Send Me On My Way

To go anywhere, you always have to leave the place before. That's the hardest part for me. 

I'm a bit of a baby. I cry pretty easily and think that my life (and the world) is ending way before its time and at the smallest of situations. 

Every time I leave Dubai I can't help myself from crying and every time I go back to Dubai from England, I am hit with a wave of sadness at leaving. It probably doesn't help that I listen to songs like Let me love you by Mario (which used to make me upset as a child) and then a repeat of the Titanic theme song will resound without my calling on it. 

But I hope this time that some Pharell Williams will get stuck in my head this time!! :D

I didn't expect to be as upset about leaving my job as I was today. I had already been reeling of letters of appreciation in my head for weeks and finally putting into action my earlier preparation was sad. 

To be truthful, I didn't think that I warranted a leaving do or even a card. I had only been working there since March and viewed myself as a bit of a rusty spoon in the grand scheme of things; I had the potential to be useful but I probably wasn't the first choice implement for dinner service. 

So when I got hugs and loads of little letter written in a card, I was over the moon. 

Cards are some of my favourite things. 

I often think of places that it would be nice to be homeless in, as though they exist! When I walk round town or visit a new place and see a dry, cosy place , I make a mental note. 

If I'm ever homeless, that's where I'll go.

I pack for this unfortunate journey in my head, thinking of what things I would take. As well as a haversack stuffed with all my money and warn clothes and blankets, the other things getting shoved in there are my favourite selection of cards that others have written to me. I'd take my 16th and 18th birthday cards from my parents and brothers, leaving cards and my mini books of notes from college in Dubai when I graduated last year. (Is it weird that I've planned this so thoroughly?) 

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A couple of days ago, I spat out the most spontaneously philosophical sentence that I've ever thought of. To be honest somebody most probably had already got there before me but the concept was still novel to me and I prided myself on the fact that I had thought of it. 

I am a huge fan of the Humans of New York blog. I check it twice daily and especially in the morning to get some inspiration to kick start the day. One of the distinct photos I remember was a little girl posing in the street. She was asked: 

"What do you want to be when you're older?" 

To which she replied: 

"A person." 

Such a spontaneous nugget of her mind held such philosophical connotations for the entire human race. It encapsulated me. What is it, I thought, to be a person? Does anyone actually want to be what we now see as a person? 

It's such a conundrum! 

My auntie took me to Wimbledon last week. Everything was all a bit easy going and so when we came out the wrong exit we were unfazed to go back and correct our error. We were heading for Wimbledon station - not the one we had arrived from - and it was taking a while to walk up this hill and all through the town. 

After a while, my auntie said: 

"I hope we're going the right way." 

I replied: 

"I don't think it matters where you're going, as long as you know where you've come from."

Bam!!

I meant it as a comforting thought that f we did get lost, we could always retrace our steps and go back the way we were meant to go. 

As long as you know where you've come from. How clever of me! Ahaha! 

As I walked out of work today, my last ever shift, nothing rang more true than this statement. It didn't matter where I was going. I ought to remind myself of that. 

I know this statement isn't always true. Career-wise it's nice to know how high you can go, and probably for life, having some kind of plan is desirable. 

I have no idea where I am going now. I'm going back to Dubai, that's a given. But I what's next? I could do anything, go anywhere without another thought. I know what I've got in my back pocket: the experiences that I've learnt from work. I have the knowledge of where I've been. 

Unemployment is a scary limbo. Almost as scary as living under a bridge outside Macdonald's with your 16th birthday cards. 

I quite like spontaneity, it stops you from hindering yourself. If you have no plans, then you can accept everything. But not knowing when the next pay slip will come in when your running up a tally in rent and bills isn't something that I want to really think about. 

 

For me, it now doesn't matter where I'm going, so long as I go somewhere. I've come from a lack of experience to being accepted in a company that believed in me more so than I believed in myself. 

Nothing describes my time at work like the word: "lovely" - a word that I use all to often but that can do justice to the passion of happiness and delight. That or "sterling". 

So, no, when I find myself in a panicky rut (which I do quite often) I'll remember my own little quote: it doesn't matter where you're going, so long as you remember exactly where you came from. :D 

 

Ain't never had sun like this!

The Isle of Wight is just one of the most BEAUTIFUL places in the sun. And it's been a while since I've been here and it's actually been sunny!

I usually bring the rain. But not everywhere. It seems I only ever bring it to the Isle of Wight! But finally the spell has been broken and we've been able to enjoy uninterrupted days of sunshine and it's been absolutely fabulous! I even got tanned!

My camera hasn't seen daylight like this in positively AGES! It's usually substituted for my iPod but it's been so lovely for all the sunny shots!

So, as I leave the island and all the excitement of the festival behind, I thought it would be a perfect time to show case my snaps of my few days here!

NEWTOWN CREEK:

The bridge over the salt marsh

The salt marshes

Life ring in the harbour

The sun setting on a beautiful walk 

OSBOURNE HOUSE:

*Driving* my nan's car

Lillies!!!

Inside the green house 

Outside the house!

BEMBRIDGE: 

The new lifeboat station 

It didn't go very far, but nevertheless is was a skimmer!

Tide's out

Oooh! 

On The Run

I looked at my room with nostalgia. It was empty but I still couldn't be sure that I had everything with me.

With 2 suitcases, 6 bags and a rucksack, I should've been pretty certain that I had packed my all and as I took myself to the boat to head across to the Isle of Wight, everything that was with me were all my worldly goods.

When I came back from India in year 12, as well as clinging onto the obsession of becoming a Buddhist, I wanted to be able to live the simple life. When we were out there, our packs were our everything. We carried ourselves on our backs. When my 'retro' mp3 player packed up, I found other ways to entertain the desperate need for music in my head. When showers didn't come easy, I found that wet wipes were ample cleanliness and that my hair didn't look so greasy. And when I was stuck for something to do, I could write a diary, take a walk, look at the stars or cook.

I didn't lack anything. All I ever wanted, I had. And I needed no more.

So when I packed up my room, I knew how horribly materialistic I was. I had already sent one of my friends packing with 2 boxes and a great bin bag of stuff. Then I piled other boxes and bags for my other friend and still I had all the things that I was taking with me.

Everything that I had already signed away, I realised that I didn't miss. I could live without my canvas of a Buddhist figure or my docking station. My desk lamp and my full length mirror. There was so much I didn't need and yet when it was all in my room, I couldn't get rid of it! 

So as I trekked to Isle of Wight helped by numerous staff, I was displaced.

This realisation only recently hit me. 

I'm homeless. 

I have taken my worldly goods from place to place without having somewhere to call my own. I have nothing of mine in Dubai with my parents apart from a hula hoop and a pair of skates. I no longer live at uni. Nor do I live with my Nan, who stores the majority of all my other things - like books and folders. I don't live with my aunties or uncles. I don't have a place of my own. 

I live nowhere. I have no home. 

They say that 'Home is where the heart is' but when my heart is split between England, Dubai and fifty thousand dreams to travel around the world, I'm not even sure where my heart resides. There is no place I would rather be, unless with my family and friends. 

In which case, my home is in their hearts. In such a scenario, I need nothing. Nothing in my hand. Nothing on my back (though I ought to keep my clothes for dignity!). I am homeless, with a heart placed in multiple people. So, whilst it seems I have nowhere, in fact, I am everywhere. Carried along with other people and, of course, travelling around house to house throughout the year!

Homelessness, in this sense, in fact isn't scary. It's not frightening or daunting. It makes me feel like I am free. A bit of a loose canon. I don't have any ties to anything. I can move where I want. And that's something quite remarkable! So long as people will have me up in their house, I could have not 1 home but 10,000!  

Obsession 3

"Hiiya, how're you? How's the kids?" is the kind of conversation I should be having with Papa John.

This one goes without saying. With an obsession with food and eating in general comes an appreciation of Italians and more over pasta and pizza!

My third biggest obsession is pizza!

ATTRACTIVE?!

I remember when I was in year 3, with the over-reaching and lucrative brain that tried to match itself with everyone else. It seems that, until 3 years ago, all I wanted to do was be 'normal' or, at least, a form of insanity accepted by all.

We had a task in the computer labs - when ICT was actually a fun subject that brewed many of the computer technicians and designers of the future - to write a small poster about ourselves.

How fun! It always seemed when we were younger that we were in love with ourselves. I certainly was at that age. We found our misshaped eyebrows a point to rave about and the fact that we had chocolate for breakfast was something that everyone "needed" to know.

So I set to typing, adding clipart and all!

What do I like? 

So, in between writing about how I liked animals, wanted to be a popstar and enjoyed when my mum went out to evening classes because dad would let us stay up later than was per usual, I managed to squeeze in that I liked eating pizza.

Where this came from I have no idea. At this point, I barely ate pizza, except sniffing it as I walked past the canteen with my cool bag full of fruit, yogurt and sandwiches which were subject to hefty scrutiny before consumption.

But (I think) I liked the idea. I envied the children who walked out to lunch play with orange stains at the sides of their mouths - a sure sign of a satisfying meal. I liked how they were still able to devour their lunch from the smell of their breaths and a small sniff of their hands and by a simple lick at the corners of their lips. If I wanted to re-taste my lunch, I'd have to burp. LOUDLY.

But somehow, having had little pizza experience, I suddenly; in Dubai, began to crave the stuff. I put in a request for a family Papa John's night when I went home this Christmas.

I'm hooked.

I fantasize over pizza. I replay the chefs I've seen in Domino's lathering soft dough in tomato puree, then dashing it with cheese amongst other toppings. I create slow-motion videos in my mind of mozzarella melting on a pizza base.

I love it hot, cold and dipped in garlic sauce!

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!!!! 

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!