Have you ever seen that Friends’ episode where Monica’s Mum (Mom) uses the saying ‘Pulled a Monica’ to highlight the fact that she always seemed to mess things up and that it had become such a regular occurrence that she had fashioned a phrase for it? Well, if you hadn’t, you should kind of know what I am going on about now. Basically I had a similar incident the other day. There I was happily eating one of my specialities - plain Pasta - when my Mum rang. Instead of the usual happy greeting and general gossiping we normally have about our days, my Mum jumped straight in there with “I’ve just had ‘A Rose Moment’!”. Well, gee, thanks Mum.
The worst thing is, I knew straight away what she meant. Basically she had done something either really embarrassing, stupid, awkward, strange, or if she had tried as hard as I normally do, all four. I was slightly confused as to what it might be, because most of my ‘Rose Moments’ include a Boy, or something to do with a Boy with a nice fringe. (I only generally only tend to find Boys attractive if they have nice fringes) You see, my Mum is married... to my Dad. And to be honest it really freaks me out when I can see Men flirting with her, never mind if she was to flirt back.
There was once a time we were in a restaurant in Sheffield and this waiter was clearly checking her out. He kept looking over and at one point he caught her eye and actually winked! Now don’t get me wrong, my Mum is bloomin’ gorgeous but I got really protective and told her, in my anger, to lift her left hand up and “SHOW HIM YOU’RE WEDDED!”
But her Rose Moment wasn’t about her own flirting. No. It was connected to my own.
A few years ago, I was with someone I like to call Actor Boy. Yes, for obvious reasons I gave him his name, but also because he used his acting skills to his advantage in life as well. He cheated on me. At the time, I thought it was just the once, but now I have come to find out it was not only on several occasions but also with several different girls. And the way he has tried to contact me when I can see plain as day he is in a relationship on Facebook, makes me sure that there are more I don’t know about even to this day. Yes, he wouldn’t win Boyfriend of the year, but in truth there wasn’t just two of us in the relationship: Me, Actor Boy and Actor Boys Mum.
In truth, because I was younger I didn’t know how to handle the woman. I think if I was to meet her afresh now, as her sons girlfriend, I would of been a lot more resilient and handled her better. But I was nieve, and it was totally unexpected to have a boyfriends Mum who didn’t like me. All of my previous boyfriends mums were always really lovely. One of them actually bought me a bunch of flowers. Not for any particular reason, just because she apparently saw them and thought of me. So it was always going to be a shock to the system to go from that to a woman who openly told me she didn’t want me to visit her house.
I couldn’t think of anything I had possibly done wrong. I sat with my Mum many times crying about how awful it made me feel, and in the end she won. Even though it wasn’t the residing factor of the break up, it was certainly was a relief to not have to deal with her bitchy comments and conniving.
My Mum is like the Mafia, as soon as someone has upset me or one of her girls (or even old men in the street) she makes life very difficult for the offender. Also being the brilliant woman that she is, she never makes it obvious. She always makes it very clever and sickly sweet, so at the time the person has no idea they are being ripped to shreds. I have said it before, and I will say it again: My Mum is a Babe.
So now you know the LONG of it (I have just realised how long winded I have made that) you will realise my Mums horror when she saw Actor Boys’ Mum in the Zara changing rooms. Just like I would of done, she panicked. She saw the side of face and immediately rushed into the nearest cubicle without even looking if there was anyone in there. Luckily there wasn’t and as soon as she had finished trying on she snook out of the shop to ring me. Not in a thief kind of way, just the necessary amount of sneakiness.
So just because my Mum had done something really stupid, she called it a ‘Rose Moment’. Great, just great.
I must admit I have a lot of ‘Rose Moments’ and being at University hasn’t made these moments intellectually less common, but more so. Here is my Top Ten since being at Uni - in no particular order.
1. Accidentally coming onto the maintenance guy by walking into the office and saying ‘You want to come to my room?’ because I thought it was the one I had been talking to on the phone who was going to change my mattress.
2. Falling over my suitcase and flat onto my face on the train was a real treat. Especially when a woman had to ask me to move because I was laughing to hard to stand up and she couldn’t get past me to get off the train.
3. Ringing the maintenance guy because my key had all of sudden broken and wouldn’t fit in the lock. Then realising I wasn’t on the right floor.
4. Thinking ‘there is something missing from this address’ before posting it and my friend texting me saying ‘Have you sent me a letter that has poo written on the back of it, because there is no name on it’.
5. Walking in on my voice coach having a nap in the Radio Studio and saying ‘Oh, I am so sorry’ but then instead of hastily walking out, deciding to stand there just staring at her for a good ten seconds.
6. Getting pipped at and at first thinking it was because I had a short skirt on and after pretending to be angry feminist, realising it was because I had dropped my Shorthand notebook. It was a horrible walk of shame.
7. Dropping a £2 pound coin on the floor at the bus stop, and being so terrified my trousers would rip, just leaving it. Then after getting on the bus realising I didn’t have enough change, so having to say to the conductor ‘One second I seem to have misplaced my money’. Then casually going over to exactly where the coin was, steadily bending down and being conscious of not breathing and getting back on the bus. All of the passengers and the driver looked at me like I was a tramp.
8. Offering the fit lad sitting next to me on the train some of my chocolate and him replying “Yeah, if I can have your number” and instead of reeling off my phone number, very stupidly saying “Oh okay” and putting the chocolate back in my bag and sitting there awkwardly for the next half an hour. Maybe this is a good time to tell those of you who think I am an absolute idiot, that I started another Man Detox that day, and what would of giving him my number have proved? That I have no self control, that’s what! (All of you lot know that I don’t have any self control, so I might as well of just given the unbelievably fit guy my number shouldn’t I?)
9. Doing an article for my assessment on HIV AIDS figures in the UK and after ringing numerous AIDS charities and having no one pick up, finally realising that it was the 1st December.... World AIDS Day. Great investigative Journalist I am going to be.
10. Getting really excited that I thought Leicester football team were at the same service station as me and running up to two of them whilst they were having a wee in the bush. I realised that they weren’t who I thought they were just as I was asking them if they played for Leicester, and them replying with “No, Middlesborough”. And just to kick them whilst they were down, then saying “Oh. Well can I have a picture with you anyway?”
Never a dull moment, is there?
Live. Laugh. Love
Sunday, 4 December 2011
Friday, 14 October 2011
Accepting donations in the form of Suncream
I’ve always had the same motto since I was about 15, and it was ‘Heavy shopping bags heal a heavy heart’. However, now I’m an official student, the only heavy shopping bags I get to carry are the ones containing my weeks supply of food all the way from Asda back to my flat. If anything it makes you feel even crapier especially when you get caught in the rain with no coat. Also unpacking endless tins of baked beans doesn’t quite feel the same as laying out your days purchases from Zara.
What makes it worse it that my bank thought it would be a good idea to give me a free overdraft. On the day it went through I remember working out that I had enough money to get myself to London, buy some Christian Laboutins, go to see Legally Blonde the musical and be back before anyone even noticed. It was one of those occasions where I physically had to slap myself round the face to stop myself booking the train tickets. I reminded myself that if I did well at University it would give me the ability to get a job that meant I could afford a whole wardrobe of amazing shoes. However the first thing they said to us in our course welcome talk was; ‘Well, we know you’re all not going into Journalism for the money’. Actually I was, now where’s the door?
So you would think a student shopping night with tons of discounted clothing would of been great. Well it would of been if I hadn’t already agreed to something else. Now, you’re probably thinking what is so important that you couldn’t cancel to go on an amazingly discounted shopping trip. I had to go to a meeting. Why? Well, because in one of my ‘I can do anything moments’ I decided to sign up for the T.A. Thats right... the Territorial Army.
Just as you check whether you have read that correctly I will try to explain. To be honest I am not the bravest or fittest person in the world, but even though those are the two main things you need to be in the army, I have always kind of been drawn to it. I think thats why when anyone asks what kind of Journalism I would like to do, I always say “In the war zones, and places of conflict”. So when I was looking round the Jobs fair at the Student Union, and got asked if I was interested, I jumped at the chance. Albeit after he reassured me that the Army would pay for all my sun protection cream if we were to go anywhere that the temperatures exceeded 16C. (This was after he stopped laughing at me for saying ‘I would love to join the army but I am Ginger’) It gets expensive for Gingers you know!
So off I went in my Taxi that I felt willed to book after the man on the end of the phone said “It’s not that expensive really when you compare it to getting raped”. Maybe they should put that on the advertising boards because it certainly worked on me.
Now, maybe I am wrong in saying that I thought that Taxi drivers had a relatively good idea on general landmarks of the town in which they work. Because apparently they do not. So after being driven way past where I had asked to go (because he obviously knew where I wanted to go better than I did) I stood in the centre of a town I didn’t know, in the pouring rain, on the phone to my very lovely flatmate who sounded really panicky when she told me that none of the street names I read out to her were appearing on Google Maps.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you have just said to yourself ‘I am going to die in this place’? Well this was my moment. My Mum has always done a really good job of preparing me for these situations. For instance she always drilled it into me that I should never ‘look’ lost even if I was, because that makes you a target. I don’t know about you, but I think a girl hysterically crying looking nervously up and down the street is a pretty surefire sign that she is lost.
There I was, having a full on mental breakdown, muttering to myself ‘You can’t do this. Why did you ever think you were strong enough to do this? You’re not cut out for this’. Have you also had one of those realisation moments where you mentally slap yourself round the face? Well I had one of these too. I asked the next boy that passed me (who had a very nice fringe) where the nearest bus station was, and after thanking him profusely, trudged my soggy boots to the shelter. I had given up on trying to find the T.A centre, and I was going back to my comfort of my flat and a 99p bottle of wine.
I was starting to feel a little better then, having been able to pick myself up off the ground and go into practical mode (another thing I have learnt from my Mother). I got myself to the correct Bus Stop and had worked out whereabouts I had ended up. As I was trying to wipe away my runny mascara the Bus turned up, which I am pretty sure had a Halo above it.
Having a Taxi drop me off in what I thought was the middle of nowhere and being charged £5 for the privilege, meant that I was left with only a £20 note. So, as always, I knew the Bus Driver was perhaps going to role her eyes at me and do a friendly ‘TUT’. But no, this driver looked at me like I had pulled up my dress, squatted and done a Poo on the floor. That’s not an exaggeration and because my Mum told me the other day that I apologise to much to people who don’t deserve it, I looked at her in exactly the same way and didn’t even say sorry. Suck on that.
I finally made it back to my flat in relatively one piece despite getting off at the wrong bus stop and shouting ‘OH PISS OFF’ at a Van full of men who honked at me. Wrong time and day to shout lewd comments at me I’m afraid.
I’m sure I’m not the only person who is at University and/or living away from home for the first time who doesn’t say to themselves at least once a day ‘Am I cut out for this?’. But like I realised; you are. The answer you should give yourself is ‘Yes’, every time. I have only been here 3 weeks but I have already learnt a lot. For instance; don’t ever bleach your toilet when you are wearing your favourite t-shirt, always make sure it’s your flat door you are trying to unlock before you call the maintenance guy to tell him your key has broke, and never ever reply to a boy that asks you out with “I don’t like boys with big noses”.
Live. Laugh. Love.
What makes it worse it that my bank thought it would be a good idea to give me a free overdraft. On the day it went through I remember working out that I had enough money to get myself to London, buy some Christian Laboutins, go to see Legally Blonde the musical and be back before anyone even noticed. It was one of those occasions where I physically had to slap myself round the face to stop myself booking the train tickets. I reminded myself that if I did well at University it would give me the ability to get a job that meant I could afford a whole wardrobe of amazing shoes. However the first thing they said to us in our course welcome talk was; ‘Well, we know you’re all not going into Journalism for the money’. Actually I was, now where’s the door?
So you would think a student shopping night with tons of discounted clothing would of been great. Well it would of been if I hadn’t already agreed to something else. Now, you’re probably thinking what is so important that you couldn’t cancel to go on an amazingly discounted shopping trip. I had to go to a meeting. Why? Well, because in one of my ‘I can do anything moments’ I decided to sign up for the T.A. Thats right... the Territorial Army.
Just as you check whether you have read that correctly I will try to explain. To be honest I am not the bravest or fittest person in the world, but even though those are the two main things you need to be in the army, I have always kind of been drawn to it. I think thats why when anyone asks what kind of Journalism I would like to do, I always say “In the war zones, and places of conflict”. So when I was looking round the Jobs fair at the Student Union, and got asked if I was interested, I jumped at the chance. Albeit after he reassured me that the Army would pay for all my sun protection cream if we were to go anywhere that the temperatures exceeded 16C. (This was after he stopped laughing at me for saying ‘I would love to join the army but I am Ginger’) It gets expensive for Gingers you know!
So off I went in my Taxi that I felt willed to book after the man on the end of the phone said “It’s not that expensive really when you compare it to getting raped”. Maybe they should put that on the advertising boards because it certainly worked on me.
Now, maybe I am wrong in saying that I thought that Taxi drivers had a relatively good idea on general landmarks of the town in which they work. Because apparently they do not. So after being driven way past where I had asked to go (because he obviously knew where I wanted to go better than I did) I stood in the centre of a town I didn’t know, in the pouring rain, on the phone to my very lovely flatmate who sounded really panicky when she told me that none of the street names I read out to her were appearing on Google Maps.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you have just said to yourself ‘I am going to die in this place’? Well this was my moment. My Mum has always done a really good job of preparing me for these situations. For instance she always drilled it into me that I should never ‘look’ lost even if I was, because that makes you a target. I don’t know about you, but I think a girl hysterically crying looking nervously up and down the street is a pretty surefire sign that she is lost.
There I was, having a full on mental breakdown, muttering to myself ‘You can’t do this. Why did you ever think you were strong enough to do this? You’re not cut out for this’. Have you also had one of those realisation moments where you mentally slap yourself round the face? Well I had one of these too. I asked the next boy that passed me (who had a very nice fringe) where the nearest bus station was, and after thanking him profusely, trudged my soggy boots to the shelter. I had given up on trying to find the T.A centre, and I was going back to my comfort of my flat and a 99p bottle of wine.
I was starting to feel a little better then, having been able to pick myself up off the ground and go into practical mode (another thing I have learnt from my Mother). I got myself to the correct Bus Stop and had worked out whereabouts I had ended up. As I was trying to wipe away my runny mascara the Bus turned up, which I am pretty sure had a Halo above it.
Having a Taxi drop me off in what I thought was the middle of nowhere and being charged £5 for the privilege, meant that I was left with only a £20 note. So, as always, I knew the Bus Driver was perhaps going to role her eyes at me and do a friendly ‘TUT’. But no, this driver looked at me like I had pulled up my dress, squatted and done a Poo on the floor. That’s not an exaggeration and because my Mum told me the other day that I apologise to much to people who don’t deserve it, I looked at her in exactly the same way and didn’t even say sorry. Suck on that.
I finally made it back to my flat in relatively one piece despite getting off at the wrong bus stop and shouting ‘OH PISS OFF’ at a Van full of men who honked at me. Wrong time and day to shout lewd comments at me I’m afraid.
I’m sure I’m not the only person who is at University and/or living away from home for the first time who doesn’t say to themselves at least once a day ‘Am I cut out for this?’. But like I realised; you are. The answer you should give yourself is ‘Yes’, every time. I have only been here 3 weeks but I have already learnt a lot. For instance; don’t ever bleach your toilet when you are wearing your favourite t-shirt, always make sure it’s your flat door you are trying to unlock before you call the maintenance guy to tell him your key has broke, and never ever reply to a boy that asks you out with “I don’t like boys with big noses”.
Live. Laugh. Love.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
The Ex-Factor
See what I did there?
As much as I am happy being a single girl, walking around this world as one isn’t always easy. You see no matter how much you try to shut them out of your mind, there are always going to be several of your exes that unfortunately are inhabiting valuable space in the same city, country and/or continent as you. They are always going to wake up in their beds and go about their days, breathing the same air as you, visiting the same Starbucks, using the same public toilets, drinking at the same pubs and walking the same streets, very selfishly not considering that they are making it very hard for you not to bump into them.
The worst thing is that it never seems to be on one of those rare days that your make up seemed to go perfectly and you’re wearing a new dress. A day where you casually turn the corner to see your ex, that just so happens to have had a really bad haircut and a stain on his jeans, because if that happened you could be all “Oh Hi, It’s been ages! How lovely to bump into you! I would love to stay and chat, but I have to be somewhere. You look... good. I’m really pleased”. Then you would be able to casually stroll away attracting all the men in a 10 metre radius to very obviously check you out, just so that he knew exactly what he had let go. But, no, that NEVER happens. And for this reason I advise you never to get together, and break up with someone who works at the gym where you are a member. There is simply no way you can look attractive doing the downward dog (pilates pose), getting your bag tangled in the turnstiles or slipping on the pool steps and banging your head on the side.
Aside from the many occasions I have unfortunately come face to face with Lifeguard boy, the last time I ran into an ex, I literally ran into him. It sounds tragic, and believe me it was. It was one of those occasions where it would have felt more comfortable to have my appendix burst again than it was trying to get actual human words out of my mouth.
I am not an attractive runner. Those women that look really athletic and cool in their skintight leggings? Yeah well, I’m not one of them. I have started avoiding mirrors when I get home from running, because I found that seeing what looks like a orange haired Troll Doll (because my hair sticks right up and I look really surprised/concerned), was putting me off running in public. For this reason my routes consist of mainly cut-throughs and large fields that only get the occasional dog walkers. The only problem is when you see someone you know it makes it very hard to make out you haven’t seen them in your sweaty mess. One day, I saw Saliva Boy as I was running and at that moment I realised there was no way I was getting out of that metre wide alleyway with my ego intact. I only had one hope, and that was that maybe someone had accidentally left the gate unlocked to the field that I could get to before I had to pass him. So I sped up, and tried the gate that is slightly hidden behind the bushes. Come on, this is my life, of course it wasn’t open. But as I stepped back out onto the path, knowing that I was going to have to face my ex, I ran smack bang into him. Not just a little bump, but a full throttle, sweaty smack.
I can’t exactly remember what I said, but I doubt anyone human would have been able to understand the noises that mostly came out of my nose. And after I realised I had been staring at his ear for longer than it is socially acceptable, I ran/hobbled off. I think the force of banging into him damaged some important ligaments. That’s a good enough excuse for never running in public again isn’t it?
Saliva Boy hasn’t been able to look at me without laughing since that terrible day.
I suppose the one good thing about deciding to be ‘friends’ with Australia Boy is that for a whole six months it’s going to be incredibly easy to not bump into him. However, I had overlooked the fact that when he comes back home he will be all cultured and what not, along with an incredible tan. Something which would never happen to me, as all I seem to eat abroad are chips and well... I’m ginger.
Hopefully, by also moving away it will mean not having to bump into any of my exes, but I know they will still find a way of making me think 'What did I ever see in him?'. At least with Actor Boy moving to London it makes it less likely that I will have to suffer those “You look well” texts after he has seen me in Boots, wearing joggers and buying tampons.
As this will be the last blog I will write in my bedroom at home, don’t be alarmed if in my next post I call a ‘Cob’ a ‘Bap’ and become all serious and proper journalist-y. Then again, the other day I couldn’t even spell ‘journalist’. This is going to be a hard three years.
Live. Laugh. Love
As much as I am happy being a single girl, walking around this world as one isn’t always easy. You see no matter how much you try to shut them out of your mind, there are always going to be several of your exes that unfortunately are inhabiting valuable space in the same city, country and/or continent as you. They are always going to wake up in their beds and go about their days, breathing the same air as you, visiting the same Starbucks, using the same public toilets, drinking at the same pubs and walking the same streets, very selfishly not considering that they are making it very hard for you not to bump into them.
The worst thing is that it never seems to be on one of those rare days that your make up seemed to go perfectly and you’re wearing a new dress. A day where you casually turn the corner to see your ex, that just so happens to have had a really bad haircut and a stain on his jeans, because if that happened you could be all “Oh Hi, It’s been ages! How lovely to bump into you! I would love to stay and chat, but I have to be somewhere. You look... good. I’m really pleased”. Then you would be able to casually stroll away attracting all the men in a 10 metre radius to very obviously check you out, just so that he knew exactly what he had let go. But, no, that NEVER happens. And for this reason I advise you never to get together, and break up with someone who works at the gym where you are a member. There is simply no way you can look attractive doing the downward dog (pilates pose), getting your bag tangled in the turnstiles or slipping on the pool steps and banging your head on the side.
Aside from the many occasions I have unfortunately come face to face with Lifeguard boy, the last time I ran into an ex, I literally ran into him. It sounds tragic, and believe me it was. It was one of those occasions where it would have felt more comfortable to have my appendix burst again than it was trying to get actual human words out of my mouth.
I am not an attractive runner. Those women that look really athletic and cool in their skintight leggings? Yeah well, I’m not one of them. I have started avoiding mirrors when I get home from running, because I found that seeing what looks like a orange haired Troll Doll (because my hair sticks right up and I look really surprised/concerned), was putting me off running in public. For this reason my routes consist of mainly cut-throughs and large fields that only get the occasional dog walkers. The only problem is when you see someone you know it makes it very hard to make out you haven’t seen them in your sweaty mess. One day, I saw Saliva Boy as I was running and at that moment I realised there was no way I was getting out of that metre wide alleyway with my ego intact. I only had one hope, and that was that maybe someone had accidentally left the gate unlocked to the field that I could get to before I had to pass him. So I sped up, and tried the gate that is slightly hidden behind the bushes. Come on, this is my life, of course it wasn’t open. But as I stepped back out onto the path, knowing that I was going to have to face my ex, I ran smack bang into him. Not just a little bump, but a full throttle, sweaty smack.
I can’t exactly remember what I said, but I doubt anyone human would have been able to understand the noises that mostly came out of my nose. And after I realised I had been staring at his ear for longer than it is socially acceptable, I ran/hobbled off. I think the force of banging into him damaged some important ligaments. That’s a good enough excuse for never running in public again isn’t it?
Saliva Boy hasn’t been able to look at me without laughing since that terrible day.
I suppose the one good thing about deciding to be ‘friends’ with Australia Boy is that for a whole six months it’s going to be incredibly easy to not bump into him. However, I had overlooked the fact that when he comes back home he will be all cultured and what not, along with an incredible tan. Something which would never happen to me, as all I seem to eat abroad are chips and well... I’m ginger.
Hopefully, by also moving away it will mean not having to bump into any of my exes, but I know they will still find a way of making me think 'What did I ever see in him?'. At least with Actor Boy moving to London it makes it less likely that I will have to suffer those “You look well” texts after he has seen me in Boots, wearing joggers and buying tampons.
As this will be the last blog I will write in my bedroom at home, don’t be alarmed if in my next post I call a ‘Cob’ a ‘Bap’ and become all serious and proper journalist-y. Then again, the other day I couldn’t even spell ‘journalist’. This is going to be a hard three years.
Live. Laugh. Love
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
My Dad should be an inspirational speaker
My Dad may of just given me the most heart-warming bit of wisdom of my whole life: ‘‘The Dog doesn’t chase the Poo now does it? Or however the saying goes.’’ Thanks for that Dad. I’m not sure if that is even a saying, but it was inspirational to say the least.
I think my Dad had kind of guessed I was feeling a little bit heartbroken when I arrived home with a family sized box of Cereal and two huge bars of Milk Chocolate. You see thats what I do when a boy upsets me, I bake. In this case, all I was going to do was melt some Chocolate and fold in the ‘Rice Snaps’ (I am unemployed, don’t judge me because I have to buy economy) but I always find having to concentrate on my stomach rather than holding back my tears, makes me feel better almost every time. If it doesn’t it means I can lick chocolate from the bowl whilst I sit on my kitchen floor and sob. Because just sitting on my kitchen floor and sobbing on its own would be weird...
I suppose I should of been careful what I wished for and all that (I can tell this blog is going to be full of useful sayings already). Someone asked me the other day why I hadn’t written a blog in ages and I replied really honestly with ‘‘I really need a boy to treat me like crap’’. I know it was a rubbish excuse, but obviously it’s true. You see up until an hour ago, I had one of the most extreme cases of writers block I had ever suffered from. Then Australia Boy goes and pushes me that little bit to far and here I am, typing so fast and hitting the keys so hard that my fingers are starting to hurt. Like Henry Miller said “The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature”. Well, I wouldn’t call ‘I Would Rather Eat Chocolate’ literature, and the purpose of this little rant is not to get over him, but there is only so much hitting your head against the wall you can do before you have to find some other way of venting your frustration
Australia Boy. How do I even begin to explain Australia Boy?
Well, first of all, the reason behind the nickname is not because he is Australian (unfortunately) but because in just over two weeks time he moves to the country for six months. Seeing as I only met him two weeks ago, I wouldn’t blame you for calling me stupid. I feel pretty stupid right now. Here’s my logic: I also move away on the same day he does, but to go to University at a place an hour away from where I live now. You see in a few weeks time we both start new stages of our lives. Truth be told though, there is also a bit of an old romantic in me, because I have convinced myself that surely the fact we both leave on the same day, is a bit of a ‘sign’. For once in my life, I don’t have something in the back of my mind telling me that I will just get bored in two months time and we will start to argue and I will finish it, like every other kind of relationship I have ever been in. We both know, despite that fact we haven’t ever mentioned it, that in eighteen days time (I am counting the days because of University, not because I am soppy like that) we won’t see each other for at least half a year. That’s a long time. In a ‘normal’ six months, things change a lot, but in the six months that lay ahead of us both, theres no doubt that we will also change as people. As the people we are right now, we are enjoying taking the piss out of each other and having drunken phone calls at four in the morning. Is there any reason that should stop just because of the situation we find ourselves in?
If I’m going to completely lay my soul bare, I feel like we are on fast forward. A little bit under pressure to enjoy the tiny amount of time we have left living on the same continent as each other. There also seems to be a unwritten rule between us that we don’t talk about leaving. Whenever we talk about Australia or University, theres only so far I can go before I find myself changing the subject before we get to how we would keep in touch or if we even would carry on. I don’t even know if he wants to, which is totally unlike me, as I normally initiate the ‘What are we?’ conversation pretty soon into anything. It’s a bad habit of mine.
I thought I was being incredibly sensible and grown up, entering into this ‘thing’ (I say thing because it’s not official and what not), but as it turns out I have been a fool. Because in truth, despite it always being the plan; I’m not sure I want to give him up.
What Australia Boy did doesn’t actually warrant me to be this pissed off, but it just so happened he did it just after I had had a full blown argument with a man in Morrison’s car park for nearly running me over after pushing in front of me at the checkouts just minutes before. Also, I was going to make Rice Krispie cakes anyway, but I had planned on making them in a less ‘imagine this is his head’ sort of way when I was smashing the chocolate against the kitchen counter.
I have a lot to thank this blog for really and it’s not just that when Australia Boy reads this he might realise why I didn’t put any kisses on the end of that message (the ultimate tell tale sign of a girl being pissed off). In the past year it has helped me discover that I want to be a Journalist, made many of the ‘Boys’ say sorry to me and the ones that haven’t, have been left unable to look me in the eye. It has given me the control back of my life I was so severely lacking. The first blog I wrote was about how I wanted to give up on my A Levels after I had been ill, but this blog proved my savior, and I want you all to know how grateful I am to every one of you for reading, because without you I wouldn’t of had the inspiration to work my arse of to get my A, 2 B’S and a C (cue round of applause and shameless self praise) that I needed to do Broadcast Journalism.
Here’s to another year. Cheers.
I’m going to stop being soppy now, it really doesn’t suit me.
Live. Laugh. Love.
I think my Dad had kind of guessed I was feeling a little bit heartbroken when I arrived home with a family sized box of Cereal and two huge bars of Milk Chocolate. You see thats what I do when a boy upsets me, I bake. In this case, all I was going to do was melt some Chocolate and fold in the ‘Rice Snaps’ (I am unemployed, don’t judge me because I have to buy economy) but I always find having to concentrate on my stomach rather than holding back my tears, makes me feel better almost every time. If it doesn’t it means I can lick chocolate from the bowl whilst I sit on my kitchen floor and sob. Because just sitting on my kitchen floor and sobbing on its own would be weird...
I suppose I should of been careful what I wished for and all that (I can tell this blog is going to be full of useful sayings already). Someone asked me the other day why I hadn’t written a blog in ages and I replied really honestly with ‘‘I really need a boy to treat me like crap’’. I know it was a rubbish excuse, but obviously it’s true. You see up until an hour ago, I had one of the most extreme cases of writers block I had ever suffered from. Then Australia Boy goes and pushes me that little bit to far and here I am, typing so fast and hitting the keys so hard that my fingers are starting to hurt. Like Henry Miller said “The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature”. Well, I wouldn’t call ‘I Would Rather Eat Chocolate’ literature, and the purpose of this little rant is not to get over him, but there is only so much hitting your head against the wall you can do before you have to find some other way of venting your frustration
Australia Boy. How do I even begin to explain Australia Boy?
Well, first of all, the reason behind the nickname is not because he is Australian (unfortunately) but because in just over two weeks time he moves to the country for six months. Seeing as I only met him two weeks ago, I wouldn’t blame you for calling me stupid. I feel pretty stupid right now. Here’s my logic: I also move away on the same day he does, but to go to University at a place an hour away from where I live now. You see in a few weeks time we both start new stages of our lives. Truth be told though, there is also a bit of an old romantic in me, because I have convinced myself that surely the fact we both leave on the same day, is a bit of a ‘sign’. For once in my life, I don’t have something in the back of my mind telling me that I will just get bored in two months time and we will start to argue and I will finish it, like every other kind of relationship I have ever been in. We both know, despite that fact we haven’t ever mentioned it, that in eighteen days time (I am counting the days because of University, not because I am soppy like that) we won’t see each other for at least half a year. That’s a long time. In a ‘normal’ six months, things change a lot, but in the six months that lay ahead of us both, theres no doubt that we will also change as people. As the people we are right now, we are enjoying taking the piss out of each other and having drunken phone calls at four in the morning. Is there any reason that should stop just because of the situation we find ourselves in?
If I’m going to completely lay my soul bare, I feel like we are on fast forward. A little bit under pressure to enjoy the tiny amount of time we have left living on the same continent as each other. There also seems to be a unwritten rule between us that we don’t talk about leaving. Whenever we talk about Australia or University, theres only so far I can go before I find myself changing the subject before we get to how we would keep in touch or if we even would carry on. I don’t even know if he wants to, which is totally unlike me, as I normally initiate the ‘What are we?’ conversation pretty soon into anything. It’s a bad habit of mine.
I thought I was being incredibly sensible and grown up, entering into this ‘thing’ (I say thing because it’s not official and what not), but as it turns out I have been a fool. Because in truth, despite it always being the plan; I’m not sure I want to give him up.
What Australia Boy did doesn’t actually warrant me to be this pissed off, but it just so happened he did it just after I had had a full blown argument with a man in Morrison’s car park for nearly running me over after pushing in front of me at the checkouts just minutes before. Also, I was going to make Rice Krispie cakes anyway, but I had planned on making them in a less ‘imagine this is his head’ sort of way when I was smashing the chocolate against the kitchen counter.
I have a lot to thank this blog for really and it’s not just that when Australia Boy reads this he might realise why I didn’t put any kisses on the end of that message (the ultimate tell tale sign of a girl being pissed off). In the past year it has helped me discover that I want to be a Journalist, made many of the ‘Boys’ say sorry to me and the ones that haven’t, have been left unable to look me in the eye. It has given me the control back of my life I was so severely lacking. The first blog I wrote was about how I wanted to give up on my A Levels after I had been ill, but this blog proved my savior, and I want you all to know how grateful I am to every one of you for reading, because without you I wouldn’t of had the inspiration to work my arse of to get my A, 2 B’S and a C (cue round of applause and shameless self praise) that I needed to do Broadcast Journalism.
Here’s to another year. Cheers.
I’m going to stop being soppy now, it really doesn’t suit me.
Live. Laugh. Love.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
"I Can Speak For Myself, Thanks!"
Today has been a weird day. Not for any particular reason, but it just seems to have lasted about five years. The thing is, I am a self-confessed procrastinator. Give me something I am meant to do, and I can find a million and one ways not to do it. This week instead of cleaning and tidying my own room, I have been doing my family’s ironing, cleaning the whole of the house (except my own room), making sure the windows are finger mark free, cooking proper food (not super noodles) and alphabetically ordering our DVD and cookbook collections. My Mother (bless her heart) finds it really hard not to have a go at me for having a hand made ‘floordrobe’ in the middle of my bedroom, because I have cleaned, tidied and ironed everything else for her.
Yet again, I got out of tidying my room today by taking my library books back and delivering a letter to the Radio station in order to get myself some work experience. I also went to observe court as I haven’t been in a while. For anyone who hasn’t been, observing court is one of the greatest forms of entertainment EVER. It’s even better than Judge Judy, apart from the fact you have to remain silent and straight faced.
This was the plan anyway, but for anyone who has spent even a day in my presence you will know that nothing that I ever intend goes to plan. You see already today I have had a mental breakdown, witnessed one of the sweetest moments of a married couples life, walked face first into a door, pretended to be Polish, pointed a foreign person in a random direction because I didn’t understand what he was saying, had my shoes accidentally cleaned by street cleaning vehicle and shouted at a drunk middle aged man.
My mental breakdown didn’t last long, just about the same amount of time as it took to finally find my B-Line lurking behind the Boots advantage card in my purse. I should mention that this was after I had emptied the entire contents of all of my handbags, drawers and organiser, which is now not so organised. After I finally stopped crying upon finding the sneaky B-Line, I ceremoniously cut up the Boots card in revenge that the scheme I had only signed up for for the free gift, had made me miss the bus I had woken up so early for. Another thing that contributed to my very loud sobbing and screaming was the incredibly inappropriate auto-correcting my word processor decided to do to my ‘I-will-do-anything-for-work-experience’ letter. If I hadn’t noticed the mistake in the spelling of ‘I don’t have any set times currently, but you can arrange them as you see appropriate’ the Head of regional radio really would have thought I was offering him something completely different than a trainee member of their News team. I mean come on, why would Microsoft Word think I meant to put a ‘x’ instead of a ‘t’? (There is a prize for the first person who guesses which word that got auto-corrected)
When I finally got into town I observed Court for a few hours and then whilst it was adjourned I went to return my books, drop off my catastrophic letter, and visit the Job Centre. However, what I didn’t know was that the Library is closed on Wednesdays meaning that I surreptitiously turned into that man from YouTube who shouts ‘WHY ARE YOU CLOSED?’ whilst banging on the glass door.( If you haven’t seen it - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqRPOEa3P44 ). Also, the radio station only accepts online applications and the Job Centre's receptionist was on her lunch break. I am so desperate for a job I said to the woman on the intercom that if I had that job I wouldn’t take lunch breaks. She told me to come back later.
Feeling like a failure in spite of my good intentions I walked back towards the Courts as I thought that watching people getting cross-examined by the really sexy Lawyer I had previously been drooling over, would cheer me up. And also there’s nothing quite like watching someone being sent to prison to make you feel better about your own life.
Like every British City, Derby has its fair share of alcoholics who sit on benches, and pass comment as you walk by. Today I was not in the mood to deal with them. As I tried to avoid eye contact with the overly sweaty man, I realised I had unwillingly become his target. When he requested that I come over and talk to him I assured him that I was in a hurry, however he took this as an invitation to walk with me! Then he said the 4 words I think he will regret for the rest of his life; “Are you spoken for?”.
This would have been a great time to deploy a technique I have been trying to put into practice in recent months. It is called; ‘Oh bloody hell Rose, think before you speak!’. But unfortunately, the whole ‘thinking’ idea went out of the window and I shouted “No, I can speak for myself, thanks!”. He then assured me that he meant ‘Do you have a Boyfriend?’ to which I replied “Yes, I do!”. I don’t.
I don’t know what it was; the fact that a street cleaner had brushed my brand new shoes with his filthy truck, that I felt bad that a man who hardly spoke English was roaming the streets of Derby unaware a cruel Ginger girl had pointed him in the wrong direction, that the woman who owned the Polish supermarket didn’t believe I was Polish and therefore wouldn’t give me the job, or that my bag still weighed a ton from the three hard-backs on Serial Killing, DNA Evidence and Terrorism I hadn’t been able to return (They were for Extended Project I promise!). I just wanted the pathway to swallow me up right there and then.
Obviously it didn’t, I am sat here right now telling you about it and knocking back the Robinsons. Not the Beer, the fruit squash. I lived to tell the tale. That's the reality of it I suppose, everyone has bad days and good days and everything always gets better. Like after a long day of being an unemployed failure my Nana placed homemade chips in front of me as we watched Murder She Wrote. And like my Nana says ‘You have to take the good with the bad. Do you want some Apple Pie?’
Live. Laugh. Love
Yet again, I got out of tidying my room today by taking my library books back and delivering a letter to the Radio station in order to get myself some work experience. I also went to observe court as I haven’t been in a while. For anyone who hasn’t been, observing court is one of the greatest forms of entertainment EVER. It’s even better than Judge Judy, apart from the fact you have to remain silent and straight faced.
This was the plan anyway, but for anyone who has spent even a day in my presence you will know that nothing that I ever intend goes to plan. You see already today I have had a mental breakdown, witnessed one of the sweetest moments of a married couples life, walked face first into a door, pretended to be Polish, pointed a foreign person in a random direction because I didn’t understand what he was saying, had my shoes accidentally cleaned by street cleaning vehicle and shouted at a drunk middle aged man.
My mental breakdown didn’t last long, just about the same amount of time as it took to finally find my B-Line lurking behind the Boots advantage card in my purse. I should mention that this was after I had emptied the entire contents of all of my handbags, drawers and organiser, which is now not so organised. After I finally stopped crying upon finding the sneaky B-Line, I ceremoniously cut up the Boots card in revenge that the scheme I had only signed up for for the free gift, had made me miss the bus I had woken up so early for. Another thing that contributed to my very loud sobbing and screaming was the incredibly inappropriate auto-correcting my word processor decided to do to my ‘I-will-do-anything-for-work-experience’ letter. If I hadn’t noticed the mistake in the spelling of ‘I don’t have any set times currently, but you can arrange them as you see appropriate’ the Head of regional radio really would have thought I was offering him something completely different than a trainee member of their News team. I mean come on, why would Microsoft Word think I meant to put a ‘x’ instead of a ‘t’? (There is a prize for the first person who guesses which word that got auto-corrected)
When I finally got into town I observed Court for a few hours and then whilst it was adjourned I went to return my books, drop off my catastrophic letter, and visit the Job Centre. However, what I didn’t know was that the Library is closed on Wednesdays meaning that I surreptitiously turned into that man from YouTube who shouts ‘WHY ARE YOU CLOSED?’ whilst banging on the glass door.( If you haven’t seen it - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqRPOEa3P44 ). Also, the radio station only accepts online applications and the Job Centre's receptionist was on her lunch break. I am so desperate for a job I said to the woman on the intercom that if I had that job I wouldn’t take lunch breaks. She told me to come back later.
Feeling like a failure in spite of my good intentions I walked back towards the Courts as I thought that watching people getting cross-examined by the really sexy Lawyer I had previously been drooling over, would cheer me up. And also there’s nothing quite like watching someone being sent to prison to make you feel better about your own life.
Like every British City, Derby has its fair share of alcoholics who sit on benches, and pass comment as you walk by. Today I was not in the mood to deal with them. As I tried to avoid eye contact with the overly sweaty man, I realised I had unwillingly become his target. When he requested that I come over and talk to him I assured him that I was in a hurry, however he took this as an invitation to walk with me! Then he said the 4 words I think he will regret for the rest of his life; “Are you spoken for?”.
This would have been a great time to deploy a technique I have been trying to put into practice in recent months. It is called; ‘Oh bloody hell Rose, think before you speak!’. But unfortunately, the whole ‘thinking’ idea went out of the window and I shouted “No, I can speak for myself, thanks!”. He then assured me that he meant ‘Do you have a Boyfriend?’ to which I replied “Yes, I do!”. I don’t.
I don’t know what it was; the fact that a street cleaner had brushed my brand new shoes with his filthy truck, that I felt bad that a man who hardly spoke English was roaming the streets of Derby unaware a cruel Ginger girl had pointed him in the wrong direction, that the woman who owned the Polish supermarket didn’t believe I was Polish and therefore wouldn’t give me the job, or that my bag still weighed a ton from the three hard-backs on Serial Killing, DNA Evidence and Terrorism I hadn’t been able to return (They were for Extended Project I promise!). I just wanted the pathway to swallow me up right there and then.
Obviously it didn’t, I am sat here right now telling you about it and knocking back the Robinsons. Not the Beer, the fruit squash. I lived to tell the tale. That's the reality of it I suppose, everyone has bad days and good days and everything always gets better. Like after a long day of being an unemployed failure my Nana placed homemade chips in front of me as we watched Murder She Wrote. And like my Nana says ‘You have to take the good with the bad. Do you want some Apple Pie?’
Live. Laugh. Love
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Burn Baby Burn
I have never really considered myself as a fearful person, as I don’t particularly suffer from any of the usual things people are commonly afraid of, such as heights, the dark, public speaking and even a lot of the time I’m OK with spiders. However, I have realised more and more as the weather has got warmer and people have invited me to bonfires that I am a little bit scared of fire. OK more than a little. I had always thought that it was probably me just being cautious and aware of safety when it comes to naked flames. But as it turns out, that time a boy in my science class leant over a bunsen burner and set fire to his fringe, has left more of a lasting impression on me than I had previously thought.
The thing is, that although you might find something petrifying, another person will of course come along, find you stupid and then ultimately tease you about it. Just like a friend of mine who always finds it funny to set fire to planks of wood and just wave them around really close to me. To which my usual reaction is “Don’t you da.... I swear to Go.... Just stop it!’’. However, a few weeks ago when I went to a party where a girl spent the whole time upstairs because she was scared of balloon's, the first thing I wanted to do was throw hundreds of balloons in the room and shut her in it. Harsh I know.
The actual name for the fear of fire in Arsonphobia (for real, however I doubt Arson is many peoples favourite pastime) and the fear of either death of being hurt by fire is Pyrophobia. For me, I think my main fear about fire is its unpredictability, the fact that in a split second change of wind direction, it can become dangerous. Along with the realisation that after you thought you had successfully put out a fire, that orange glow you think is dying out, almost always lights up again when your’e not looking. Another thing is the embers, the things that a fire spits out at you when it crackles. Little bits that burn wholes in your clothes if you don’t pat them out quick enough, or in some situations can lead to a fire getting out of hand, and quite possibly setting a building on fire.
Wouldn’t you say that that applies to life in general as well? A small spark that appears relatively harmless at first, can ignite a fire, that you weren’t altogether expecting or prepared for. A fire, that before you know it can cause destruction to many different aspects of your life which are then sometimes hard to get under control. What if you aren’t able to extinguish that fire? What happens then?
I suppose in the same way I am afraid of fire, I am sort of scared of falling in Love. For so many times, I have felt like I have had my fire under control, yet by turning my back for just a second, all of a sudden the flames have got taller than I could handle, and in an automatic reaction I have panicked and rushed to get rid of something I am not comfortable or experienced in. There are also those fires that after ignition seem to die down and fizzle out without you being able to save them, leaving you with no idea what happened. Like a candle, that you only realise has come to its end when there is a small trickle of smoke, and that undeniable smell. (Ironically, I quite like that smell)
What about those fires that well and truly get out of hand? Fire’s that a first keep you warm, but then without you being aware, start to spread. Before you know it, it starts to cause destruction, that can be seen from miles away. Billowing black smoke that makes it aware to everyone around you that you have got yourself into difficulty. Despite your best efforts to extinguish the fire, in the end all you can do is retreat to a safe distance and watch as everything burns to the ground until there is nothing left, and nothing more to carry the fire. Only then, once everything has been burnt away can you start again, with no restrictions. It may seem daunting at first, beginning again, but after a while of missing what you had, you start to realise what can be, now that nothing is standing in your way.
Something that I learnt from one of those really terrible educational videos we used to have to watch in Primary School when it was raining at Break times (can anyone else remember that it was called ‘Wet Play’?) was that Farmers often start fires to clear forest floors, which then makes them more fertile. So girls (and boys of course) now you can use that as an excuse to finish that lad you don’t like anymore, that you need to clear the floor, to make way for other fitter lads. The lad would probably think you were going a bit funny in the head, just like when I finished a boy the other day because of our political differences. I’m actually being serious.
I also learnt today that the best protection from fire, surprisingly is sometimes fire. Apparently if there's a forest fire that is out of control, and you burn away a bit of the ground in advance, that piece of ground will be safe to stand on. Even if the fire totally surrounds you, because you've already burnt away the bits the fire can spread to. So fight that out of control fire, with fire, preferably a much much hotter boy... Sorry I mean fire.
‘...But remember Kids, don’t play with fire.’
Live. Laugh. Love
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Oh! Hello Sailor.
Okay, so the reason I have been absent from blogging/destroying mens ego’s for a while, is because my life and eventual career kind of depend on this month. Instead of blogging about the time I smiled at a gorgeous boy at the gym, subsequently missing the bottom step, and also the time when whilst singing my heart out I pulled up at the traffic lights, looked across at another car and saw my ex looking at me like an alien had just dropped out of the sky, I have been hitting my head against a brick wall. Or as it is commonly referred: revising.
I wouldn’t call revising my favourite pass time, it’s kind of on a par with waxing. It’s not vital, but you kind of have to do it if you want to get anywhere in life. Painful, but worth it when you see the results.
So according to a revision website I have been keeping as my bible for the past 3 weeks, there are 5 key tips for successful revision.
Number One: Make a set of revision cards.
Done. Much to my Dads annoyance they are cello-taped all over my bedroom walls. I told him not to worry because leaving sticky residue on my white walls will give me a better chance of leaving home in October. I have never seen my Dad's mood change so quickly.
Number Two: Create and stick to a revision time table, giving yourself regular breaks.
Done. That is if you consider half hourly toilet visits because of the amount I am drinking, and do-a-mind-map-have-a-biscuit a schedule.
Number Three: Find a quiet place to revise and make sure you’re comfy.
As I am not really comfortable in any other clothing than my gym wear, I have been constantly looking like I’m off for a run, and as for quiet, I’m afraid there is little chance of that happening in my house. I got up on Sunday morning and straight away got dressed (a strange thing for me at the Weekend) and sat at my desk and started making my notes, when I heard a very loud mmm-ing noise. Yes, the one time I have ever wanted to revise on a Sunday morning, my Dad decided to do a spot of hoovering. Then in the afternoon, as I was just getting stuck into a bit of 'Jane Eyre', my Dad turned on the TV in the opposite room and proceeded to watch Motorbike racing. Don’t get me wrong, that isn’t a crime, but when he insists on watching it at 10 times the healthy volume whilst having the door swung completely open, I am sorry but I will not be held responsible for my actions.
Number Four: Revise with a friend, by taking it in turns to test each other.
I’m afraid when every single conversation you have with your friends in 100% sarcasm, it makes it hard to take them seriously enough to revise with them. Especially when one of them in particular is always breaking out into her own particularly special rendition of Wuthering Heights. She certainly gives Kate Bush a run for her money. Take note that my sarcasm stretches to when I talk about my friends, as well as too them.
Number Five: Create Anchors for yourself.
I had never heard of ‘Anchor’ being used in this kind of context before last week, but it’s mainly a term that refers to a memory technique for when you want to memorise something effectively. For example you link a word you need to remember with something well known to you, using the power of your imagination. The basis of a good ‘anchor’ is imagining an absurd, positive, funny or exaggerated situation that you can link with the given word. I actually owe one of my favourite ‘anchors’ to a really lovely girl in my class, who is the reason I will never ever forget Sigmund Freud’s theory on ‘Personality’. Basically because it involved weeing in public; always good for jogging my memory.
There is also another sub-heading for the term ‘Anchor’, and it refers to the things that remind us of memories and people. Like for me, whenever I see anyone wearing Abercrombie and Fitch is reminds me of when I was in New York and I thought I had walked into the mens changing rooms. As I found out there was actually a man standing there topless for the purposes of luring people into the store. All I can say is good call A&F. And, why, when I smell talcum powder, it reminds me of my next door neighbour, or whenever ‘She’s so lovely’ by Scouting for Girls comes on the radio I remember my first ever boyfriend. Not that he thought I was lovely after it ended.
‘Anchors’ are the reason getting over a relationship can be so hard. I can guarantee that anyone who has ever broken-up with someone will have experienced that phase where no matter what you do or where you go, everything seems to be a reminder of them. It feels like every shop you go in is playing that song he once sang to you really badly and that film you went to see on your first date has now come out on DVD and the adverts are plastered everywhere. (Maybe this one only applies to me, as the average length of time it takes for a film to go from cinema to disk is two months, and this is the length of nearly all of my relationships.)
I wouldn’t call revising my favourite pass time, it’s kind of on a par with waxing. It’s not vital, but you kind of have to do it if you want to get anywhere in life. Painful, but worth it when you see the results.
So according to a revision website I have been keeping as my bible for the past 3 weeks, there are 5 key tips for successful revision.
Number One: Make a set of revision cards.
Done. Much to my Dads annoyance they are cello-taped all over my bedroom walls. I told him not to worry because leaving sticky residue on my white walls will give me a better chance of leaving home in October. I have never seen my Dad's mood change so quickly.
Number Two: Create and stick to a revision time table, giving yourself regular breaks.
Done. That is if you consider half hourly toilet visits because of the amount I am drinking, and do-a-mind-map-have-a-biscuit a schedule.
Number Three: Find a quiet place to revise and make sure you’re comfy.
As I am not really comfortable in any other clothing than my gym wear, I have been constantly looking like I’m off for a run, and as for quiet, I’m afraid there is little chance of that happening in my house. I got up on Sunday morning and straight away got dressed (a strange thing for me at the Weekend) and sat at my desk and started making my notes, when I heard a very loud mmm-ing noise. Yes, the one time I have ever wanted to revise on a Sunday morning, my Dad decided to do a spot of hoovering. Then in the afternoon, as I was just getting stuck into a bit of 'Jane Eyre', my Dad turned on the TV in the opposite room and proceeded to watch Motorbike racing. Don’t get me wrong, that isn’t a crime, but when he insists on watching it at 10 times the healthy volume whilst having the door swung completely open, I am sorry but I will not be held responsible for my actions.
Number Four: Revise with a friend, by taking it in turns to test each other.
I’m afraid when every single conversation you have with your friends in 100% sarcasm, it makes it hard to take them seriously enough to revise with them. Especially when one of them in particular is always breaking out into her own particularly special rendition of Wuthering Heights. She certainly gives Kate Bush a run for her money. Take note that my sarcasm stretches to when I talk about my friends, as well as too them.
Number Five: Create Anchors for yourself.
I had never heard of ‘Anchor’ being used in this kind of context before last week, but it’s mainly a term that refers to a memory technique for when you want to memorise something effectively. For example you link a word you need to remember with something well known to you, using the power of your imagination. The basis of a good ‘anchor’ is imagining an absurd, positive, funny or exaggerated situation that you can link with the given word. I actually owe one of my favourite ‘anchors’ to a really lovely girl in my class, who is the reason I will never ever forget Sigmund Freud’s theory on ‘Personality’. Basically because it involved weeing in public; always good for jogging my memory.
There is also another sub-heading for the term ‘Anchor’, and it refers to the things that remind us of memories and people. Like for me, whenever I see anyone wearing Abercrombie and Fitch is reminds me of when I was in New York and I thought I had walked into the mens changing rooms. As I found out there was actually a man standing there topless for the purposes of luring people into the store. All I can say is good call A&F. And, why, when I smell talcum powder, it reminds me of my next door neighbour, or whenever ‘She’s so lovely’ by Scouting for Girls comes on the radio I remember my first ever boyfriend. Not that he thought I was lovely after it ended.
‘Anchors’ are the reason getting over a relationship can be so hard. I can guarantee that anyone who has ever broken-up with someone will have experienced that phase where no matter what you do or where you go, everything seems to be a reminder of them. It feels like every shop you go in is playing that song he once sang to you really badly and that film you went to see on your first date has now come out on DVD and the adverts are plastered everywhere. (Maybe this one only applies to me, as the average length of time it takes for a film to go from cinema to disk is two months, and this is the length of nearly all of my relationships.)
Even after months and years, these anchors will still find a way of weighing you down. It only has to take being caught in the rain without an umbrella, running into Starbucks and hearing ‘Watch the Sun come up’ by Example to remind you of your summer romance. Believe me, I have had the woman behind the counter asking me if I’m okay, because, in her words I looked like ‘a lost foreigner’ that was upset because I hadn’t got an umbrella.
Whilst you’re being held down by these anchors, its hard to feel like your not drowning. All you want to do is swim away, forget all those things that make your stomach do somersaults. I’m not saying that you will be able to cut those ties easily or sometimes not at all, you may even find that after thinking you are finally free, you tangle your leg in the rope and it drags you right back down again.
Whilst you’re being held down by these anchors, its hard to feel like your not drowning. All you want to do is swim away, forget all those things that make your stomach do somersaults. I’m not saying that you will be able to cut those ties easily or sometimes not at all, you may even find that after thinking you are finally free, you tangle your leg in the rope and it drags you right back down again.
But one thing you should always remember; there are plenty more fish in the Sea.
Live. Laugh. Love
Live. Laugh. Love
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