The Gathering

I've always been a fan of the New Year only recently the reason has become more solidified.

When I was a kid, it was because we could stay up late. Because people would come round. Because we would go out to London. Because it was the final concluding BANG to Christmas. 

But now it means more. A global gathering of people; races, religions, families irrespective. Something so mundane: the turning of the clocks - something that happens every year. But somehow it manages to captivate. 

I often envy the celebrations in London. It was always so magical and the flash of the media was just so special. 

But this year, watching them from the Burj Khalifa; half a mile of explosives and fireworks on the ground, was awe-inspiring. The cheers that radiate trough the sky. The patriarchy of course. 

It was a record-breaking attempt this year with a 6 minute spectacle using over 500,000 fireworks. 

As I sat, watching the vibrant colours fill the sky, so much was going through my mind. 2014 - I couldn't believe it. 2013 a it went so fast. But most of all I was making myself a pact. 

As soon was possible, I said, I'd travel the main cities of the world to watch the fireworks there. I've done London. Now Dubai - 3 times in a row. Now to plan the rest of the trip: Singapore, Germany, Australia ....

Obsession number 1

One of my BIGGEST obsessions in my life is this guy:

... my dog, Chester. 

He's absolutely gorgeous and I often find myself forgetting that he is actually a dog ... not a human. I get withdrawal symptoms on my lips when I'm away from him and I love how he smells in the morning. 

He was born on the Isle of Wight and we picked him up and took him home at 8 weeks old. He's now 4 years old. We were, probably, a family very unlikely to get a dog. I would often kid myself at the breakfast table patting an imaginary dog I called Jasper and thinking about what it would be like to have a dog. Our ownership of Chester came about when I scanned through a magazine on dogs and asked my parents if they'd like a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and then bought 2 dog bowls from 'Conkers' garden centre.  

We didn't end up with a King Charles for everything we'd heard about their health problems, but we looked at 2 pregnant Cocker Spaniel mothers and then their litter of puppies when we were staying with my Nan. 

And that's this little fella! My babies! 

My 13 Top Picks of 2013

1. This hair style:

 

2. This CD:

3. This series:

4. This shirt:

5.  This blog:

6. These shoes:

7. This photo:

8. This book:

9. This event:

10. This video:

11. This song:


12. This film:
 and this one: 


13. This advert:

I will! I will! (I won't...)

New year's resolutions - why even bother?

"I will get fit, I will eat less, I will buy that gym membership in the January and not in the October!"

When most of us make our resolutions it always has something to do with our bodies. Over-indulgence at Christmas. A soft rim of turkey fat pushing out of our jeans. Tastes mulled sweet and yearning for the next bank-breaking, calorie bursting sugar fest.

There's too much pressure. Why even bother?! 

The New Year is mean to make us feel good about ourselves. It's a way to encourage us to continue. Or at least that is what it has become. As humans of this race we are dependent on markers. Things to push us through and we think that by setting ourselves targets on January 1st will make all the difference when we can't even stick to the ones we set ourselves weekly.

New Year's is more of a tradition. To awe others with your resilience by giving up chocolate and visiting the gym 5 days a week. But by January 6th, or thereabouts, we're just ready to give up and pack it all in. To go back and adopt our old habits. If anything, rather than being a joyous occasion, we become conceited and self-concious. We pick out our faults that, had the 1st not arrived, we wouldn't have sought until an emotional break-down later on in the year.

So we could all save ourselves the agro and just not make those resolutions we can't stick to and take life by the horns. Let's offer ourselves the ability to change when things are actually going wrong, rather than just in case they do.

http://www.kensingtonhotel-llandudno.co.uk/default/cache/file/A168EA83-2732-4B9B-B9D62C5960F8752E.jpg

Obsessive Tuesdays - LAUCH

I'm impartial to a good ol' obsession. And it changes from week to week. It's one hobby, then the next. It's exercise and fruit and the next it's cheap and flavoursome cooking. It changes so much I could write a book about it.

But I'm not going to do that. Instead I thought I'd make a string of blog posts detailing my journeys with obsession.

 Think of it as a getting to know me session and prepare to embrace ...
Obsessive Tuesdays!!

Isaac, the brave

When you think about it; your life is all you'll ever know. You only know what you see, what you feel. Empathy doesn't exactly work in this world. You might think what emotions you have felt are comparable to others but you'll never know. You'll think the pain that you've felt is the hardest that ever existed and you'd think you're right because you'll never actually know. A broken leg may well be more painful than 3 fractured ribs injured in different circumstances, but you'll never know.  So you might as well be right. 

In a sense, I've always thought, it gives you a feeling of empowerment. You feel like you're (for want of a better word) the 'chosen one'. The human who was meant to feel explicit emotions. And because you only know you, you feel like you have to do something. Be someone. Change the world. And moreover, you may feel as though you have the power to carry it through. 

Forgive me if I'm confusing you, this has always been a hard concept to explain. 

There was a little boy who was the son of a couple who attended the church that I began to at University. The boy was Isaac and he was about 2 years old but he'd spent much of his life fighting chest infections amongst other illnesses I was too new to know about. 

My last service in the church was on the 2nd Sunday of Advent and his mother attended. The priest called her to the front half way through the service and we did a communal prayer. For her son. It was incredibly spiritual - everyone holding out their hands to this mother, assenting at particular parts of the prayer. And when it was over the room was flushed with tears. 

Holding out my hand to her, I felt like I could change her son's life. This force, power and compassion was channelled through my hands. I had the feeling of empowerment. The belief that I was the chosen one. That I had the power to make things right. 

And so, when I received an email entitled 'Isaac', it was with regret that I opened it. All other updates of his progress had been; Isaac - a bad evening. Or Isaac - in Paediatrics Intensive Care. But I knew what a heading like Isaac meant. 

Indeed he had passed away. The power I had felt in praying for his mother seemed futile. Hopefully it had helped but it hadn't saved him. Like I thought it could have. 

The world is a bizarre place. You are led to feel emotions that don't materialise. Who knows what powers each individual has. Who knows how different we are from who we think we are. 

For Isaac, nothing more can be done. Nothing but prayer. Please pray for his family; his parents, those who knew him, those who loved him. And him; Isaac - a brave young boy with the most gorgeous smile, a loving family and life cut too short. 

Losing my senses

You play those games as children, unbeknownst to how topically relevant some of them are. We can exclude 'Dizzy Dinosaurs' and 'Hop-scotch'. But the others; 'Stuck in the mud' - a game of helping your friends in distress before the catcher (or what we can interpret in the adult world as grief or pain or stress). 'It' or 'tag' - being the it-girl or it-guy. And 'kiss-chase' - trying to attract the best looking person of the opposite sex and pursuing them as they run away. Our childhoods taught us so much, if only we knew at the time.

And then there are those eager questions that children ask. I don;t know if it was the same for you, but my brothers and I used to always ask one another, as though we'd be caught out by some form of government torturer for one heinous crime or another;

What would be the sense that you'd most hate to lose?

It was always a hard one for me. I essentially had to choose the sense I loved the most. A a big foodie, I couldn't live without being able to taste but would taste have been a good compromise when I couldn't hear my child talk to me? Tell me about their first day at school? Hear them sing in the Nativity?

But my sense of taste always frustrated me. When I had a cold and I knew the feelings and smells and tastes that should be running down my throat and I registered nothing. I hated it. Chicken kievs should ooze garlic. There should be sweet melodies to the zingy jig of a glass of lemonade. And when I'd saved a perfect square of meat to fit into a small off-cut of yorkshire pudding that I'd specifically left until last so savor the dinner - I wanted to make sure I knew what it was like.

But in the end I put it down to this.

Over the years, I've developed a passion for vintage EVERYTHING! Clothes, make-up, past times. Nothing makes me happier than to thing of myself of an evening eating oranges and sucking the juice to the pith and being in the corner of the living room in a one-person armchair reading. 'Matilda' first put that thought into my head.

When I was younger I always fancied myself as a whizz kid. I didn't like reading much only doing so to say that I'd turned the pages. I would sit in class after lunch break and read the end words of every sentence. I was flipping pages in books faster than anyone else. I loved playing on my Nintendo and I guess that was because I hadn't yet found the unlocking power of writing. Or because it took too long to create the image of my perfect family when 'The SIMS' did it far quicker.

But eventually, as I matured, I turned back - quite literally!

And so, it came as a little surprise to find that old movies didn't always have that riveting affect on me.

Take 'Charlie and the chocolate factory' for instance. The super-tanned Oompa Loompa's and the wild-eyed (and haired) Willy Wonka would have, in the real world, made the chocolate factory seem a place of wonder and awe. But the hues of the picture; the dulled purples and greens and reds, they just didn't cut it and I found myself turning to Johnny Depp instead.

When I asked for the new 'Alice in Wonderland' on DVD one Christmas, you cuold have been fooled into thinking that I was in love with Johnny Depp. The truth was more abstract; I was in love with the colour.  The vibrant make-up and costumes, they all struck me.

And so, without thinking, I'd have to say that the sense that I'd most hate to lose would be my sight.

Santa in the sun and super sad Christmas films

I love Christmas and when it comes, whether it be in the torrential rains of England or the blistering sun of Dubai, it is always special. And even when it doesn't feel like Christmas, the sentiment of the event is ever-present. 

This year didn't, at all, feel like Christmas. There is no limit during the festive period to the amount of times one plays 'Last Christmas' or 'Carol of Bells' but there is the sense of understanding that once they are played over and over, it may still not seem like Christmas Day. 

I came over to Dubai for Christmas this year and so when I told everyone at Uni that I was "going home for Christmas", the fact that I was home meant that I had already reached Christmas a week and a bit before the 25th of December. 

Nevertheless, the presents, mood and food could only be counted as a Christmas Day. 

Unlike every other year, this time we went out for lunch at an Italian buffet restaurant complete with a white-bearded "ho-ho-ho"-ing Father Christmas.  Despite my initial reaction of "I'll try it out" to mask the gravity of the chane, the meal was absolutely delicious. 

Crackers were laid about the table ready to pull. Silver trays of vegetables, potatoes, pastas, alternative Christmas dinners and then the authentic version were plated up. Starters were offered as crab salad, tiger prawn and mango salad, cold meats, shellfish and beef and bean mix. Desserts, reserved in a room of their own, included Christmas pudding, cheesecake, chocolate pots, crème caramel, chocolate fudge cake and small tarts. 

It wasn't as traditional as our family meal but a welcome change I'd like to do once more :D 

After eating, Christmas films are always a must. There's our favourites; Home Alone, which we watch repeatedly every year, and Elf. But with an array if differing tastes in the household, we chose something different. Browsing Netflix we found a film with a cute, animated bunny wrapped in multi-coloured lights and rated 'U'. 

I thought it would be a quick film; light-hearted and cartoon. Instead it was the most depressing Christmas pick of ALL TIME! It was called: the Christmas Bunny - cute right? No. No, no, no, no, no.

The story line was good; commendable and undeniably emotive, but it wasn't right for the 8-12 year old target market to which it was broadcasting. It was about a psychologically disturbed girl who was fostered and was looking after the bunny which her brother shot with a BB gun. 

It had the desired effect of the script - moving and thought-provoking - but it wasn't exactly the light-hearted Christmas themed film we needed to watch at the end of our Christmas Day. 

But it didn't over-shadow it at all. It provided a balance, a way to act against the elation of being with family to be centred in a world where your family doesn't love you or doesn't exist. 

It played the part of the Church at Christmas time and put all the meaning back in! 

The pieces of Picoult

Jodi Picoult is one of my favourite authors. When I pick up her books I know I'm in for a read destined to please. I admire her for her insightfulness; the amount of times she surprises me and makes me go; "Ah! Yeah! That's right. Why didn't I ever think of that?" 

She has a way with words that I only aspire to. A manner of stringing together ideas with a multitude of characters that just seems to work. 

Needless to say, I thought I'd share a slither of that intoxicating allure of the book of hers that I'm currently reading; Nineteen minutes. 

She talks about bad things being like a chain. An evolution of real life Chinese whispers. That one person, in a world of good, did one bad thing which sparked others to attack them for revenge and so continued the trail of bad. Everything we do in spite could be in reaction to a fight over 2 goats a thousand years ago. But what made me think most was when she said that 'bad' was only a way of making us remember what 'good' looked like. 

What would the world look like without a notion of bad. Of people doing wrong. I'm not talking about the implications of an absence of crime on the police and judiciary but generally with no concept of bad. 

I still think the world wouldn't work. 

Sure, everyone would be good - perhaps weird and a tad annoying. But whilst one person would be 'good', another person might be an even better version of good. There would be varying degrees of righteousness and so, whilst there would be no malicious intent in the world, no one would be as perfect as the most good person in a race of good people. Certainly, the whole notion of good would topple. People who weren't good enough would struggle for perfection through losing their good spirit and embracing 'bad'. 

Maybe the world was once like this. Whether your religiously Christian, Eve eating the apple might have been the bridging factor. It whether your not, a man with a herd if dying goats looking to his neighbour with a plentiful stock and finding that stealing might guarantee his happiness. 

Because that's another thing; being good is not synonymous with being happy. What's good for you doesn't always make you happy. A hungry vagrant avoiding stealing from a shop owner and refraining from taking the money he's gained from begging might not make him happy; may not even keep him alive. But he would still have been a good person. 

And whilst I can't stand crime, feel threatened by thugs and constantly have self-evaluation sessions with myself in order to ascertain whether I'm "still on the right track", I don't think I could stand being in a world of goody-too-shoes! 

Thirst for "The Hunger Games"

I was told that I had to read them!! 

"They're AMAZING!" They said. 

But, if I'm honest, when I finished the first in the trilogy of The hunger games, I wasn't overly impressed. 

The writings of Suzanne Collins and the subsequent films have sparked worldwide adoration and a deeply entrenched admiration of leading actress Jennifer Lawrence and an unshakeable crush on Josh Hutcherson.

I don't doubt the concept of the book. In fact, the dystopian genre was the genre that first enthused me to write. I loved the idea of writing about a place that didn't exist and didn't have to make sense. I always found, once I picked up my pen and settled myself, that writing as much as reading was a manner of escapism. I was fascinated about the mind's ability to leave this world; and I still am. How little me can live in a dualism and even completely create something so abstract as a new world. 

In this way, The hunger games struck a chord with me. The idea of living in Panem spurred me simply to read page to page. But what I loved most was the concept of the games. 

Everyone likes a book that you can't end yourself; especially me, which is why I find Jodi Picoult's book so intriguing. The thought that goes into her writing and the deep inter-woven and complex relations make her stories simply unforgettable! It was these complex relations that I admired in The hunger games. I was constantly figuring out who I would kill, if anyone. I knew I would sacrifice myself and wondered if Katniss would do the same. I certainly would not have made alliances with ANYONE. The choice between Peter, who Katniss and even I, fell in love with and a mother and sister so desperately dependent on you was what kept me reading. 

But beneath all the deep and intricate thoughts, the beauty of the possible complexity and intermingled relationships, the execution of the book left me, unfortunately, less than impressed. Understandably, as it is aimed at you get readers than my 18 year old self, the book was engaging with the constant cliff-hangers and engaging narrative. 

I was disappointed by the ending on more than one account. The plot line that detailed Peter and Katniss being the last two in the arena, to the change in rules and then their declaration of  being the winners must have spanned about 3 unfulfilling pages. I neither felt as though Katniss' crime was horrendous nor merited a punishment which is written into the second in the series; "Catching Fire". 

It was almost as though Suzanne Collins seems to rush to publication. The ending (with all unintended rudeness and dismissal on my behalf) seemed to scream, quite possibly like Katniss Everdeen; "I'm done! TAKE ME HOME!!" 

But I know I can't really talk - although I've done very well. Writing is not only about being original and being unique but about writing what sells. No one will publish your novel unless it can be sold and make profit. So I must credit Suzanne Collins because certainly it seems that this type of novel is just what the public ordered! 

Wearing Out the Wardrobe

I've never been an avid follower of fashion. Tell that to my poorly coordinated 11 year old self at the year 7 mufti day and I would have flipped. It was only some years later as I looked back on that day, seeing myself squeezed into a neon pink roll-necked t-shirt with a matching woolen neon pink cardigan that I realised I wasn't as fashionable as I had thought.

Fashion has never been my friend either. So many style changes in one year; a tight purse like mine never had a chance of keeping up!

Well, that was, until recently.

The style revolution and almost 'undoing' struck me as bizzare. When was it ever fashionable to wear trainers with skirts? I couldn't pinpoint when the change had struck or when, more to the point, everyone had begun to embrace it.

I thought it was a one-off. "Pumps will be back" I thought. But low and behold, out emerged yet another innovation for the wardrobe; jumpers and sequin skirts. And...it looked nice. Suddenly, in one magazine spread, I could show my legs and be stylish rather than being the outcast on snow-days at school; the only girl in the whole of secondary still wearing skirts even when the snow had set in. It was a revolution!!

And now I sit here to write in a pair of Aztec patterned black and white leggings and a Victorian style turquoise chiffon, long-sleeved blouse and, since times have changed, I'll be alright to go out! I suppose, even if it's a mis-match once again, I've come a long way from those colour coordinated faux-pas days!  

The Transformation

Being judgmental is in our nature. Like God cast his hands on the Earth. Created Adam and from his rib created Eve, then threw away the instruction manual and bypassed love. 

"Thou shalt have the power of judgment." 

I bet they don't tell you that in Religious Studies. Perhaps that's because it's not true. Yet regardless of our God-given or self-created 'right', no one can deny the unruly and overpowering nature of judgmental-ness that comes from human character. 

No one's perfect - we've been told it enough times - and because of this; self-consciousness is just another one of our by-products like excess wind and indigestion. 

For as long as I can remember I've been rather self-concious. Not 'sexy' enough to strip down into a bikini at 10 years old. Not cool enough to bare all and go clubbing in anything less than a pair of fur boots and jeans at my first under-seventeens 'disco' at Liquids. There was always something that stopped me. But a body I wasn't entirely proud of or hair that wouldn't fasten like the other girls in my year tended to be something I could mask. And so the (extra) timid, subconscious me would only be revealed  at selected times when each section of my body was under pressure to do so. All other intervals, around family and playing on the computer, would show my semi-shy but nonetheless, cheery personality.

Yet there was one product of my creation that I - and everyone else, for that matter - HAD to confront. When I looked at myself and smiled to the mirror, sometimes feeling a little special with some mismatched and fluorescent outfit I'd put together, the lure of an elongating and darkening upper lip caught me every time and dragged me under. Once I saw it, the said 'moustache', I couldn't shake my own critical thoughts let alone the criticisms of others. When I knew I'd seen it that day suddenly everyone in the world was looking at me; pointing and jeering. Some were but not everyone. 

It only really became a problem when I was in secondary school. I would heard people talking about it. Boys would point it out and even when friends or teachers talked to me they wouldn't talk to me, they'd talk to it. It destroyed me every time. On occasions people would ask why I hadn't had a boyfriend - as many people ask every teenage girl. I would shrug, knowing deep down the potential and, most probable, reason why. 

But for all the stick I got, I failed to publicly admit its existence. I don't so much want to show it off as to avoid succumbing to a pressure of judgments which would destroy the image God had clearly wanted to create with me. But by year 12 I was conned into doing it, unable to face a life of being the hairy one. 

I had had my hair cut in a salon in Dubai - an annual affair.  

"It looks so pretty but ... You've just got this..." The hairdresser remarked drawing her finger seductively over her own lip. The discretion in Dubai is evident. 

Let it be a lesson, once you let someone win with their 'suggestion' you give them full power to abuse you as they wish. Reluctantly I consented only to be dragged into the beauty room and be told of how long and thick the hair was. The hairdresser unleashed every thought she'd had of me from when I walked in to how it would effect my future. 

I walked out of that salon faster than ever; embarrassed, head hanging but also very very happy. I could now look myself in my reflection and not have to cover my lip to see what I'd look like without a rim of hair over it. 

And every time I go for subsequent waxes I come out of the salon with a huge self confidence I shouldn't have. Yes it makes me feel nice and yes "I am now a lady, again!" as the beautician remarked today but why should I need materialism to boost my self-confidence. Why should I be saving money to pay for treatments just to cull thoughts I can't take, stares I don't want and full-frontal abuse? 

"Thou shalt be judgemental" - a phrase I'm pretty sure God didn't and would never say, nevertheless still stands.

Back in the Bubble

Exaggeration serves great purpose for embellishment. A lion with 4 million teeth suddenly seems a lot more scary. Trekking for 1,000 miles in a blizzard evokes more sympathy than the 10 kilometre walk on a frosty that you ACTUALLY took. 

But I'm not exaggerating when I say that I've never been more excited than I am right now.
They say you never know what you've got until its gone. And - applicable to everything - you never know who you love until you can no longer love them as you should have. 

I'm flying home and this trip has been so long anticipated that the fact that it's actually breaking into my scheme of reality is so ironically unreal. And I could not be more happy. 

Pulling up to uni to catch the coach from the bus station and being "one of those people" I see catching coaches home every week, having my flatmates hug me and say how excited they are for me, holding the ticket that's going to take me home. All this never seemed so special and overwhelming. 

If you'd have asked me a couple of weeks ago whether I was enjoying myself at uni, the answer would have been yes. I like my flatmates and I enjoy my course. But coming back to Dubai to an ABSOLUTE paradise, I can't believe I was once a fully-fledged part of, makes the whole experience so much more worthwhile!!

I'm so happy to be home :D 

But Christmas now, though I LOVE it, seems nearly irrelevant. Of course, there are the elements; the rounded men posing as Santa, the trees, the mince pies and the cheer. But all I really was striving for was making it to Dubai and now I'm here I feel complete. I needn't have presents, nor stuff myself with turkey or eat all of the chocolates from my advent calendar so I can catch up with my brothers. All I needed was to see them; to see my family, to feel the heat and dunk me feet in the pool!! Ahhhh...So help me when the time comes to go back to Uni!!!! 

Father Figure

As he died, the gravity of Nelson Mandela's legacy was predictable. A human saviour. An embodiment of freedom. An aspiration. A dreamer. Of course, everyone was going to go crazy.

People take to the streets praising his revolution. The media settles in for weeks on end of analysis on his life and how we might take lessons from his teachings. And un-involved worldly populations, well, we just sit in the dark.

For South Africa, Mandela was a father of a nation and I came across an article which said that if the world had only one father, the suitable candidate for the role and bearer of the title would be the late Nelson Mandela. It is most probably true. A man who gave so much hope has left us. Alone. Perhaps he is above in Heaven, for those who believe. Or reincarnated, for those who think otherwise. But Nelson Mandela is no longer on this earth.

I think, subconsciously, I took comfort from that fact that he was always with us. In death, at least I could wake up in the morning knowing that there was at least one man on this earth who was courageous to stand up for everyone. Someone who would protect us all. And suddenly, we find that we are fighting for ourselves. Who will save us now? Who would stand up for us if something happened tomorrow? Our only current hope, has gone.

And now, if they choose, new people will become. New leaders with the same effect will take to the stands. Or will they?

We are so reliant on those who've already done. Those who've already become. We hardly ever think that they time will come when we must learn to be. When we must learn to do.

I suppose, in this immediate instance, we are vulnerable. We haven't got someone to hold our hand now. He's held it all this time. It's time for someone else to stand. Someone else to hold out their hand for others to take.

It's bizarre, how deep the sense of loss seems. His effect was undeniable. His lessons uncountable. But who will teach us next?  

Probably not one of my BEST ideas !!!

Clumsiness and poor-planning comes with my name. I have a tendency to panic over tasks such as when I might cook dinner, as though my world revolves around some form of time specific order. It doesn't. But for that reason, I'll often find myself in situations I'd rather not be in, situations that require just that little bit more effort and situations that are awkward and embarrassing until further notice.

Take Tuesday; I try to organise myself now to the best of my ability and since, usually things go to plan. But because my arms were aching in Lidl from an overload of ice cream, toilet cleaner and vegetables, I couldn't be bothered to finish my basket full of shopping with a feather light pack of toliet paper, so I didn't.

'I'll get it in ASDA down the road when I get home' I thought, not least because I knew, though the quality wasn't brilliant, I could still get 4 rolls for 65p. So long as my sensitive baby skin made it out of the toilet unscathed, I figured I'd be fine.

Anyhow, I didn't go and as my roll grew thinner and thinner, and I rooted around for spare towels of kitchen roll, I decided I might need to get some. I stopped off at Sainsbury's on my way home from Uni. I didn't need, at this point, anything else; just toilet paper. I found the aisle and scouting the cheapest offer for my tight and government-funded pocket, I soon realised the only one worth my while (ie. under £2) was a 6 pack of jumbo rolls amounting to a total of 2,400 sheets! It was only then, as I awkwardly took myself to the self-checkout, that I realised I might need pens. I searched for the aisle but couldn't find them, which led me to walk around the entire shop with my 2,400 sheet toilet paper and imagining the conversation I would have if someone approached me. (I don't know why but I was adamant that it was the norm for people to ask about the contents of your basket and, moreover, why you were walking around straddling a packet of toilet tissue that you could barely hold. I figured that I'd tell them that I was going clubbing. As a mummy. Standard.)

Had I, with a little less laziness and more perseverance, just bought it when I did my weekly shop anyway, I would have spared the embarrassment.

And now, having just moved from cutting Christmas wrapping paper with rusted nail clippers, I have once again found that not all my ideas are the greatest. I find myself jumping in the shower and forgetting to close my curtains before I go in, meaning that I come out and give spectators a sore view of my rather white behind. I invite people for pre-drinks at mine and forget the alcohol. I throw away tubes of toothpaste and then realise that I need some more before I can be bothered to go out and get some. I try and water dead plants to coax them back to life as though I'm Jesus.

These occurrences can only prevail and, no matter, they make me who I am.

Pleased to Meet You

There are those experiences that you'll remember forever. The sounds; the cry of a parent who's just lost their child. The videos; www.channel4.com/programmes/no-fire-zone/4od. And the image of a respectable monarch of your home country shaking the hand of an un-prosecuted and systematically immortal mass-murderer:

www.thetimes.co.uk

The world is the most perplexing place, even more so when you examine malicious hate crimes and attacks upon the innocent. 

  As part of our Amnesty International meeting this week, we watched a documentary called 'No Fire Zone' which detailed the absolutely horrific tragedies and deception that occurred during the 138 day Sri Lankan war. All filmed on handheld phone cameras and authenticated by experts, the film produces some of the most shocking and graphic images visible to the human eye; maimed civilians, total destruction and displacement and some of the most confounding and anger-provoking concepts that the human mind might ever know. 

To be honest, I didn't know all that much about the Sri Lankan war. I'd heard about it in passing, but I hadn't engaged with the full extent of the damage. Whilst I had been growing up, studying for GCSEs and going through an absolute fashion faux-pas, I had been oblivious, in every sense of the word, to the shocking daily struggles of our Sri Lankan counterparts. But as part of Amnesty International, my ignorance provided me with the motivation to prevent others turning a blind eye, or not realising, what was really going on in the world. 

We'd been campaigning in the main square at Uni, handing out leaflets to people who, either, thought we were trying to sell them something, didn't want to sign their name to a petition, thought we were mind-controlling activists or didn't care about human rights. In fact, we wanted as many people as possible to come and watch a documentary we were screening that evening and have them sign their names to prevent Sri Lanka chairing the Commonwealth. 

Having stood outside in the numbing cold for a few hours, we had managed to generate considerable support or interest, at least and as 4pm approached, I began to prepare to get myself back to Uni to watch the video. 

But I was, almost, reluctant to watch it. I haven't ever trusted myself with the strength of my stomach and my stubborn tears, which seldom appeared for anyone or anything would portray me as a cold-hearted brute if they did not fall at some point during the film. Nevertheless, I found myself seated in the second row. 

We were warned that it would be graphic. I had seen pictures of dead bodies before and I knew that I was alright with blood but what we watched that evening has scarred me in such a way that certain elements of the film shall never leave my mind. 

I couldn't stop the tears from falling as countless attacks on hospitals were announced, children waited for treatment on the cusp of death and women screamed in bunkers dug in the mud. The terror and grief of the whole scene was enormous. 

There was one scene that I know I shall hold with me forever. It was of a girl; I'd say about 15 to 22. She was laying on her back, in a foetal position behind a panel of corrugated tin sheltering a shallow pit. She was dead. The man filming the sight on his phone zoomed in to confirm it. Yet another tragic loss of life. Then, with a thunderous crack and severe jolt of the camera, the men were being fired upon. They ducked besides the girl, behind the guard she had made for herself, before they moved into a more stable shelter. As they came out, once the sound of shelling had ceased, her mother was besides the young girl. "Look at my daughter! Look at my daughter!" she screamed, arms flailing at her side. She was in despair. 

For me, this was the hardest part to watch and it chills me to think of it once more. I've been frustrated; agitated, and when I feel as though I can't find my way out, or I don't know what to do, I find myself flailing my arms, just as that mother did. I could empathize totally with her. In such a simple action, I could feel her pain. A deep wave of tears set in, right from the bowels of my stomach. I've never felt that way about an image. 

So when, at the end of the film, I saw the queen, eagerly out-stretching her hand to Mahinda Rajapaksa - the Sri Lankan President - I couldn't contain my disgust. He was, for the most part, to blame for the atrocities. Zones which has been designated as safe had been targeted by the army essentially trapping innocent people. 

I understand formality on the Queen's behalf. But there has to come a point in this world where someone, somewhere breaks the mould! And why couldn't that have been the Queen of England? Yes there would have been consequences for not shaking a diplomat's hand. Yes there would be criticism. But wouldn't that all have been justified if it was the right thing to do? Systems and tradition hold little importance when you are seen, publicly on television, to welcome a murderer. Maybe if I was the Queen I would have done the same. I hope I wouldn't have. But maybe under the strain I would have. But I don't think my heart would have let me carry on. You can plead ignorance in certain circumstances, but not this. If I had shaken the hand of a murderer - a mass-murderer - I could no longer hold my head high as I let people sing an national anthem asking for my protection. I would not show myself for birthday celebrations that I know very well, the nation will be watching. I wouldn't wave to spectators as I rode past in my horse-drawn carriage. I wouldn't even be in it. 

But if I didn't shake his hand - the hand of a killer - I would feel the revolution behind me. And I would be happy for it.

*

Please, please, please, if you've been moved by this post, help Amnesty International to prevent Rajapaksa becoming the chair of the Commonwealth and raise awareness for the abominable degradation of human rights in Sri Lanka. 

Follow the link and save a life; https://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions/sri-lanka-no-commonwealth-seal-approval-abuses?from=issues

Thank you. 

Souls of Sri Lanka

Probably the most horrendous and soul-crushing thing I have seen this year, if not ever. I literally could not stop crying.

This (very graphic) No Fire Zone - documentary details the atrocious war crimes that happened to Sri Lankan civilians during the recent war and the appalling lack of human rights that still remain.

There are no elaborate words I can use to dress up this issue nor a frame in which I can put this situation so as it seems less disgusting than duly applies.

I defy you to be moved.

Our Little Miracle - a few hours spent in paediatrics

There is something miraculous about hospitals. They save people, breathe new life into people and allow people another chance. But there is something even more magical about the paediatrics department.

I had been quite excited - bizarrely. I loved London, so I suppose that had something to do with it. But I hadn't been in a hospital for years beyond which I could count. And I had never been in a hospital in London - particularly one of such stature as 'The Royal Brompton'.

It's a sad scene to see poorly children. The rainbows and butterflies on the walls seem to lose their vibrancy just that little bit. The building blocks in the play area you know have most probably been thoroughly sterilised. And the sharp, jagged colourings of pirates and fairies pasted upon the walls seem to scream; LIFE'S TOO SHORT!! - certainly too short to worry about colouring within the lines.

But you can make your own fun and there's no such test to optimism as in a paediatrics department.

Of course, as an 11 year old, table football was always going to be the pot of gold amongst the train sets and over-sized building blocks scattered upon the floor. And, of course, as an 18 year old with a strong aversion to football, horrendously poor judgement and a set of lanky limbs, table football was never going to be my forte.

Regardless, between appointments, my cousin and I set about a match with the chocolate figure players.

My heart was racing; a sudden, burning competitiveness shining through. It was to no avail however because it wasn't long before I was beaten. Hardly surprising. But it had been good fun, so I sat in anticipation for when my cousin would return and we could duel once more.

We were into our third game before a young girl stood as a spectator, first leaning over the sides and directing my awkward movements and, later, as half of my team. Despite being in charge of just 3 players ball after ball continued to fling itself through my control and into the back of our net. It was, therefore, a rare and joyous occasion when we could enjoy a goal.

"YES!" cheered my little partner as our first went in.

I smiled. For all my earlier apathy and general lack of competitiveness, scoring each goal felt good and wholly deserved.

She lifted her hand, her fingers splayed just above my chest and I clapped mine against hers.

That tiny boned, slender, warm hand of the young girl cushioned by my strangely large and utterly unfeminine man-hand.

In that moment of connection, I realised what life meant for the children of this ward. All these children in the ward who made multiple visits per month and even per week for another appointment, the next consultation and further treatment. That little hand, swallowed by my whole palm, was part of a body that had experienced more than I had. She had seen far more than I had. She knew more that I did, despite being at least 8 years younger. Whilst my head was in books, thinking very highly of myself as I sat and churned out essays, this little girl and many others like her already had more knowledge than I could ever study for. Their misfortune, in many ways, had lead them to fortune.

Whilst making them better and curing them, the hospital and its staff were educating them. Strengthening their emotions. Improving their perceptions. They could walk into that waiting area and not be saddened to the core, as I had, by the sight of little boys walking around wired to tubes. They could be amongst these children without any other feeling than what was normal and indifferent. They could demand that their daddy's not walk them to their next treatment in the room down the hall because they could go with the nurses on their own. They weren't scared.

It's not only hospitals that are miraculous but, also, these brave little soldiers who carry on with life - day in, day out. Hospital is just a different way of them living their life. And that is truly what they do.

Hair cuts from the old age

If you walk into Leonard's the hairdressers, there are a number of things that would strike you. The young, faded picture of a gorgeous Matt Le Blanc in the window, the interesting colour of sofa, the striking haircuts hung upon the wall that would sooner have you run out of the shop to take your service to a horrendously priced Toni & Guy, the oriental old-style fan, the spiral staircase and wicker woven laundry basket under the stairs.

This isn't your typical hairdressers.

Sitting in a part of town called the arcade, it fits quite suitably. Very 80's. It's unusual though, for all it's character. Whilst it offers modern day prices on trims, up to date magazines listing all the latest technology for Christmas and new, professional men's electrical hair trimmers, it is still quite a quirky and retro place. 

I sat, temporarily fixed on leaving my iPod untouched and stalling my desire for Craig David, to listen to the ceiling radio. The soft hum and the delicate hues of the browns and mixed creams of the decor for just a moment, transported me back to an old-fashioned coiffeur. 

As I've advanced in my teenage years I've developed an innate love for the 1920s period onwards, partly fuelled by obsessively watching and re-watching Downton Abbey. Since then, I've been desperate to live a simple life; no TV, no iPod just me walking out with a hamper basket full of sandwiches, apples and juice and sitting at the base of a big tree trunk and reading until the sun falls. 

Easier imagined than done. 

I only just realised in March, about half way through year 13, that - in fact - my dreams were unattainable. I remember that realisation so clearly. I was in the shower. I'd always said to myself that once I got out of Dubai and through my teenage years and degree, I could then buy a house near the countryside and complete my olden day ideal. And then, one sleep disillusioned morning in the shower before Sixth Form I thought; 

Hang on. Wait, you know you're never actually going to get to travel back in time. The 1920s will never come again! You can't, in the 21st century, live without Internet. It's a physical impracticality. A near-on social suicide. 

I remember that morning in tutor, telling one of my best friends; Danielle, my sudden, disturbing and heart-breaking epiphany. From that day onwards, I became incredibly conscious of how I could still live my dream and avoid alienating everyone around me. 

And so, sat in that old fashioned hairdresser, I could, if only for 2 or 3 minutes, allow myself to drift forward into the past. To a setting I could seldom every dream of being in again. 

In with the crowd

I've always held such respect for the commuters of London. How one might navigate the underground amongst the pull and tore of the trains and jolts of fellow passengers without their daddy's hand to hold was always something that baffled me. Could a transport network be more complicated? It took me until the age of 15 to understand the local bus system which involved just one change at the central station. 

As I left secondary for sixth form, my classmates were commuting by train everyday to their colleges. So unknown to me was this method of travel that I was constantly petrified of  having to return to England and visit family. Yet, when I arrived at uni, I came with a new sense of independence, maturity and courage. Armed with a debit card that would ensure that in my immediate needs I would never run short of cash on a journey, without my parents own anxiety in my mind and with the determination to be confident and outgoing, I began to anticipate the journeys I would take over the coming year with great excitement. 

I'm a novice on the train. In the past 2 years I've travelled only twice an just once was alone. 

But anxiety deserted me as I left my halls for Clapham this morning. Taking pride in step and with a bubbling excitement of finally being in an ACTUAL house sent me on my way. I had had an idea of what I was going to pack at least a week in advance and with 2 days to go, I was already packed. 

I felt a maternal instinct towards my room. There was so much I needed to do. I took the example from my parents. I locked the window, drew the curtains, turned off the radiator, took out the bins, changed the towels and tidied my whole room. In the warm orange light as I lay to sleep at 11:45pm, I felt proud. Finally, I had a responsibility that was entirely mine. I had a duty to fulfil that wouldn't leave me penalised if I didn't do it. Instead it would teach me something I shouldn't forget next time. 

I went to church that morning, feeling the glee of self pride. I was looking after myself. Doing all the things I'd longed and planned to whilst anticipating my return to England from Dubai. I was being independent. But most importantly I was establishing me - I was being someone without boundaries. 

And so I jumped on the bus at 12pm from Southampton to Eastleigh. I caught the train from Eastleigh to Waterloo, Waterloo to Euston, Euston back up to St Pancras and, finally, St Pancras to Bedford. And I knew it was partly a service at Church that morning and the knowledge that home was a 3,000 mile flight away had led me to do it. To remove the apprehension and take the journey. 

And I have done it. I've commuted the underground with less than 2 grunts of sudden one second panic. I've made my way into London, been through it and got myself out the other side in under 4 hours. As sad as it sounds, I don't think I've ever felt so pleased with myself :D 

A Truly Frightful Evening

England seems to run on a chain of festivities. Everyone looks forward to Christmas and after Christmas; New Year. After New Year, Valentine's day. And after Valentine's; Easter and after Easter; summer. After summer; Halloween and then it's starts over.

Of course I love festivities; Christmas, Easter ... but I've never struck a solid relationship with Halloween. When we were kids we never went out for Halloween, as much as our chocolate fed minds wanted to. We stayed in. We had dinner, answered the door to 'trick or treaters', decorated the front door, had oranges left on our steps, carved pumpkins, drunk our blackcurrant juice through plastic skull straws, dressed up and, once, even had a Halloween disco between the three of us. Halloween was fun for that reason, but that particular day wasn't the reason I lived through the winter.

But this year, I felt a communal spirit. When you're mixing with thousands of people, many of whom worship Halloween like God, it is inevitable that you'll get caught up in it. So this year I thought; Hey! Why not?  and put my all into finding a suitable costume.

I went through the motions; classic zombie, vampire, corpse bride but eventually settled on Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmatians.

Let it be known that I really really LOVE dressing up, but only when I make the costumes myself. So I ransacked my drawers looking for anything white, black and spotty. I found all three and headed off to Primark; useful for most necessities and cheap fancy dress. I was looking for some fishnet tights but instead found a perfect white below the knee dress with black shoulder pads. Size 6 was a bit of a squeeze and with a 30cm mud stain right down the middle and a broken zip, it wasn't the definition of classiness nor the piece de resistance but with a tight budget and a price tag of only £5, it was worth it.

I brought it home, alone with a toy dog in a spotty coat that I planned to take with me, and spent 30 minutes rubbing rose scented soap and a flannel into the stains. I managed to remove the majority - it was halloween after all, it didn't matter how awful you looked.

My excitement for getting ready was rising. I had the dress, the dog, the gloves now all I needed was the hair. I back brushed both sides and worked hairspray and flour into one and left the other. I can still, even now, feel the doughy remnants at my roots. It wasn't perfect and not crystal, but as I had already proved with the colour of my dress that grey was now the new white!

For £12 a ticket I was expecting the night to be a blast. Everyone was dressed and, surprisingly, there were far fewer provocative dresses than had crossed my mind. I assumed that I would easily make my money's worth. I had a good time, at least. But I walked away with a feeling of disappointment in hindsight. My dog hadn't even made it out with me, the dress was too tight but generally the whole night just felt so overrated. Everywhere was packed, which I supposed could have been expected, but apart from a good chance to get creative and dress up, the night meant little else. I don't understand why Halloween is so popular. Clubbing was never in the interest of ghosts, nor zombies, nor demons, was it?

But it was different, I suppose, and I gave it a go and now onto the next; Christmas!!

Ten minute trip down 'special lane'

Uni, if anything, has been a massive learning curve. In my independence, I've found all about the weird intricacies of my mind; how happy eating tinned sweetcorn makes me, how closing any drawer in my room after having opened it requires more effort than it's worth and how I am in absolutely LOVE with literary symbolism.

I'm very stubborn, though it might not seem so. I listen to others and accept their opinions but interpretation allows me to always be 'right'. The thing is, I couldn't care less if I was right or wrong, I just want to have a say. I want to say something that makes someone stop and think; actually, you do have a point. In an argument, I don't think there is ever just one winning statement. Maybe I'm biased because I can't debate for toffee but I believe that each person can win in the same debate with multiple good points and so whilst I may agree with what you're saying, I can counter your statement in more ways than one.

I was walking home from Uni today in black leggings, some brogues, my one and only scarf draped round my neck with a vest top, red coat and woolen cardigan in-between. It's an old cardigan, one of my favourites. It has a hole, only small, and, despite the fact that I can sew, the great tear in the fabric never worried me quite enough to have me fetch my needle and thread. In fact, it's a good job I never did, because I probably wouldn't be sat here writing this post.

My hands, in the winter, seldom leave my pockets. I love the image; girl walking through a street of fallen leaves, ankles boots, hair pulled back and her hands burrowed in a coat.

So there mine were, in my pockets when two of the fingers fell through the hole. I looked down and saw them poking through. A pair cold reeds quilted by wool. I walked, for a moment, thinking of nothing else but a scene from The Polar Express; when the young boy takes his hand, puts it through his dressing gown pocket and finds it empty. His two fingers come poking out the end.

I don't know why I had the need but I began to question: what does this mean? I was reliving a scene from a cartoon film. But why?

(Yes, these are the kind of things that go through my mind!)

I concluded, after much thought and multiple possibilities, that someone was trying to tell me something. The boy in the film loses the bauble that he was given by Father Christmas. If the boy believed in him he would hear a ringing when the the ball was shaken. If he didn't he would hear silence.

What had someone given me that I wasn't meant to lose? Was someone going to give me something that I was supposed to keep hold of? Was there someone I needed to believe in? Something?

Or was I just meant to sew up that hole?

This all occurred in one 10 minute walk from the bus to my front door. But it's the symbolism. I don't know why I had to attach some meaning to the laziness of not sewing up a hole. What if I'd have looked at my fingers from another angle, what would I have seen? What if I hadn't have looked at my fingers at all? Or was that just it; was I meant to see?

Things like these will endlessly entertain me. I could think of a thousand scenarios. A million interpretations. Symbolism will just never fail to please me. But, in a sense, I'm so glad that it does. I think I've always been a little eccentric. The oddball. The kid obsessed with watching the butcher fill sausages - I'm literally obsessed! But I don't think that's weird - well, maybe the sausage part - it's definitely not a bad thing; it just makes my life a lot more fun!

Amnesty in Afghanistan

It's another Amnesty International awareness campaign this week focused upon Women's right's, our monthly topic.

I always find that there's alot of stigma surrounding Women's rights. Anyone fighting for women's rights seems to be automatically deemed a feminist, as thought they might be promoting legislation to wipe the Earth clean of men. Really, all most people are, are freedom fighters.

Women in Afghanistan have very little basic human rights, far fewer than anywhere else in the world. Giving women access to education, access to health services and security from rape and physical abuse isn't such a crime, is it?

For this month's Amnesty post I've just written a short story about a female victim of domestic abuse, and here it is:

She stood trembling. Her eyes barely registered herself. It was her normal morning self; slanted sleep-drugged eyes, straw-slung hair and a crusty trail at the corner of her lips. It was the same her, but just so so different. She couldn't quite pinpoint why. Why should one night change everything? Why shouldn't it change everything?

The mirror wasn't as kind as those ugly watery reflections of the mud puddles in the street. They contorted her in the most complimentary of ways. And now, as she gazed through herself, this clarity, this glass like still, took her exactly as she was. Completely broken and wholly fragmented.

A hole, just above her stomach bled cleanly through the cream of her jumper. She lifted it, savouring the woolen kiss of the fabric. Her breathing intensified. The moment was like the birth of a newborn; so fragile, breath-taking yet so irrevocably frightening.

It began to emerge. A purple stain with green smudged rims. The work of an inexperienced painter. She hazarded a touch, reaching so slightly forward with her fingers. Their cool tips stung the enraged heat of the bruise. She drew back quickly and tugged her jumper back down. How would she explain this one? How did anyone explain this one?

25 things Uni has given me

So, I've been at uni for about 7 weeks now and of course there has been may changes, so much to learn and a handful of things to remember but most importantly there have been several 'gifts' (corny, I know!)

Here are 25 things that uni has given to me:

1. A reason to eat kebabs in the morning
2. Fresher's flu
3. Free condoms and wall posters
4. A double chin
5. An internet connection better than the wifi at home
6. Constant and insatiable hunger
7. An incentive to get drunk
8. A concept of money
9. £300 of free money
10. A comfy mattress
11. A gym membership
12. A partial cure for my two left feet
13. A love of cranberry flapjacks
14. Multiple reasons to enjoy hot chocolates
15. A free bus pass
16. A large bill for replacing ruined shoes
17. The awkward task of peeing into a tube
18. The knowledge that, actually, I'm not as good at cooking as I make out
19. A desperation to use a dish washer
20. Topics for my blog posts
21. Free food when family or friends come to visit
22. My own shelf in the fridge
23. An appreciation of a free washing machine
24. A writers account for the University magazine
25. Some of the nicest flatmates and friends

Friends on Pages

Opinion; such a crucial word at uni. You can't get by if you don't have a view, haven't read opinions or debated alternating arguments. And so, for this reason, I'm absolutely loving uni!!!

I finished my first essay today (one of my finer moments). One of my guilty pleasures is analyzing - I absolutely LOVE it and so writing a critical analysis of a short text was most definitely a task I was willing to complete. Not even food could disturb me when I immersed myself. My stomach - for once - was challenged by my brain's over-riding desire to write and write well all of the perspectives I had on the book; the monosyllabic sound of the words counting down like seconds, the entrapment, the historical context. Every weird thought my mind conjured could contribute to something.

Another guilty pleasure, which has revealed itself at uni, is reading essays. Having studied To the Lighthouse  by Virginia Woolf this week, I went into the library - head held high - and browsed the shelves. The first time I entered the uni library, I wanted to come out and cry. I had been equipped, reference call code in hand and the optimism of setting myself between hundred and hundreds of shelves of books spread between five floors.

P...P...ah, here we go. Now, I'm looking for PN...PN...

If you've ever entered the library alone, you'll know finding a book is hard. But, what's even harder, is when you walk in with the arrogance that I did and the derogatory glare of students - who already know they're way around the library and are well aware that you don't - following your trail. They all said that you get lost in the library, but I wasn't about to take their word for it.

Come on! I thought. I've been in hundreds of libraries. Of, course I'll be able to find the book. 

Needless to say that when I didn't, I was on the border of tears. Betrayal kept streaming through my head. I had devouted so much time to books and now, a member of the same sub-group, couldn't reveal itself and let me read it. I felt dejected.

The next two weeks I distanced myself from the library. I glowered at it as I passed and went on a slight strike until I gathered the courage to go in and actually ask the librarian for directions.

I've now, touch wood, cracked the code and can find almost any novel that I've needed so far, including the current title I'm reading; Virginia Woolf; A room of one's own & Three guineas. I've got a fetish for essays now because I guess they're just like this blog; they mainly consist of ramblings and subjects as obscure as how to answer an essay question titled; women and fiction.

These enthused passions, I find, rather unique. How someone can write one hundred plus pages on answering a question is something I simply aspire to. I can't help the over-whelming desire I feel to write and then read what other people have written about writing. That's just so me!

So I can tell so far that I'm enjoying myself and so long as the library is good to me, then all will be well!!!

Oh...Rainy Days

Rain, rather than symbolising depression and having striking connections with it's synonyms; woe, melancholy and gloom, now signifies healthiness - for me at least. The past 2 years in Dubai have left much want of change and, though I previously despised the rain like the devil, I am comforted by its forced coziness.

My favourite sensation - and; yes, I do have one - is the tingling of a body warming up. Feet frozen from ice feeling the blood rush. A nose, just about ready to drop off, restored to full colour. Hands that, at first, couldn't feel the radiator, now being burned by the warmth.

If 80% of the people of England had their wish, it would rain no more and the earth would be baked by sun rays. And what would ensue would be toilet brush trees, scraggy for want of leaves. Brown rugs of grass targeted by youths for their potential as fire starters. And girls walking the streets in all but a bikini. Green wouldn't feature in our colour range.

Imagine an England without green. Imagine the country without the single colour that epitomises it besides grey. Where would the appeal lie?

For most tourists, if they're not besotted with London, they are with the countryside.

I find England works rather well. Throughout the year, the country is nourished by rain and it's beauty is saved for those glorious summer afternoons where we can appreciate it all.

So, I no longer hold a grinding antagonism for rain. You can pray for the sun, but that won't stop the rain.

Finding your sanctuary

University leaves so much unlocked potential for the individual. Societies, clubs, clubbing, new faces, lectures. The increased freedom and focus on self can lead, either, to a slow but sure regression or - in the majority of cases - a bountiful exertion of one's happiness and ambition.

With a routine, that I have now had to plan myself, the importance of management is evermore crucial. This morning I set off to rekindle my love of the church. It was a small affair; not many in the way of congregation numbers - well, certainly fewer than I had previously known. But what was lacking in individuals was made up in general happiness, ambiance and devotion.

I sat as far from the altar as could be. Not for dislike of being new, but for the simple reason of losing my voice when the hymns began. Singing, largely, was never a quality I admitted owning, despite the 'pop star' phase of year 3 - a career move I took very seriously.

So I sat and stood to sing when the time came, all the while, during organisational pauses, taking in the peachy coloured walls, the static of the chairs, the decked flooring. It certainly wasn't the image of a typical church, save for the religious memorabilia decorating the hall and the willing congregation, amongst whom sat the formally dressed family and friends of a toddler who was to be baptised.

I got thinking in those moments; what is a church? This building didn't have the age-old, stained glass, musty smelling character of what is usually taken as a church. But did that make it an less of a church than an 17th century stoned work of architecture? It was, however informal, by definition, still a church.

Religion in general is an idea of concept. There is very little concrete about a service and other particulars. Of course, there are the formalities; holy scriptures and communions, declarations of faith and pilgrimages but those aren't the things that necessarily underpin religion and, more specifically to this case, a church. So, if it is only a matter of conception that creates religion and Gods, might we all go to church in some form or another regardless of whether we are religious or not?

In its simplest terms, a church is a place of worship. A more close-fitting definition would be a common place of worship. Is this then applicable to a commodity such as a bed?

Who doesn't like bed? Or sleep for that matter? A minority of the human race. The bed is a place of common love.

In church, our reason for being is God. In bed our reason for being, mostly, is sleep. In such circumstances, therefore, our beds are like our own personal churches. My bed will not be the same as yours. Though it may look the same, the meaning of it will be different. Yet, you and I are commonly joined in the notion of going to bed and sleeping. Similarly, my notion of God will not be the same as yours. Perhaps, you don't even believe in God. Or you may not believe in just one but many. Still, whatever your values, we are joined in thinking and evaluating the world through our own dynamic system of beliefs.

When you're welcomed into a Parish, such as I was this morning, you are given a wider appreciation and room to think. You don't have to agree with the conventions of service or practice because every worship is different.

I suppose, in the end, what is important, however, is that you, eventually, find your own sanctuary and church whether it be in the actual building, with you family and friends, or in that bowl of warm buttered popcorn sitting beside you.

The Con - lessons learnt from the imminent release of Tracey Connolley

The average person in the UK has a life span of around 80 years, according to the World Health Organisation (WHO) who make estimates that men live for around 77.8 years and women live for 81.9. I'm 18. I have, potentially, 63 more years at life. I'm lucky and, if you're alive today, you are too. Others are not so. Baby P, as he was nationally known, lived only 1 year and 5 months. That's over 75 years of potentially life changing decisions and energy lost and wasted.

But what is more shocking, in the grander scheme of things, is that Peter Connolley didn't have a choice. Before he could even be in control of his life, it was taken away from him. I am, now, as independent as I ever have been. I'm at Uni. But that's not to say I'm fully unconstrained. No human is fully individual. There are people; friends, families, colleagues and other, abstract concepts which mean that we shall never be eternally free. The decisions we make everyday usually are formed due to the restraints that are put on us by other people. If I wanted a cheese toastie with ketchup, as do my flatmates, making it wouldn't be the only stumbling block which involved me making a decision. One of the first points of call would be; Do I actually need this? This is a simple and commonly used sentence, not least by people like me. But the reason that I would have asked myself that question is because I am bound by a series of transcendent connections. Do I actually need this would be a question that derived from the fact that those extra calories could make me put on a few pounds. Worse, it could lead to a break out of spots. Would it be worth it? Would my friends notice? By these questions alone, I would be bound.
  If I then went on to eat the sandwich, slicing the cheese and allowing the molten wax to dribble from the toastie machine, I would still be bound. Where should I eat it?
  Questions, as well as people and attachments, keep us far from freedom. So, if we are never free and always, though begrudgingly, reliant on something; is it ok for those attachments to dictate us? Should we listen? Should we take notice to the point that we could die?

Baby P was innocent. And, in the grand scheme of things, he has reached a more attainable freedom through death than anyone alive can have a hope of knowing.

So what is it to be free? There is no such thing on earth. I believe you can never be free; just free-er. Tracey Connolley is to walk 'free'. A 6 year term for the death of a baby doesn't seem much. Think back 6 years. A lot can happen. In the first 6 years of my life I learnt to walk, to eat, to go for a wee on the toilet rather than in a nappy. I learnt to sing, to laugh, to smile, to run, to watch TV, to count, to write, to play, to draw, to love. A lot of things. And these are the fundamental aspects of my childhood. These are the things Baby P didn't get.
  I could count the mistakes I've made too. I could count the purposeful wrong. However morbid, if Tracey Connolley were to repeat her actions, in her lifetime she could potentially be linked to the murder of 5 additional children. To me, 6 year imprisonment, doesn't seem just. Tracey Connolley - hypothetically - served 1 year in prison for every 12.5 years that she took of her son's life. I fail to see the atonement in such a 'punishment'.

The Baby P case infuriates me. For one, I find it incomprehensible that someone could actually abuse someone, no less a toddler, in this way. But second, the pure injustice of it all. How could a sentence of 6 years, or even 5 as she should have served, be a deterrent for anyone. Prisons, as I've posted before, are barely a hardship. The guilt of crime doesn't even seem to exist anymore. What with the need for humane ways of treating criminals (which, don't get me wrong, I am not against), punishment doesn't even seem to incorporate its fundamental concept; to punish.

I get particularly passionate about life, and rightly so. You only have one and if it is taken away from you at the bitter age of 2, when the only experience given to you was abuse, then that is not worth having.

Freedom shouldn't be an early release from prison or a return to normality after murder to shop as you would have in ASDA or Tesco. Nor should it be an eternal rest from life on Earth, regardless of religious affiliation. Freedom should be living; simply, unchallenged with no strings attached.

Chocolate Finger Children

Lined in symmetry, like those chocolate Cadbury fingers you get, rigid, unmoving and sometimes - dependent on the weather - glued to the black carton of the package. There are those perfect, slender bodies which have made it to the present in perfection, regardless of the mishaps of trade and travel. Then there are others; obliterated in transit, many of which now lay dormant in a muddle of their own crumbs which greedy saliva dipped fingers haven't yet picked up.

Hungry? It's a nice image, isn't it. A consumer habit of desire for anything sweet, mouth-watering and hole-filling. And, when they're on offer, these things are even better. 2 for £1 tastes so much nicer than 1 for £2 . 74 . But, now what if I told you that this image is a depiction of Syria. Those white chocolate fingers are not cute biscuits at all. Not the boxed, sugar coated confectionery delights which you've most probably already made a mental note to put on the shopping list. These are children; the children of Syria. And they're dead among others who they don't even know. Not their parents, not their families. Just people. Other children. Other victims. They are dead. And there are more dying everyday.

It's hard to put your finger on the exact sentiments. It's not everyday that you think to ask yourself; how would poisonous gas feel if it was corroding my insides? How would it feel to go to sleep with the blasts of guns you didn't even know existed? The shredding of houses of people you knew and the houses of those, you didn't? How would it feel to know that that was all 'ok'?

People say you can't imagine it. But, you can. You can't know it. You can't, unless you've experienced it, know how it feels. But you can try to imagine. The sooner people put themselves in the positions of others, instead of dismissing tragedy through the it's-not-happening-to-me syndrome by faining disbelief and parading how you couldn't even dare think about what it would be like, the sooner we would get humanitarian responses. I'm sorry if this comes across heavy. But I think we need to take those pensive moments.

So now think to yourself. You can do it. Imagine being on the wrong side of the Syria. What is the wrong side? Imagine being a mother or a father, in modern Syria. I did;

She Can Only Do It With The Sirens

  I watch her stumble. Fat feet, too flimsy to hold up all that body. Or, maybe, just too weak. She can't go to sleep. Not until she hears the blasts. I spent half of that first year of her little life, shielding her ears. When she cried, I thought she couldn't take it. The war; it's too scary, even for me. I sat quaking. Half waiting for the room to collapse, for next door to disintegrate.  The rest of me was already willing to die. But I couldn't do it myself. Only being killed made dying seem less cowardly. 
  She cried; Laila did. She needed to sleep. Can't you just stop?! was closer to a lullaby than I've ever sung her. My baby needs rest! I do too! But it was one night, when the tension was particularly riotous, when men walked right by our room, when a little boy a couple of doors down shrilled and then just stopped, when the police struck and the whole ambulance unit was deployed; that was the night she slept right through. Her first night for seven months, properly asleep. And then I knew; she could only do it with the sirens. 
  And now, now she needs the rubble. Can't hold herself straight if she's not walking on the upturned street. Can't balance if there isn't a thick wire of plumbing in the middle of the road. Can't move if she's not walking towards a burnt out car. That's the only reason she's moving forward, when she should be doing the opposite. She should have her little fingers in mine and be letting me lead her backwards. But she's going forward. Further and further away from me.
  This is home for her. This dismal existence. And Laila; she can only do it with the sirens. 

The Riddler

Every story is biased. Perspective on narrative can make you live one tale, one life, a thousand times over. Our human need and desperation to tell stories in our day to day life is impulsive.

Yes, it's day one at Uni and, despite being late to the first 9am lecture, this is what I've learned. Pretty inspiring stuff! In fact, I was very motivated by this. My lecturer for my Narrative and Cultural Identity in the Hispanic World module has linked, unknowingly, to purpose of his introductory lecture very nicely with my own slogan of this blog.

Turning old pages, reading new words (the name of my blog) has a couple of conceptual meanings. Basically, what I'm getting at is that we all live life. Fact. But how you live your life is different to how I live mine and not simply because we are living different lives with different goals. If I put myself in your life and you put yourself in mine, you still wouldn't live the my life. You would, physically, live mine, but spiritually you wouldn't. Your take on things would be completely different. Whether you met a cloudy day with apprehension and anxiety or whether you met it with thick coats and wellies would determine how differently that one day would take form. Perspective can make you live your life a thousand times over. 

History is a classic take on the modern story. I absolutely love reading and writing. History employs the same skills. Those who dictate history have formulated the way in which it was told. Take the Titanic. Would history be different if a polar bear had told that story? If human were polar bears? Because, essentially, through global warming we are killing polar bears like humans off the Titanic. Granted; it was a horrible tragedy, there's no denying it. But, would it have been as shocking, as detrimental, as spirit changing if it had been 1,500 polar bears that had drowned off a floating breeze block of ice that had melted due to climate change induced by humans? Maybe. Would we have know about it? And if we hadn't, would we still be hanging on to the old cliche of 'just the tip of the iceberg'? Every story is biased. 

dailymail.co.uk

If I told you about me in a verbal diarrhea form of biography, there would be things I wouldn't tell you because I wouldn't want you to know. There are things I would forget to tell you, because I wouldn't think that you needed you to know. And there would be things I would make better. Those would be the type of things I would want you to remember. And, whether you're willing to accept it or not, you would do the same. But whatever I did or didn't tell you, if asked, I would reel of some sort of cabaret.
"It's not that interesting but..." Storytelling is as much an impulse as those functions we can't control. 

And like that above, this whole post is an impulse. I needed to write, to share something pointless but hopefully enjoyable to tame the genuine inspiration I've been feeling today. If all my seminars are like this, bring on the next four years!

21st Century Farmer

  Days like these, I always fancy myself as a farmer. When the temperature is right. When the sun is burning through the chill. When the wind is blowing like running through electric beaters.

   In the early evening, nature is in it's prime and the most beautiful scenes unfold. I really really love walks in the country and there are very very few things that can compare.
  I've always been carried away by spare-of-the-moment dreams. Countless times I've walked into bookshops - my personal dream havens - and looked for every book I could find on one particular subject be it cross-stitch, creating your own business, wildlife conservation or, now, farming. 

  For me, it seems, that the sun has delusional properties. Everything looks better in the sunshine. I feel more optimistic, more ambitious and so now my latest soon-to-be-acted-upon faux pas is; agriculture. 

We were walking down to the pub the other day, through the back streets laced with fields of sheep, horses and donkeys. We passed farm houses with a wooden nest open to the public;

"£2 for a dozen eggs". 

  I love that; the trust. How farmers will put their produce outside their house and trust that people will pay them. Not that I wouldn't pay. I'm just saying. 

  It's old-fashioned too. Just how I like it!! So I've settled on the idea. I love animals - absolutely adore them.

 

It makes sense; I love being outside, animals and selling things I've made myself. That was another innovative idea that came to me; in the summer, this year - I wanted to knit and sew house hold decorations and small gifts for Christmas. I had all the blue prints; sock patterns, sticking patterns, home-made aprons, baby hats, blankets. I was very hopeful that it would work, but, as much of my thinking goes, it never materialised past the excitement of the thrill. All my novels end with the same fate - I must have about 15 unwritten books that have never lived past the third chapter. 

  

Anyway, on a visit to Southampton in the week, I found myself in - yes! You've guessed it - another bookshop. I was browsing the titles, trying to remember my latest craze, when I stumbled upon the gardening and wildlife section. Most teenagers, I'd assume, have crazes like the need to go to driving lessons or the importance of a summer full of music festivals. I'm not sure I'm much like that. 

  The book I picked up seemed just what I need; How to keep happy chickens and other poultry. Perfect! 

  Now I've had pets; guinea pigs, fish, a hamster, a rabbit and a dog but I have absolutely no idea how you would even begin looking after chickens. My uncle has them but I don't know what it entails really. I mean, they eat more or less anything and they don't need walks. They make their own nests but is it that simple? Well, I was about to find out. I flicked through the pages, spurred to fork out the 99p that was needed to buy the guide by the words; collect your own eggs. It sounded brilliant!! And then, I flicked to the back. 

How to cleanly slaughter - or words to that effect. I threw the book down. My stomach started turning. I wanted chickens but I didn't want to kill them. I didn't even want to have a book that told me how to do it! 

  I remember stepping on a dead bird when I was little. The shock of its face and it's limp body; it sent a shock wave through me. And this book was the same. 

I have up on that idea. But I did love the idea of collecting my own eggs. When we walked to the pub, I thought about I again. I love the idea but I don't have the money to keep horses, I don't have the skills to shear sheep - not that I couldn't learn. But I so desperately want to do it. 

I'm taking things one step at a time. I've decided upon growing my own vegetables now. That would both fulfill my ideal of grown your own and much cheaper than animals. I will get there one day, I hope; to the small holding but maybe just with one cow, one sheep, a donkey and 2 chicks.