meal, you eat it, swallowing every mouthful and being grateful for the affection. This is similar to the knowledge that everyone has to make sacrifices in life, however little or small. And it makes you appreciate your ability to be able to make these choices.
For some people don't have these choices and some people have to deal with the hand that has been dealt. Unfortunately these people tend to go unnoticed and it is easy to forget how hard life can be and how it varies from person to person, and day to day.
These people are incredible. And prove why every life, no matter how long or short, is the most valuable memory a person can have.
That is why life is like a liver stroganoff. It smells bad, it looks bad, it tastes foul and everything about it makes me want to curl up. But at the end of the day there are a million other meals out there to be eaten and there have been a million wonderful meals that have already been eaten and that will never be forgotten.
So I propose a toast to the most boob-groping meal of them all, sometimes we suffered the pain (mostly from your sense of humour) but at the end of the day we all stood there and ate it with you.
We'll never stop believing. We know you never did.
Love all of us. xx
P.s If I catch you perving on us girls in the shower you'll be in serious trouble!
Sunday 27 March 2011
In other news
Apart from that life is good.
Number of senses lost 0. Number of senses regained 0. Number of marriage proposals 0. Number of completed gym sessions 0. Number of calories gained through vast amounts of chocolate and pizza 1,000,000.
Number of senses lost 0. Number of senses regained 0. Number of marriage proposals 0. Number of completed gym sessions 0. Number of calories gained through vast amounts of chocolate and pizza 1,000,000.
Sunday 27 February 2011
Nightmare on Boughton Hall Avenue
I know as humans we feel (are meant to feel- occasional male exceptions) emotion. So I guess its reassuring that we get emotional and if emotion does nothing other than toy with us, at least it proves we're still alive. Still with me?
To cut a long story short last night I experienced one of the worst emotional triggers, the nightmare. It wasn't dark, full of death or anything horror related, it was simply a glimpse of a guy I once dated (the inspiration behind How to be a dick 101- shame he didn't have one and What happens when a guy says he loves you) hand in hand with a girl he had a lot of history with and he then turned round and shot me a huge smile that illustrated the deceitful bastard that he really was.
The scariest thing wasn't the nightmare at all, it was the anxiety of waking up and thinking "Why am I dreaming about this man?"
Its odd because at 22 I considered myself more aware of the male species, and more homed in on what's good and what's bad about them. But sometimes there are gaps and no amount of age or self-acknowledgement can prepare you for when your memory throws you a wildcard.
I know everything happens for a reason, karma always comes around and if you don't have the correct amount of goldfish you will probably end up dead, but sometimes emotion seems unnecessary.
Forget REM sleep and remember REM taught us something else: Everybody hurts. So please Freud, enough of the nightmares, bitterness never tasted sweet and don't dig up what has been long buried.
If we have to experience emotion why can't it be a smile encouraging, fairy dust twinkling, chocolate river drinking, pixie squeaking one?
Personally as long as he's 6ft plus, broad shouldered, big footed, swedish Mr. Darcy resembling, sex god, then that would be ok too.
To cut a long story short last night I experienced one of the worst emotional triggers, the nightmare. It wasn't dark, full of death or anything horror related, it was simply a glimpse of a guy I once dated (the inspiration behind How to be a dick 101- shame he didn't have one and What happens when a guy says he loves you) hand in hand with a girl he had a lot of history with and he then turned round and shot me a huge smile that illustrated the deceitful bastard that he really was.
The scariest thing wasn't the nightmare at all, it was the anxiety of waking up and thinking "Why am I dreaming about this man?"
Its odd because at 22 I considered myself more aware of the male species, and more homed in on what's good and what's bad about them. But sometimes there are gaps and no amount of age or self-acknowledgement can prepare you for when your memory throws you a wildcard.
I know everything happens for a reason, karma always comes around and if you don't have the correct amount of goldfish you will probably end up dead, but sometimes emotion seems unnecessary.
Forget REM sleep and remember REM taught us something else: Everybody hurts. So please Freud, enough of the nightmares, bitterness never tasted sweet and don't dig up what has been long buried.
If we have to experience emotion why can't it be a smile encouraging, fairy dust twinkling, chocolate river drinking, pixie squeaking one?
Personally as long as he's 6ft plus, broad shouldered, big footed, swedish Mr. Darcy resembling, sex god, then that would be ok too.
Wednesday 16 February 2011
Positive thinking
Here we go blog two of the day!
There is nothing more irritating and murder encouraging than those overly happy 'morning' people, whose single smile leaves you craving for the covers and instantly puts a downer on your day. Sadly, I'm am one of these people.
Come rain, sleet or snow I'm up in the morning, grinning for England and infuriatingly sprightly. And you'll be wanting me dead before the words 'What a glorious day' so much as leave my mouth!
But all the positivity comes at a price and when the tables turn I become Sylvia Plath in an Aga showroom.
To me positive thinking is a necessity, there's no point thinking negatively about things/ life/ situations, or only negative things will result from it.
If you want that dream then go for it. If you want that house then put down that mortgage. If you want that man then make him fall in love, play with his heart and then rip it out- only joking. That's murder.
And always remember, if S Club 7 taught us anything its Reach for the stars!
(Never did quite understand what the 'S' stood for).
(P.s Bet you're smiling now!).
(P.p.s Good luck getting that song out of your head!!)
There is nothing more irritating and murder encouraging than those overly happy 'morning' people, whose single smile leaves you craving for the covers and instantly puts a downer on your day. Sadly, I'm am one of these people.
Come rain, sleet or snow I'm up in the morning, grinning for England and infuriatingly sprightly. And you'll be wanting me dead before the words 'What a glorious day' so much as leave my mouth!
But all the positivity comes at a price and when the tables turn I become Sylvia Plath in an Aga showroom.
To me positive thinking is a necessity, there's no point thinking negatively about things/ life/ situations, or only negative things will result from it.
If you want that dream then go for it. If you want that house then put down that mortgage. If you want that man then make him fall in love, play with his heart and then rip it out- only joking. That's murder.
And always remember, if S Club 7 taught us anything its Reach for the stars!
(Never did quite understand what the 'S' stood for).
(P.s Bet you're smiling now!).
(P.p.s Good luck getting that song out of your head!!)
A new challenge
Where to begin? I feel there has been a bit of a literary draught recently, this blog hasn't been updated, my diary hasn't been written in and something that resembles indolence feels like it has taken over.
The scary thing is that I've become so comfortable in my part time job and living at my parents house, that the thought of a career is beginning to terrify me!
I guess its a hidden blessing that a possible move to Gloucester is on the horizon. Maybe a new change of scenery is what is needed to whip this butt into gear and regain some confidence.
The best place to be right now would be Chester, lovely little Chester, where I would still move back in a heartbeat! And let's face it, this really wasn't my life plan once I'd finished uni.
It has been an eventual eight months, but change is now needed. So come on world and let's see where we end up!
The scary thing is that I've become so comfortable in my part time job and living at my parents house, that the thought of a career is beginning to terrify me!
I guess its a hidden blessing that a possible move to Gloucester is on the horizon. Maybe a new change of scenery is what is needed to whip this butt into gear and regain some confidence.
The best place to be right now would be Chester, lovely little Chester, where I would still move back in a heartbeat! And let's face it, this really wasn't my life plan once I'd finished uni.
It has been an eventual eight months, but change is now needed. So come on world and let's see where we end up!
Monday 7 February 2011
A spinster in the making.
It is customary belief that valentines day is every singletons nightmare, every romantic single person that is. The constant roses, chocolates, red heart covered boxers and gimmickry teddy bears leave little for the imagination and even less in the consumer pocket. But this is not to say that I (along with many other women I'm sure) would disregard any of the above and dismiss any materialistic goods to replace the three word sentence that the alpha male cannot utter.
I will admit that the urge to buy a valentines card is there, but who would I send it to? I'm not dating anyone at the moment so I couldn't give them the card and I can't buy one for myself because that's just stupid. I could send one to the guy I was dating this time last year (he gave me a card and I didn't get him one. Let's not talk about the guilt there!) or I could send one to all the girls (aka ex uni housemates)but half of them have boyfriends and that's just plain odd. I guess I could always make up a name/ address, post it and who knows, maybe fate will kick in and that man will turn out to be my future husband!
Last year I abandoned my datee and brought the uni girls to mine for a valentines day meal. It was lovely and although I had gone against the norm, it was a nice way to spend a day that was 100% ruled by Clintons.
This year the plan for February the 14th is still yet to be finalised, but the chances of it being spent wrapped up in the arms of a handsome young man are very slim.
It's a bit of a shame and I was kind of hoping that by 22 I would have been more successful in the valentines day bagging department, but apparently not. I guess that must have been the optimism talking!
So as I turn in for the night and countdown the days I breath a slight sigh of relief, at least its not microwave meals for one just yet.
P.s I hate being a romantic!
I will admit that the urge to buy a valentines card is there, but who would I send it to? I'm not dating anyone at the moment so I couldn't give them the card and I can't buy one for myself because that's just stupid. I could send one to the guy I was dating this time last year (he gave me a card and I didn't get him one. Let's not talk about the guilt there!) or I could send one to all the girls (aka ex uni housemates)but half of them have boyfriends and that's just plain odd. I guess I could always make up a name/ address, post it and who knows, maybe fate will kick in and that man will turn out to be my future husband!
Last year I abandoned my datee and brought the uni girls to mine for a valentines day meal. It was lovely and although I had gone against the norm, it was a nice way to spend a day that was 100% ruled by Clintons.
This year the plan for February the 14th is still yet to be finalised, but the chances of it being spent wrapped up in the arms of a handsome young man are very slim.
It's a bit of a shame and I was kind of hoping that by 22 I would have been more successful in the valentines day bagging department, but apparently not. I guess that must have been the optimism talking!
So as I turn in for the night and countdown the days I breath a slight sigh of relief, at least its not microwave meals for one just yet.
P.s I hate being a romantic!
Tuesday 1 February 2011
I will say this only once
This is a very serious blog and it's about all things serious. It will not contain any rubbish, gibberish, garbage, gabble, goats, twiddle, twaddle or nonsense.
It will focus on the matter in hand and the matter in hand will be its focus.
Today I spent the day arguing with the computer, updating my CV and twitter account (because the two things go hand-in-hand) and generally spreading my love- of journalism before any of you sick people think otherwsie- and sending CVs to every corner of the UK.
This comes as a result of deciding to put writing into action and get those bylines. Clearly six-months of essay writing have left my brain and pens itching to get back to free writing, lack of structure, description and everything else feature etseq.
So without further ado let the feature writing career commence!
It will focus on the matter in hand and the matter in hand will be its focus.
Today I spent the day arguing with the computer, updating my CV and twitter account (because the two things go hand-in-hand) and generally spreading my love- of journalism before any of you sick people think otherwsie- and sending CVs to every corner of the UK.
This comes as a result of deciding to put writing into action and get those bylines. Clearly six-months of essay writing have left my brain and pens itching to get back to free writing, lack of structure, description and everything else feature etseq.
So without further ado let the feature writing career commence!
Sunday 30 January 2011
A blog from the past
Its typical, I've finished the killer essay and am ready to take on the world of journalism, however, the first thing I write about is love.
I will never write hard news and my ability to fantasise is probably the reason why! Anyway, this is what I found scrawled in an old diary and it made me smile and got me thinking...
"As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't meant to let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken, probably more than once, and its harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did (guilty!) You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures (a very bad habit unfortunately), laugh too much (another bad habit), and love like you've never been hurt (still need to work on that one)."
There is a lot more to that extract, but the rest is pure lovey-dovey rubbish and it has a lot to answer for regarding my 'perfect man' check list. So enough of that.
I think being idealistic is dangerous, but being optimistic is worse, and I'm so optimistic that even my perfume is called 'Chance'.
This is what has become of my mind now it has no Austen to stimulate it! One text from a 'stranger' and my brain is summer-salting with ideas, memories and smiles. In short it's treading on very thin ice and in need of some serious controlling.
But maybe if lightning can strike in the same place twice, then maybe cupid can too?
It almost feels like these past six months have only paused my life and its now playing from where it left off. Perhaps it is the optimism talking, but, I'm not saying I do, because I don't, and I'm not saying I'd never, because I won't.
Talk in riddles? Me? Never!
I will never write hard news and my ability to fantasise is probably the reason why! Anyway, this is what I found scrawled in an old diary and it made me smile and got me thinking...
"As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't meant to let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken, probably more than once, and its harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did (guilty!) You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures (a very bad habit unfortunately), laugh too much (another bad habit), and love like you've never been hurt (still need to work on that one)."
There is a lot more to that extract, but the rest is pure lovey-dovey rubbish and it has a lot to answer for regarding my 'perfect man' check list. So enough of that.
I think being idealistic is dangerous, but being optimistic is worse, and I'm so optimistic that even my perfume is called 'Chance'.
This is what has become of my mind now it has no Austen to stimulate it! One text from a 'stranger' and my brain is summer-salting with ideas, memories and smiles. In short it's treading on very thin ice and in need of some serious controlling.
But maybe if lightning can strike in the same place twice, then maybe cupid can too?
It almost feels like these past six months have only paused my life and its now playing from where it left off. Perhaps it is the optimism talking, but, I'm not saying I do, because I don't, and I'm not saying I'd never, because I won't.
Talk in riddles? Me? Never!
Friday 14 January 2011
How blind can love be?
I think fate and relationships are a funny old business and this isn't helped when you are the biggest romantic south of Chester.
Anyway, I have a claim to fame to make and its not a very good one but its a trademark nonetheless. I can spot two people who are meant to be together and who are meant for each other.
I have a friend who is in the perfect situation for events to unfold and for a friendship to become a little bit more.
The two of them have attempted being an item before, but their squabbles and his inability to see what's in front of him is stopping said events from happening any further (this all sounds a tad familiar).
Its just hard when the facts are plain as flour and no amount of interaction from cupid is going to solve things.
Instead they will both have to settle for contentment, watching the other bring home alternate partners and watching their future slip away.
All it takes is an outsider to look at them when they talk, note how their eyes never wander from each other, their lack of personal space and the general comfort they show around each other.
And if that wasn't enough evidence their body language is crying out, the hand on the small of her back, the secret smiles when they think no one is looking and the longing looks between two people who know they should be together.
There's a saying that you can only do so much and then comes fate, but these two people need put aside fate for the time being, and take their blinkers off and see the reality of the situation.
I hope for their sake they do before its too late!
I believe there's more than one person out there for everyone, but relying on fate alone is asking for trouble.
And if in doubt remember the olde line: "Our love is like the wind, you cannot see it but you can feel it." A word of advice, stop feeling what you've already felt and start acting on what you see.
Anyway, I have a claim to fame to make and its not a very good one but its a trademark nonetheless. I can spot two people who are meant to be together and who are meant for each other.
I have a friend who is in the perfect situation for events to unfold and for a friendship to become a little bit more.
The two of them have attempted being an item before, but their squabbles and his inability to see what's in front of him is stopping said events from happening any further (this all sounds a tad familiar).
Its just hard when the facts are plain as flour and no amount of interaction from cupid is going to solve things.
Instead they will both have to settle for contentment, watching the other bring home alternate partners and watching their future slip away.
All it takes is an outsider to look at them when they talk, note how their eyes never wander from each other, their lack of personal space and the general comfort they show around each other.
And if that wasn't enough evidence their body language is crying out, the hand on the small of her back, the secret smiles when they think no one is looking and the longing looks between two people who know they should be together.
There's a saying that you can only do so much and then comes fate, but these two people need put aside fate for the time being, and take their blinkers off and see the reality of the situation.
I hope for their sake they do before its too late!
I believe there's more than one person out there for everyone, but relying on fate alone is asking for trouble.
And if in doubt remember the olde line: "Our love is like the wind, you cannot see it but you can feel it." A word of advice, stop feeling what you've already felt and start acting on what you see.
Tuesday 11 January 2011
Housemate photos
It’s odd, this time last year our household we panicking about deadlines and trying to put together plans for after Uni, and out of the four of us only one has stuck to their plan.
I know I should no longer use the term ‘housemate’ because we no longer live together, but ‘ex-housemate’ just sounds like we all had a massive argument and one or two moved out. So ‘housemate’ will be the term and the term will be ‘housemate.’
Claire housemate number one, the fiery red-head who could put up an impressive fight and quite literally eat Tescos out of eggs, planned to move home and settle down with her boyfriend.
Becky housemate number two, the country bumpkin whose taste in bread and love for beaded men leaves little to the imagination, planned to spend another year with myself in some dilapidated graduate place.
Amy housemate number three, the slightly more country than the previous country pumpkin whose knowledge on private school boys and Jack Wills out did us all, planned to also spend another year with myself in some dilapidated graduate place (If it wasn’t for boyfriends doing what it does best!)
Ffi housemate number four, the Welshy elder of the group whose perfect cleaning regimes put the rest of us to shame, planned to take over the world.
As for me, apart from move in with the Boyfriend (Haha, my aching sides) the plan was to spend another year in Chester and begin life as a graduate.
So can you guess which one stuck to her original plan?
Would it help if I told you that the housemate in question is going to take Australia by storm in 2012? I didn’t think so.
Its not until you look at situations like this that you think ‘Blimey, when did my life get this regimented/ docile / so far off the track’ that it starts to scare you. I know life isn’t meant to be planned day-by-day but if it’s not planned at all then why bother?
This blog is starting to go off topic, so back to the housemates.
The whole reminiscing process started with a phone call from Becky and a sneaky peak at Facebook, which since having left Uni, has be worryingly untouched.
Anyway, I was going through my photos and a horrible truth hit home, 99% of these photos were of my housemate and myself totally inebriated (thank you Word thesaurus for that lovely contribution.) We looked like the biggest bunch of piss heads known to man and the photos weren’t even ones where we could pull of looking totally smashed, they were revolting. I think taking a camera out on a night of ‘slight intoxication’ is up there with the dangers of drunken texting. It should not be done!
The unfortunate thing is you CANNOT delete them. I use that word with two meanings, obviously you can delete them, but not only do you run the risk of being seen as exceptionally vain, it would also appear to the rest of the Facebook world that you have no life and that all your photos are worryingly ‘acceptable.’ (It is advisable to hate these people and they tend to be related to the people who have albums called ‘My modelling photos.’)
So there you have it, the reasons why your Facebook profile must display you as tax-avoiding alcoholic, who likes nothing better than to have her legs in the air reveal all the facial expressions of Yak with a standard creeper, two coconuts and an African swallow up its arse.
Maybe there is a reason I’m still single after all…
I know I should no longer use the term ‘housemate’ because we no longer live together, but ‘ex-housemate’ just sounds like we all had a massive argument and one or two moved out. So ‘housemate’ will be the term and the term will be ‘housemate.’
Claire housemate number one, the fiery red-head who could put up an impressive fight and quite literally eat Tescos out of eggs, planned to move home and settle down with her boyfriend.
Becky housemate number two, the country bumpkin whose taste in bread and love for beaded men leaves little to the imagination, planned to spend another year with myself in some dilapidated graduate place.
Amy housemate number three, the slightly more country than the previous country pumpkin whose knowledge on private school boys and Jack Wills out did us all, planned to also spend another year with myself in some dilapidated graduate place (If it wasn’t for boyfriends doing what it does best!)
Ffi housemate number four, the Welshy elder of the group whose perfect cleaning regimes put the rest of us to shame, planned to take over the world.
As for me, apart from move in with the Boyfriend (Haha, my aching sides) the plan was to spend another year in Chester and begin life as a graduate.
So can you guess which one stuck to her original plan?
Would it help if I told you that the housemate in question is going to take Australia by storm in 2012? I didn’t think so.
Its not until you look at situations like this that you think ‘Blimey, when did my life get this regimented/ docile / so far off the track’ that it starts to scare you. I know life isn’t meant to be planned day-by-day but if it’s not planned at all then why bother?
This blog is starting to go off topic, so back to the housemates.
The whole reminiscing process started with a phone call from Becky and a sneaky peak at Facebook, which since having left Uni, has be worryingly untouched.
Anyway, I was going through my photos and a horrible truth hit home, 99% of these photos were of my housemate and myself totally inebriated (thank you Word thesaurus for that lovely contribution.) We looked like the biggest bunch of piss heads known to man and the photos weren’t even ones where we could pull of looking totally smashed, they were revolting. I think taking a camera out on a night of ‘slight intoxication’ is up there with the dangers of drunken texting. It should not be done!
The unfortunate thing is you CANNOT delete them. I use that word with two meanings, obviously you can delete them, but not only do you run the risk of being seen as exceptionally vain, it would also appear to the rest of the Facebook world that you have no life and that all your photos are worryingly ‘acceptable.’ (It is advisable to hate these people and they tend to be related to the people who have albums called ‘My modelling photos.’)
So there you have it, the reasons why your Facebook profile must display you as tax-avoiding alcoholic, who likes nothing better than to have her legs in the air reveal all the facial expressions of Yak with a standard creeper, two coconuts and an African swallow up its arse.
Maybe there is a reason I’m still single after all…
Monday 10 January 2011
Rainclouds and SLRs
There is something so beautiful about listening to the rain. It sounds daft, really daft, but the sound of it just makes me think I could be anywhere in the world and just listening to the sounds of nature. (That is meant in a slightly less-perverse way than it sounds.)
Sadly, I'm just lying on my bed and thinking.
There's also something so comforting about the rain whether your inside or outside under an umbrella, it just makes you want to cuddle up and instantly makes you relax. Perhaps its the catharsis of the day, who knows?
There's also also (not the deliberate repetition) something extremely romantic about it, but that may have more to do with black and white films than anything. I can't imagine kissing in the rain is really as nice as they portray it. On one hand my brain just conjures up an image of two wet salmon-mouthed children, much like those birthday cards you get in Paperchase. And on the other, the penultimate moment
a couple realise what they have is for real.
If I could have any career and had all the time in the world, then I'd devote my time to photographing couples in love. Admittedly that sounds worse than saying 'listening to the rain is beautiful', but being able to capture human emotion is such a rare thing and something people take for granted.
The photos would be black and white, colour is such a waste, and they would definitely not be 6X4 or 5X8. The size would be irrelevant, after all, it was the moment they were trying to capture not the money they were worth to Jessops.
All you need is a couple and then watch their eyes, and you'll have everything you need.
If you looked at this photo every time you argued, every time you questioned yourself or every time you spilled a tear instead of a smile, then the world may appear a bit brighter sometimes.
If you can't watch a sunrise together perhaps listen to the rain and think of that photograph.
A picture can say a thousand words, where as 'I miss kissing you' is only four.
Sadly, I'm just lying on my bed and thinking.
There's also something so comforting about the rain whether your inside or outside under an umbrella, it just makes you want to cuddle up and instantly makes you relax. Perhaps its the catharsis of the day, who knows?
There's also also (not the deliberate repetition) something extremely romantic about it, but that may have more to do with black and white films than anything. I can't imagine kissing in the rain is really as nice as they portray it. On one hand my brain just conjures up an image of two wet salmon-mouthed children, much like those birthday cards you get in Paperchase. And on the other, the penultimate moment
a couple realise what they have is for real.
If I could have any career and had all the time in the world, then I'd devote my time to photographing couples in love. Admittedly that sounds worse than saying 'listening to the rain is beautiful', but being able to capture human emotion is such a rare thing and something people take for granted.
The photos would be black and white, colour is such a waste, and they would definitely not be 6X4 or 5X8. The size would be irrelevant, after all, it was the moment they were trying to capture not the money they were worth to Jessops.
All you need is a couple and then watch their eyes, and you'll have everything you need.
If you looked at this photo every time you argued, every time you questioned yourself or every time you spilled a tear instead of a smile, then the world may appear a bit brighter sometimes.
If you can't watch a sunrise together perhaps listen to the rain and think of that photograph.
A picture can say a thousand words, where as 'I miss kissing you' is only four.
Wednesday 5 January 2011
Return of the man.
It is no secret that men are the most confusing animals on the planet. One minute they call and the next there gone. Some put kisses on texts and the ones that love you don't. I learnt that trick a while back: "You know I love you, so why panic if I don't put a letter X end? Its just a letter?" Men can be so sentimental.
But I don't see why men can't do the world, in particular us females, a favour and work on a Yes and No system.
Its very simple, Yes means I like you and No means I'm sorry I'm gay.
Imagine the amount of extra time you would have in your life if you didn't have to think outside of Yes or No. You'd have no waiting for him to call back, no one night stands that could be 'more', no awkward conversations and no unexpected shocks.
You weren't to know he was married with kids, or that the glance he gave your brother was more than just 'I like your shirt...'
I think the main turning point in any girls life is when it becomes easier to order a Starbucks, than decide on your latest trouser conquest.
I'm sure us females are just as bad, but at least are signals are clear. If we're interested (in any and every sense of the word) you'll know!
Unlike you men we don't tip toe around the opposition and just 'see how things go.' Come on boys its 2011, grab the bulls by the horns before these animals get too tame.
But I don't see why men can't do the world, in particular us females, a favour and work on a Yes and No system.
Its very simple, Yes means I like you and No means I'm sorry I'm gay.
Imagine the amount of extra time you would have in your life if you didn't have to think outside of Yes or No. You'd have no waiting for him to call back, no one night stands that could be 'more', no awkward conversations and no unexpected shocks.
You weren't to know he was married with kids, or that the glance he gave your brother was more than just 'I like your shirt...'
I think the main turning point in any girls life is when it becomes easier to order a Starbucks, than decide on your latest trouser conquest.
I'm sure us females are just as bad, but at least are signals are clear. If we're interested (in any and every sense of the word) you'll know!
Unlike you men we don't tip toe around the opposition and just 'see how things go.' Come on boys its 2011, grab the bulls by the horns before these animals get too tame.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
One small step.
Its weird how nerves can effect the body. Although your exterior appears calm and collective, your interior is a gigantic mess. I thought at 22 you're meant to have more control over your body, know how it works and how to work it.
However, in reality this is not the case.
My palms are sweaty, spots are taking their toll and although my hands are not peeling yet, ill give them a week or two.
This is because it has finally got to crunch time in the Coussens calendar, and for every ounce of excitement at what the future holds there is a bucket of nerves and worries about the 'what ifs' of 2011.
In the hope of buckling down and getting this long awaited 'result' I decided to empty my room of anything remotely distracting and came up with a strict schedule. Sadly this means my room now resembles a cross between a prison with a very large bed and a beloved uni room hours before moving out.
More worryingly the countdown is the number of days before I can take on London and become a feature writer and not the lack of days I have left to complete a 9000 word essay.
In hindsight it has made the journalism career a "definite" instead of a "I would like to settle down and if I have a career that's a bonus."
This also goes hand-in-hand with "I probably shouldn't be admitting this in writing" and "on my head be it if a future employer reads this!" But there is certainly no doubt that what knocks you down only makes you stronger.
If this set back hadn't have happened I would still be working my way up through Kew and not flexing my muscles with what I really love.
The scariest thing is it created this drive that I never knew existed, the push to go out into the real world and try my hand at creativity.
So here it is, resolution number one: get my first paid byline by September 2011 (at the latest!)
However, in reality this is not the case.
My palms are sweaty, spots are taking their toll and although my hands are not peeling yet, ill give them a week or two.
This is because it has finally got to crunch time in the Coussens calendar, and for every ounce of excitement at what the future holds there is a bucket of nerves and worries about the 'what ifs' of 2011.
In the hope of buckling down and getting this long awaited 'result' I decided to empty my room of anything remotely distracting and came up with a strict schedule. Sadly this means my room now resembles a cross between a prison with a very large bed and a beloved uni room hours before moving out.
More worryingly the countdown is the number of days before I can take on London and become a feature writer and not the lack of days I have left to complete a 9000 word essay.
In hindsight it has made the journalism career a "definite" instead of a "I would like to settle down and if I have a career that's a bonus."
This also goes hand-in-hand with "I probably shouldn't be admitting this in writing" and "on my head be it if a future employer reads this!" But there is certainly no doubt that what knocks you down only makes you stronger.
If this set back hadn't have happened I would still be working my way up through Kew and not flexing my muscles with what I really love.
The scariest thing is it created this drive that I never knew existed, the push to go out into the real world and try my hand at creativity.
So here it is, resolution number one: get my first paid byline by September 2011 (at the latest!)
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