Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Writing is the essence of love.
Everybody has different ways of letting go, letting go of stress, letting go of emotion and letting go of the things they love.
For me, this catharsis is through writing.
Once upon a time it was whenever I put on a pair of ballet shoes, and at the time I didn’t know it, but with those shoes on my feet I was a free woman, no stress, no rules, no pressures, nothing could stop me and I was just Amie. Admittedly I had to be dancing in a room on my own, preferably with the lights off, but it was still the same effect.
Nowadays these shoes are packed away in the loft along with the rest of my childhood/ teenage life, but I like to think if I ever needed them again they would be there.
Perhaps it’s an age thing that makes you want to pick up a pen and scribble the first thing that pops into your head, perhaps its madness, but trying telling that to an author.
In a way my writing now is similar to my dancing patterns as a child, when I was in a good mood I floated across the floor (I like to think) and in a bad mood I looked like an idiot dressed from head to toe in pink. If I’m in a good mood now my diary will be full of gibberish, this blog will also be full of utter rubbish and there will be a permanent smile on my face. When I’m in a bad mood or trying to put something off, there will still be a smile on my face but my diary will be empty and this blog will gradually get forgotten about.
It is through this unruly obsession with writing that this emotional code has come about.
So as you can tell I am either bored, flexing my ‘artistic muscles’ or on the verge of wanting to jump in the car and just drive somewhere. Unfortunately the days of jumping in the car and driving have long gone and all that remains is the overwhelming guilt that I should be doing something very important that I am unconsciously avoiding.
The biggest problem is all I want to do is write, and if it’s via a job I love and get paid for then even better. Its agony not being able to do what feels natural and patiently wait until life has prioritised itself, especially when patients was never a strong point to begin with.
I took the wrong degree and am paying for it, but the lack of will power is phenomenal. I could write an article on any given topic instantly, it sounds stupid but the temptation to stand on a tall building and shout ‘I am a journalist, not an English scholar!’ is very very strong.
Perhaps in another life I was Herbert out of Monty Pythons ‘The Holy Grail’... all I want to do is write! (Obviously wouldn’t want to be an exact replica of Herbert as I would probably blow up birds with my singing. Much like Princess Fiona actually. In fact that might be a better match, We both have hideous taste in men and both like weed rats, cooked rotisserie style.)
I guess one day I will find another way to start a sentence that doesn’t involve the word ‘I’ and will die happy if I could make a living from writing utter nonsense 365 days a year.
But for now the writing must keep flowing to maintain sanity and to get back to where we left off six months ago.
It has been an interesting start to life as a graduate, but I am now ready to face the world with a pen in my hand and await the arrival of January the 28th 2011.
For me, this catharsis is through writing.
Once upon a time it was whenever I put on a pair of ballet shoes, and at the time I didn’t know it, but with those shoes on my feet I was a free woman, no stress, no rules, no pressures, nothing could stop me and I was just Amie. Admittedly I had to be dancing in a room on my own, preferably with the lights off, but it was still the same effect.
Nowadays these shoes are packed away in the loft along with the rest of my childhood/ teenage life, but I like to think if I ever needed them again they would be there.
Perhaps it’s an age thing that makes you want to pick up a pen and scribble the first thing that pops into your head, perhaps its madness, but trying telling that to an author.
In a way my writing now is similar to my dancing patterns as a child, when I was in a good mood I floated across the floor (I like to think) and in a bad mood I looked like an idiot dressed from head to toe in pink. If I’m in a good mood now my diary will be full of gibberish, this blog will also be full of utter rubbish and there will be a permanent smile on my face. When I’m in a bad mood or trying to put something off, there will still be a smile on my face but my diary will be empty and this blog will gradually get forgotten about.
It is through this unruly obsession with writing that this emotional code has come about.
So as you can tell I am either bored, flexing my ‘artistic muscles’ or on the verge of wanting to jump in the car and just drive somewhere. Unfortunately the days of jumping in the car and driving have long gone and all that remains is the overwhelming guilt that I should be doing something very important that I am unconsciously avoiding.
The biggest problem is all I want to do is write, and if it’s via a job I love and get paid for then even better. Its agony not being able to do what feels natural and patiently wait until life has prioritised itself, especially when patients was never a strong point to begin with.
I took the wrong degree and am paying for it, but the lack of will power is phenomenal. I could write an article on any given topic instantly, it sounds stupid but the temptation to stand on a tall building and shout ‘I am a journalist, not an English scholar!’ is very very strong.
Perhaps in another life I was Herbert out of Monty Pythons ‘The Holy Grail’... all I want to do is write! (Obviously wouldn’t want to be an exact replica of Herbert as I would probably blow up birds with my singing. Much like Princess Fiona actually. In fact that might be a better match, We both have hideous taste in men and both like weed rats, cooked rotisserie style.)
I guess one day I will find another way to start a sentence that doesn’t involve the word ‘I’ and will die happy if I could make a living from writing utter nonsense 365 days a year.
But for now the writing must keep flowing to maintain sanity and to get back to where we left off six months ago.
It has been an interesting start to life as a graduate, but I am now ready to face the world with a pen in my hand and await the arrival of January the 28th 2011.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
PhonesRUs
Modern technology. If the cavemen knew how to work Blackberrys
I'm sure they too would be nodding in accordance to what I am about to say...
Blackberrys are fantastic!
Ignoring the lack of punctuation and disgusted Iphone fans, there really is nothing a phone cannot do these days.
It even got me wondering if students shouldn't just opt for Blackberrys instead of laptops. Not only would their internet bills be lower, but lugging around cables and USB sticks would be a thing of the past.
It goes without saying that after a few bottles of Lambrini (or what ever students drink these days), it would be advisable to check you're not posting your facebook photos onto your dissertation, but it would only increase the final mark I'm sure.
It is getting to the stage where I would rather save my phone in a house fire than my cat!
I'm sure she would be fine and I'd hate to miss a tweet from Matt Baker (current future husband #5.)
So as you can see, definite evidence to suppoort why life without modern technology, would in short, be the death of us.
To be honest this is probably still the excitement of being able to blog from a phone more than anything, but if we can't ramble on in our blogs when can we?
I'm sure they too would be nodding in accordance to what I am about to say...
Blackberrys are fantastic!
Ignoring the lack of punctuation and disgusted Iphone fans, there really is nothing a phone cannot do these days.
It even got me wondering if students shouldn't just opt for Blackberrys instead of laptops. Not only would their internet bills be lower, but lugging around cables and USB sticks would be a thing of the past.
It goes without saying that after a few bottles of Lambrini (or what ever students drink these days), it would be advisable to check you're not posting your facebook photos onto your dissertation, but it would only increase the final mark I'm sure.
It is getting to the stage where I would rather save my phone in a house fire than my cat!
I'm sure she would be fine and I'd hate to miss a tweet from Matt Baker (current future husband #5.)
So as you can see, definite evidence to suppoort why life without modern technology, would in short, be the death of us.
To be honest this is probably still the excitement of being able to blog from a phone more than anything, but if we can't ramble on in our blogs when can we?
Monday, 13 December 2010
The honourable Sheriff of Nottingham
Somebody once told me that in order to write well, you must write what you know. This is what I know…
Tax. It is a three letter word that can transform (get ready for a loud cough) intelligent students into money-hoarding-cheap-skates.
The second thing I know is if I wanted to learn about politics, I would become a politician.
Putting two and two together gives a very bleak out look on a subject which I clearly know very little about.
So with this in mind, I did what any other 22 year-old does when trying to get new information and opened up Google.
The first two searches flagged up HM Revenue and Customs, these both sounded very exciting and I immediately opened up the link.
My brain was awash with P800s and tax codes. How had I ignored all this information for so long?
The third link was something called Wikipedia, finally a familiar name. It spoke of Latin origins, legal entities and incarcerations, and the words flowed off the page as if written by Homer.
The forth search was also posted by this so-called Wikipedia and after having read the previous search I decided to skip this one, having already read everything they had to offer.
The following search was a picture of Obama. I was a little confused so skipped that link too, although he did look edible.
The sixth search was written by the Guardian and as a journalist (another cough for the time being) I know that they tend to fabricate, so decided to save time and told myself ‘Reveal’ would have a far better article so would read that tomorrow instead.
The next five searches didn’t look that mentally challenging so I passed them by.
Thankfully the following search was another picture of Obama, so I pondered what he would think on the subject and agreed with his opinion.
(I then got a bit distracted when my brother switched channels to a ‘very important football match’ so had to postpone the research.)
Once the match was finished the searching could continue, but I was distraught to discover I had reached the bottom of page 1 and felt I could obtain no more.
So there you have it. Everything I know on tax.
Perhaps there is a hidden new years resolution here…
Tax. It is a three letter word that can transform (get ready for a loud cough) intelligent students into money-hoarding-cheap-skates.
The second thing I know is if I wanted to learn about politics, I would become a politician.
Putting two and two together gives a very bleak out look on a subject which I clearly know very little about.
So with this in mind, I did what any other 22 year-old does when trying to get new information and opened up Google.
The first two searches flagged up HM Revenue and Customs, these both sounded very exciting and I immediately opened up the link.
My brain was awash with P800s and tax codes. How had I ignored all this information for so long?
The third link was something called Wikipedia, finally a familiar name. It spoke of Latin origins, legal entities and incarcerations, and the words flowed off the page as if written by Homer.
The forth search was also posted by this so-called Wikipedia and after having read the previous search I decided to skip this one, having already read everything they had to offer.
The following search was a picture of Obama. I was a little confused so skipped that link too, although he did look edible.
The sixth search was written by the Guardian and as a journalist (another cough for the time being) I know that they tend to fabricate, so decided to save time and told myself ‘Reveal’ would have a far better article so would read that tomorrow instead.
The next five searches didn’t look that mentally challenging so I passed them by.
Thankfully the following search was another picture of Obama, so I pondered what he would think on the subject and agreed with his opinion.
(I then got a bit distracted when my brother switched channels to a ‘very important football match’ so had to postpone the research.)
Once the match was finished the searching could continue, but I was distraught to discover I had reached the bottom of page 1 and felt I could obtain no more.
So there you have it. Everything I know on tax.
Perhaps there is a hidden new years resolution here…
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Blogger and the Blackberry.
(Just experimenting with techology. Couldn't sleep either!)
Sometimes in this big world you can feel so alone.
This loneliness is dark, and it sucks you in, securing it's fears around you.
But these fears do not belong to the darkness, they belong to you.
Just when you think you've outwitted their daylight appearances they consume you in
sleep: tossing and turning you through cycles of repression.
Denial is for the doomed and acceptance is for the aged.
Sometimes in this big world you can feel so alone.
This loneliness is dark, and it sucks you in, securing it's fears around you.
But these fears do not belong to the darkness, they belong to you.
Just when you think you've outwitted their daylight appearances they consume you in
sleep: tossing and turning you through cycles of repression.
Denial is for the doomed and acceptance is for the aged.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Precipitation anyone?
What is it about England and weather that creates so much pandemonium?
Not only is it cold enough to snap steel in your bedroom, but the initial excitement of the white coated garden is replaced with the estimation of how quickly you can de-snow the car.
So you reluctantly drag yourself into the shower (still debating if you can get the car ready to go in under three minutes) and shovel some breakfast down your throat. This is shortly followed by throwing some clothes on, popping on some make-up and grabbing your handbag.
You then have a five second moment of madness while you try to find the car keys and head out the door.
This is where the first problem arises. Your feet are now drenched. For some reason whilst dashing around the house preparing yourself for the possibility of a break down/ blizzard responsible traffic jam/ unprovoked Yeti attack, you forgot that open toed stilettos probably weren’t your brightest idea.
As a modern woman you don’t not let this slight mishap slow you down and besides, the shoes needed a clean anyway. You whip out the ice scraper and rack your brains as to whether snow means you should drive in a higher or lower gear.
Once the car is 50% visible you belt up and head for the end of the drive, making sure not to injure any playful cats or unrecognisable children on your exit.
The journey is not pleasant. The heaters or on full blast, snow is flying everywhere, the radio signal is practically non existent (my Fleetwood Mac CD has once again sprouted legs) and everyone including the vicar is driving at 5mph.
Now, personally I’m not a bad driver and I know my wheels can reach 90mph in matter of minutes (yes, it should say ‘in a matter of seconds’ but the job doesn’t pay THAT well just yet!) but it’s easy to get frustrated when the residents of Guildford think snow is the dandruff of Hitler.
Half an hour later you reach the park-and-ride. On every fifth day of the month this is a wonderful invention, you save petrol, you save the environment and it gives you chance to check Twitter and grab a Starbucks before you roll into work.
However, for the other 325 days of the year the park-and-ride is a nightmare and especially when the ground is coated in wet sludge and you’re running late. Before you have even started your working day you have to clamber on the steamy bus. This is caused by the anticipation of 30 passengers eagerly awaiting you free-falling thud, as both you and your belongings plummet to the ground in a spectacular display of general flapping seal-ness.
With your wet feet, aching sides and elegantly wind swept hair you finally make it into work. All the previous agro deceases and the world is lovely again. All that is left to do is enjoy your Starbucks and laugh at the people who fall over outside the shop (don’t even try and deny it!)
The shop is dead and as the snow starts to settle and the day draws in, the only thing now on your mind is the journey home.
This is where problem three creeps in: how do you get home? Getting into work was hard enough, but now the snow has turned into sleet and the only way back to the car is on your hands and knees. In short, you’re buggered.
There are cars everywhere, everywhere you look it’s white and it finally pays off to have a black car. The cold weather may have disagreed with the central locking system, but when it’s the only visible car in a field of sheep then the game of ‘where did I park my car?’ becomes slightly easier.
It was at this point where I was great full not to have eaten my tin of soup for lunch, jut in case the worst was about to happen on the way home.
Fifteen minutes later the car pulls into the drive and you are home. No Yetis, no break downs, admittedly still no Fleetwood Mac, no emergency soup drinking and that was it. The one crazy day of white rain and it was all over.
All that is left to do is pop on a big hoody, a pair of thick socks, make a cup of tea and hit Bedfordshire.
I wonder what the snow forecast is for tomorrow, but have a feeling the wellies will be making a definite appearance.
Not only is it cold enough to snap steel in your bedroom, but the initial excitement of the white coated garden is replaced with the estimation of how quickly you can de-snow the car.
So you reluctantly drag yourself into the shower (still debating if you can get the car ready to go in under three minutes) and shovel some breakfast down your throat. This is shortly followed by throwing some clothes on, popping on some make-up and grabbing your handbag.
You then have a five second moment of madness while you try to find the car keys and head out the door.
This is where the first problem arises. Your feet are now drenched. For some reason whilst dashing around the house preparing yourself for the possibility of a break down/ blizzard responsible traffic jam/ unprovoked Yeti attack, you forgot that open toed stilettos probably weren’t your brightest idea.
As a modern woman you don’t not let this slight mishap slow you down and besides, the shoes needed a clean anyway. You whip out the ice scraper and rack your brains as to whether snow means you should drive in a higher or lower gear.
Once the car is 50% visible you belt up and head for the end of the drive, making sure not to injure any playful cats or unrecognisable children on your exit.
The journey is not pleasant. The heaters or on full blast, snow is flying everywhere, the radio signal is practically non existent (my Fleetwood Mac CD has once again sprouted legs) and everyone including the vicar is driving at 5mph.
Now, personally I’m not a bad driver and I know my wheels can reach 90mph in matter of minutes (yes, it should say ‘in a matter of seconds’ but the job doesn’t pay THAT well just yet!) but it’s easy to get frustrated when the residents of Guildford think snow is the dandruff of Hitler.
Half an hour later you reach the park-and-ride. On every fifth day of the month this is a wonderful invention, you save petrol, you save the environment and it gives you chance to check Twitter and grab a Starbucks before you roll into work.
However, for the other 325 days of the year the park-and-ride is a nightmare and especially when the ground is coated in wet sludge and you’re running late. Before you have even started your working day you have to clamber on the steamy bus. This is caused by the anticipation of 30 passengers eagerly awaiting you free-falling thud, as both you and your belongings plummet to the ground in a spectacular display of general flapping seal-ness.
With your wet feet, aching sides and elegantly wind swept hair you finally make it into work. All the previous agro deceases and the world is lovely again. All that is left to do is enjoy your Starbucks and laugh at the people who fall over outside the shop (don’t even try and deny it!)
The shop is dead and as the snow starts to settle and the day draws in, the only thing now on your mind is the journey home.
This is where problem three creeps in: how do you get home? Getting into work was hard enough, but now the snow has turned into sleet and the only way back to the car is on your hands and knees. In short, you’re buggered.
There are cars everywhere, everywhere you look it’s white and it finally pays off to have a black car. The cold weather may have disagreed with the central locking system, but when it’s the only visible car in a field of sheep then the game of ‘where did I park my car?’ becomes slightly easier.
It was at this point where I was great full not to have eaten my tin of soup for lunch, jut in case the worst was about to happen on the way home.
Fifteen minutes later the car pulls into the drive and you are home. No Yetis, no break downs, admittedly still no Fleetwood Mac, no emergency soup drinking and that was it. The one crazy day of white rain and it was all over.
All that is left to do is pop on a big hoody, a pair of thick socks, make a cup of tea and hit Bedfordshire.
I wonder what the snow forecast is for tomorrow, but have a feeling the wellies will be making a definite appearance.
Monday, 15 November 2010
Parents do the funniest things
I’m all for parental guidance, advice and everything else that goes with it, but sometimes you just want to remove their voice box and watch them waddle round the kitchen like some kind of deranged headless chicken.
Don’t get me wrong everyone needs parents at some point, but for comical reasons I would occasionally love to shove my dad in the oven with a load of Aunt Bessie’s spuds and just see what happens.
Ok, so parents have to do the best thing and lets face it, they love any excuse to shout through the house (although it’s the first rule in the book of ‘what not to do and how to successfully annoy the neighbours’) but because they are the authoritive figures no one bats an eye.
The parental rar-rar-foot-stomp is also closely linked and most famously followed by the phrase ‘while you’re under this roof young lady…’ and this is when you know you’re in trouble. There is no amount of huffing that will stop your ears from blowing smoke and the urge to hurl something very heavy, or simply just kick the cat.
The up-side to these heavy hearted disputes is they are great to watch when it’s not you in the ring. Nothing beats the hyperbolic anger, stuttering and general nonsense that is spat out during a father/ mother and a miniature beast of burden ‘talk’. Arm actions are a favourite to keep an eye on: think charades, Hitler and YMCA
Long of the short is you are always in the wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what if it wasn’t you that forgot to close the door, so what if it wasn’t you that lost the trusty remote, so what if you forgot to feed the birds and one was accidently massacred by the neighbour’s pedigree feline…no matter what you plead. You’re guilty.
So what is left for the enraged parent to do? They have expressed their views on your repugnant behaviour, lost their voice through strenuous repetitions of ‘my house, my house…’ and used up so much energy that they have to go for a 30 minute nap.
In the mean time you have a biased discussion with parent number two, the first person in your phonebook or your one remaining cat (the one that didn’t get kicked half an hour ago) and try to piece together what just happened.
Then from the depths of the dark you begin to hear a rumble, parent number one has awoken and is slowly making its way down the stairs, and being extra careful not to trip and slide to the bottom. This will only result in you wetting yourself with laughter, crying through the pain and ending up in another argument on ‘how to not laugh at people when they fall down the stairs’.
So once the parent has tackled the stairs and your laughter is tightly locked away inside the apologies begin. They apologise, you apologise and everyone has a cup of tea.
What a fantastic way to spend your evening. You end up with several stress spots, mainly caused through irritation rather than stress, and spend the night needing to wee because you drank so much tea.
Well I guess it could be worse, you could be watching Xfactor.
Don’t get me wrong everyone needs parents at some point, but for comical reasons I would occasionally love to shove my dad in the oven with a load of Aunt Bessie’s spuds and just see what happens.
Ok, so parents have to do the best thing and lets face it, they love any excuse to shout through the house (although it’s the first rule in the book of ‘what not to do and how to successfully annoy the neighbours’) but because they are the authoritive figures no one bats an eye.
The parental rar-rar-foot-stomp is also closely linked and most famously followed by the phrase ‘while you’re under this roof young lady…’ and this is when you know you’re in trouble. There is no amount of huffing that will stop your ears from blowing smoke and the urge to hurl something very heavy, or simply just kick the cat.
The up-side to these heavy hearted disputes is they are great to watch when it’s not you in the ring. Nothing beats the hyperbolic anger, stuttering and general nonsense that is spat out during a father/ mother and a miniature beast of burden ‘talk’. Arm actions are a favourite to keep an eye on: think charades, Hitler and YMCA
Long of the short is you are always in the wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what if it wasn’t you that forgot to close the door, so what if it wasn’t you that lost the trusty remote, so what if you forgot to feed the birds and one was accidently massacred by the neighbour’s pedigree feline…no matter what you plead. You’re guilty.
So what is left for the enraged parent to do? They have expressed their views on your repugnant behaviour, lost their voice through strenuous repetitions of ‘my house, my house…’ and used up so much energy that they have to go for a 30 minute nap.
In the mean time you have a biased discussion with parent number two, the first person in your phonebook or your one remaining cat (the one that didn’t get kicked half an hour ago) and try to piece together what just happened.
Then from the depths of the dark you begin to hear a rumble, parent number one has awoken and is slowly making its way down the stairs, and being extra careful not to trip and slide to the bottom. This will only result in you wetting yourself with laughter, crying through the pain and ending up in another argument on ‘how to not laugh at people when they fall down the stairs’.
So once the parent has tackled the stairs and your laughter is tightly locked away inside the apologies begin. They apologise, you apologise and everyone has a cup of tea.
What a fantastic way to spend your evening. You end up with several stress spots, mainly caused through irritation rather than stress, and spend the night needing to wee because you drank so much tea.
Well I guess it could be worse, you could be watching Xfactor.
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