Two Oh One Three

365 days. That's a long time to be consistently cheery, which explains the constant influx of miserable status', Tweets and bitter reminiscent exchanges over lunch - "2012 has been a crap year".  It can be a kick in the teeth, but the truth is you're never going to have that year when everything went your way with no speedbumps to knock you down a few pegs.

Eyebrows are usually raised when a voice across a room chirps of an ambitious new outlook and perspective for the next year, tell me about it. I know the clichés, where to start?..an appreciative clink of champagne glasses - Moet et Chandon, because it's a celebration, after all - with "cheers to a new year and a new us!". Somewhere is a girl gazing forlornly into the mirror, clutching at skin that isn't there, looking to the television, and quietly vowing that it has to go. Packets of biscuits sit, unopened, in the gutter. A new diary is opened, biro marks starts to scrawl and blot the pages - "I want to start writing things down" "Don't lose your new ear phones" "Don't lose track of time". Don't lose track of time.

2012. Naturally, there have been tremendous highs and terrible lows. I have felt lonely enough to question whether it was still too late to leave college; anxious enough to consider a remedy more immediate. Contrarily I have been blissfully happy, suddenly infused with confidence and strength  - I could see the beauty all around me. Books helped with that; so did good music, and the right films with the messages I could understand. Nervous, half-formed decisions at the hairdressers meant the Flo'fro would make me wince at my reflection, my friends choosing their words tentatively after the big reveal. Wearing my heart on my sleeve turned out to be a huge weakness, rather than an endearing quality. Exam results kept me counting sheep at night, quietly acknowledging their key role to play in determining my future - shit, the future. It was coming around so quickly and I just wished I was still in high school. Bret Easton Ellis and Jay McInnery were my literary revelations. I have tried to suss out 'love', but I couldn't understand and honestly? I still don't. Every day an inkling stood; "am I still wanted?" I started writing a blog. Benefit make up became the solution. Muse released an album I liked. Tears, laughter, weaknesses, new found strengths, moments of contentedness, frustration, realisation that it's what you make of it that matters.


2013. This is the year when I'm going to wake up on the first day and say "I'm 19 this year, 20 the next". Another comfort blanket will be torn to shreds when I leave college - the place I will have also had to call 'my other home' for nearly 2 years - and embark on another adventure known as "university". I don't want to lose weight; if anything, I would welcome the opposite, possibly in the region of my bum, in an era of sassy bootylicious ladeez and all. Let's face it, I'll never be a gym bunny, and the ability to bust out a swear word is an intrinsic quality no amount of therapy could stop. I like to think I could - if my health depended on it (ha) - start eating more fruit and vegetables, but my heart isn't really in that one. Weetos will still feature prominently and in dangerous quantities in my diet. I will continue to spend recklessly, then weep 2 weeks before my wages/allowance are due because I can't afford a packet of ginger biscuits. These are all pointless to even consider - Weetos, for crying out loud guys, WEETOS!

But I do have a few changes I need to make - sooner rather than later.

"You need to put yourself and your own feelings first, sometimes" I've heard that a lot recently and in retrospect, for excellent reasons too. It's fair to say that I am a self-confessed people pleaser, brushing my own feelings aside for others feels unnervingly natural for me. That's a terrible thing. I waste my energy on people who would not waste energy on me, and that is not a virtue - that is a massive personal issue that I must resolve, fast. Everyone has an agenda, and I should strive to stay out of them.

I need to put myself and my own feelings first. If that involves dropping certain people from my life like dead flies from a swatter...it's all for the right reasons. Conscience untarnished.

That's a tough statement to make, even tougher to see through. But I'll try, wholeheartedly - and that's the only* resolution I'm making this year.



The corniest picture EVER. Well...happy new year!

* Okay, about the vegetables, maybe I should look into that..

The Only Way Is Guilty Pleasures

People don't seem to put me down as an Only Way Is Essex fan. When asked if I watch the ITV3 show and I give a cheerful nod of confirmation, they tend to let out a sigh so mournful I fully expect to blink and find them dead on the floor. Most of the time I don't let this perplex me; other times, it does start to feel as though I'm letting the side down. Though I'm not convinced I have a firm idea of who "the side" are - my non-TOWIE loving friends, my perpetually disappointed mother and boyfriend, general middle class society? - I can still practically hear the tuts and mutterings of disbelief.

Following the lives of a group of perma-tanned, inexplicably wealthy twentysomethings, TOWIE claims itself as a "constructed reality" show set against a backdrop of wine bars, nail bars and flash cars. Already it's sounding pretty shallow, right? Throw in some false eyelashes (and boobs, and nails, and teeth..) with more gossip, backstabbing and bitching than an episode of Gossip Girl  - and you've just about got TOWIE summed up. It literally does not get much deeper than that. Perhaps it is easy to see why others might think someone with, um, ahem, a fairly adequate brain, shall we say, takes such a shining to this show.

Plus, I do love a bit of glitter. 

If you managed to catch last week's live episode, you'll be startlingly aware of just how scripted the show is; from the arguments - could anybody even HEAR Arg & Lydia? - hairy moments - was Joey meant to propose and he bottled it, or..? - and the so-called "talent" of the cast members - Chloe Sims, hot pink corset, "Barbie Girl", it wasn't pretty - it's clear these guys aren't actors. And yet I was...hypnotised. I truly could not look away. I needed to know what happened next with these characters. I was hooked, as is always the case; though it isn't exactly equal to an intelligent, hard-hitting investigative documentary, it is simply a maddeningly addictive watch with some amusing scenarios and characters.

"Escapism" - that's the key word here. I would much rather capture a glimpse of 'reality' from this strange,
glittering other-world where the importance of a good manicure is equal to paying off the mortgage than
watch greyscale, plausible real life with all its sensibilities and practicalities. That, and it's JUST BLOODY ENTERTAINING. Sure - it's silly, it's scripted and the cast members won't be scooping any Nobel Prizes, but it's entertainment - and don't we all need a little light-hearted break from the rather downbeat, depressing news that's occupying our screens more and more these days?

Plus - some time ago - I caught my dad in bed, on holiday, getting emotionally invested into series one. And he is a PROPER hard nut.

Floraidh Laughs At Life's Hardships, Thank You Very Much

Like many lawyers, serial killers and homeowners, occasionally I buy into that old sly trick of believing I am God. Not the God, or a Daniel Craig sort of God, but certainly a God.

Perhaps this is quite a bold statement from the same person who mistook a badger for a hedgehog, thought Nepal was in Asia [just been told this is not the case either. Damnit] and was just recently outed for running partly-nude down the corridor for some inexplicable reason. But hear me out - I think I might actually be onto something.

Reasons Why I'm Doing Okay At Life

Me and my Flo'Fro

It was long in the summer, wavering uncomfortably above my shoulders in September and since now it is short again, I look like Billy Ray Cyrus no longer.

It broke my heart..my achey breaky heart!

Me and my social life

Those who have read this blog from its tender beginnings (and WORD UP all ten of you) will know that for the past year I have not exactly been a social butterfly - is the signifier not the amount of blogs I've posted on this thing? Bloggers are the kind that didn't get out much as children. Except for me, for which this didn't really blossom over the years - until recently! Since arriving back at college this year I have actually found my voice a bit; this once-timid tadpole has grown into a mighty laughing, Strongbow-drinking frog. Hence the significant lack of blogging recently - all that "happy" got in the way. Such a selfish turn of events.

Me and my musical infatuations

Who else has had Muse's triumphant seventh album The Second Law on the loop since it's release? (And if not, why haven't you, by the way?) After the bitter after-coffee taste of The Resistance and countless whispers of "haven't I heard Queen do this sort of thing?" Muse are back to being funky and wonderfully without a particular genre to slap on them.

Yeah, Matty B, you go man.

Me and my job

For fear of being a complete bum, I have gone from being pitifully lazy and dependent to gainfully employed sassy bitch. That's right - I'm a canteen assistant (read: greasy kitchen wench) Okay, so it isn't as slick as my new title suggests; I am one of the reasons behind the Symonds boarders' delightful (ahem) culinary experience. I exist as a backdrop figure in the life of the boarders' time in the canteen, which I do not take great offence to really. The job involves cleaning the kitchen, cleaning kitchen utensils, cleaning up before people eat, cleaning up after people eat and - on a better day - putting cream on peoples' cakes. It isn't glamorous and I can safely say that a flourishing career in the catering industry is not beckoning for me...but it gets me the £££. And of course, I get to wear a cap.

Me and my "gentleman caller" - do we still call them that?

Yep, I get to look at a real guy instead of my Robert Downey Jr calender in the evenings..happy days!

Me and my infinite amount of college work

I suppose this is never really ideal. This is the cloud to my silver lining, to recycle that old proverb. Since entering my A2 year soaring on the glee of my actually-alright AS grades, I get to suffer more than ever to keep them that way. It piles up day after day, I glare willfully at it and implore for it to decrease but, well....

I am Floraidh, Goddess of Procrastination.

Happy Halloween! 

Love And Other Variations

By Oscar Owen

“I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

This is the famous line from the famous scene in the famous film When Harry Met Sally. (A film that if you haven’t see you should see. Right now. Stop reading this and go see it, I don’t care how, just do it. Yes, it’s that good.) It is the romantic comedy to end all romantic comedies. Yes, dear readers, I’m here to discuss that hideous word which causes all the pain in the world and all the happiness: love.

If we look at the dictionary definition we see that love can be a noun (“an intense feeling of deep affection”) or a verb (“to feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment”), neither of which definitions really even scratch the surface of what love is, but, that’s the way it should be. Love isn’t something any of us should really understand. At our age, love is less a factor in relationships, it’s more a matter of lust. We’re a horny generation, I’ll admit. Everything’s about the breasts, the bum, the torso, the legs, the general ‘cor’ factor of your possible mates. We, as that free-wheeling, crazy young teens look for a good time and a bit of fun. But, could it be that in fact, us teenagers have the best grasp of love out of everyone?

We can breakdown teenager relationships into five easy to define categories:

The Innocents - Usually the younger teens fall into this category, but sometimes some of the older ones, those that perhaps haven’t faced troubles, can be listed as ‘innocents’ as well. The Innocents are the ones who think love is still the airy-fairy, beautiful red hearts, chocolates and magic that you get thrust upon you as little children. Their relationships are often sickening and disturbing to behold (oh god I’m such a cynic) as they just act so unbearably sweet.

The Awkward - Sometimes confused with the Innocents, due to a general “deer-caught-in-headlights” expression when confronted with the word sex. But, where the Innocents actually venture into their bubble of childish love, the awkward find themselves completely unable to integrate themselves in teenage relationships in any way, shape or form.

 The ‘old-married-couple’ - These are the relationships that last the longest. We all know that couple who got together in secondary school and are still going right through to college. The only problem is that they lack that spark of fun and enjoyment which should come with being a teenager, they’ve effectively turned into their parents. But with less arguing about the family car or some such.

The Horny/Fun-Loving - This is where the majority of teenagers fall. They want sex, they want to make out, they want to squeeze bottoms in that provocative way which somehow becomes sexual. They have no control, their relationships pass in a whirlwind of lips and tongues and they’re the ones who appear to have all the fun. This category is for both the sexually rampant teens and the ones who are constantly in and out of relationships, just ones which aren’t stable enough to be declared “old-married-couple” worthy.

 The Romantics - Now this is the category I myself fall in, much to my own misfortune. Romantics are foolish idiots who aren’t old-fashioned as such, but more, believe in the love we see in movies. The Romantics want the Harry Met Sally ending, they want someone to bring them the moon and the stars, they want Dustin Hoffman to run after them and rescue them from their very sexual mother... I do hope you’re all getting these pop culture references. And, because of this, because these poor deluded fools are so in love with the theatrical and the cinematic they tend to never really find a relationship they’re happy in.

Now I personally have one of the poorest love lives I know of but, as a Romantic, I hold out hope that someone’s eventually going to chase after me at the airport a la Love Actually. Others of my friends have perfectly normal and long-lasting relationships (the old-married couples and the Innocents), others swap partners constantly and have as much fun as possible as often as possible, being perfectly comfortable with the idea of the teenage relationship (The Horny/Fun-Loving) and then there’s friends who view love like a VIP room and just can’t figure out how to get into it all (the Awkward).

The truth about love which no one really likes to face is that we can’t define it. We can’t look at the dictionary definition and say it’s one certain thing and we certainly won’t ever understand it. But, us teenagers have the best advantage when it comes to love. Because we experience it in its fullest. Love’s confusing and scary, but the best way to come close to even understand love is to be a teenager. The entire spectrum of human affection can be seen by simply walking into a college canteen and looking around.

50 Shades of Grey, Dull Anti-Climaxes.

Tulisa Contostavlos, Kristen Stewart, Eva Longoria and Kelly Brook. What do these megabucks-earning stars all have in common besides good looks and bank balances to die for? Well, these are the celebs most recently been snapped clutching 50 Shades of Grey, the erotic novel that has taken the literary world by storm. Somewhat uncomfortably dubbed "Mummy porn", verdicts thus far have remained mixed. Guy or girl, there's a pretty good chance you've heard of it - but what's all the hype about?

Penned by EL James, 50 Shades is the latest "bonkbuster" to hit the shelves after huge success online. Soon-to-be graduate Anastacia Steele is unaware, unworldly, and unassuming, making an interview with brooding businessman Christian Grey a recipe for disaster. But when the mysterious young entrepeneur pursues Ana and appears to take a deep interest, she's swept off her feet by the man behind the mysterious exterior. Mr Grey is emotionally cretinous, with interests "kinky" doesn't even cover;
though he admits to not being "love hearts and flowers", he does do ropes, chains and whips. Hardly a match made in heaven, right? But Ana has never been fuelled with such desire for a man before..do sparks fly or fireworks combust? No prizes for the correct answers - it's aimed at women, and there's usually nothing we love more than a story of tortured romances.

The racy novel sold it's 10 millionth novel last week, and the title may very well have been held by me. Most books that have stirred up controversy in the past are usually...well, good books, ones that have made an impact. I'm afraid to say this novel only left a bad impact on me, no matter how much I gawped at the nature of the more explicit scenes.

Essentially, Ana Steele is a bit of a wet blanket, and it's damn well painful. She's laughably timid for a 22 year old woman, frustrating to listen to and does little more than flushing, biting her lip and weaving between her careful subconcious and sensual inner goddess. I saw her as a victim than the heroine, and when she "surrenders to her grief" at the novel's conclusion, I want to hand her a tissue exasparatedly rather than applaud her for being a sassy bitch Austen would kick herself for not creating first. Christian frequently expresses his awe for Ana, at one point proclaiming her to be "the most fascinating woman he has ever met"; really? Her best mate and budding journo Kate seems a little more vivacious and "fascinating" to me.

A dislikable protagonist does not a good novel make, jaw-droppingly raunchy or otherwise.

As for Mr. Grey (who incidentally is the rumoured reason Kerry Katona left her most recent beau, but I'll leave you to make your own mind up on that one), he is depicted as a bit of a sex god - smouldering good looks, a finely chiselled body,excellent taste in cars. But that does not conceal the fact his enigmatic personality only begs one question; what the hell is wrong with this man? He's not even a remotely charismatic "troubled soul"; just a plain old "troubled soul", who from my perspective appears to exploit Ana, and his occasional pleas of affections just don't seem genuine.

Overall, it's poorly written and cannot possibly be deemed worthy a place on my prized book shelf; both characters have nothing going for them, the plot is predictable with no unexpected twists to engage the reader and there's no real chance of the reader's jaw clenching with sheer desperation for these two to have a happy ending. On the plus side, if you're into BDSM, you can just skim through those scenes in Waterstones and save yourselve a few quid.

The blurb claims it will "obsess, possess and remain with you forever". I am confident this will not be the case; the "obsess and possess" aspect only predictably parralells the plight of Anastacia Steele in the following installments..
50 Shades is a shining example of the literature of lust becoming lacklustre literature; and with a film in the pipeline ,the buzz won't get swatted any time soon.

The "Growing Up" Phenomena; Affecting Millions Per Year

By Oscar Owen
Now I’m going to ask you something of you dear readers, and I want a nice honest show of hands. Okay? Right. Good. Put your hand right up, and I mean right up, no slacking alright- put your hand up if you have ever in the past couple of years wished your life was as carefree as it was back in primary school. Come on, don’t be shy, that’s it. YOU THERE. IN THE BACK. PUT THAT HAND RIGHT UP. There we go, you see, that’s basically all of you. (Well if’s all of you in my imaginary blogging lecture theatre (which I’ve named the blogture theatre incidentally) but the point still stands.)

You see, we all, at some point, just want to return to that world of freedom and joy, where everything was a game and nothing was out of bounds. When you’re little the sofa isn’t just a sofa and the floor isn’t just a floor. Oh no. The floor is lava and the sofa is you’re only protection, a rock in the middle of this sea of death which you must cling to for dear life or fall to your lava-ry demise. Ahhh, being little was a wonderful time. It’s no surprise that so many of us aging teens wish to return. And, here’s the thing, why don’t we? What’s stopping us throwing off the shackles of teenagedom and returning to the rainbow coloured ball pit of childhood? I say why not grow up and be young? Why don’t we maintain this element of childish fun and get to drive and be independent and drink and all that jazz? I say let’s be childish grown ups.

It’s one of the problems of life however that, in the process of growing up, we’re forced to, well, grow up. Already I see those friends I once muck about with so wonderfully leave behind their childish ways to become an adult *shudders*. Oh the disdain in which I hold that word. Because there’s a certain stigma attached to that word ‘adult’ now which we simply cannot avoid. To become an adult is not to become a person secure with their personality and their own self. Nope. To become an adult in our current society is to become a person who is responsible and sensible and various other words ending in “ible”. There’s no sense of fun, no childish mucking about, if an person of maturer age acts like a child in anyway they are told that its “not adult”. But I have long since come to the conclusion that the only way to live is to maintain an element of stupid fun.

Next time you’re stressed readers, next time you’re feeling a bit down or the coursework’s just got a tad too much then remember this and act on it. There is never anything better for stress than good old fashioned mucking about. Let me give you an example from the riveting life of Oscar Owen. I deal with a helluva lot of stress, it’s just a fact of my life I’ve come to live with. Most of this stress I create for myself, because I am a confessed worrier but there’s also stress from the incredibly mountain of work which comes from maintaining 4 A Levels into A2 Year, something I’m already feeling and we’ve barely started; there’s stress from my pitiless excuse of a love life in which everything’s ended in lots of tears and Woody Allen marathons to remind myself that true love is somewhere out there; there’s stress from my eating habits, my constant feeling of “oh fuck I’m going to die there’s a tumor in my head”, my poor sleeping pattern and, most of all, my panic over the state of my favourite fictional characters (note from Floraidh: he's not joking). And how do I deal with this stress? Well, most recently, I volunteered to put on some silly glasses, wave a wand about and advertise our college’s Harry Potter Appreciation Society. It was a day of nothing but childish playtime, I put on a costume and drew some silly pictures. Blessed relief amongst a sea of stress.

As that old northern genius Alan Bennett writes in his coming of age masterpiece The History Boys, the only antidote to growing up is “sheer calculated silliness” and I present the same idea to you reader. The next time you’re stressed or full of the woes of life or just feel like you’re coming dangerously close to becoming an adult *shudders once more* then please, I beg of you readers, take my advice and go be silly. Go put on a silly costume or talk in a silly voice or play with lego or just run around for no apparent reason. Anything will do and anything will make you feel better. Sometimes, when the future seems scary, the only thing to do is revert to the past.

Can You Guess What I'm Reviewing?

By Jaguar Bingham (http://www.beautybehindapaneofglass.blogspot.com)

The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.

I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.

The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.

The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.

We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.

I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.

It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.

***

When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!

The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.

The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…

This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.




- Jaguar Rose

Catch The Cliche & Floraidh's Personal Side

To save myself splattering paint at my reflection and writing sad poetry ostentatiously in cafes, I have to remind myself that I'm not really a fundamentally shit person. And that's the truth.

I can be self-absorbed, self-centred, self-indulgent and self-critical. But like most, I have my faults, too...(!)

This first year of college in Blighty has vaguely became a year of self-discovery. When I emerged out of Germany, bushy-tailed and bright-eyed, I had no idea what I was in for. But to recycle an old phrase, I was the proverbial Wendy making good in the big world away from Neverland. So I like to think I've done things in this year that do not make me a fundamentally shit person, and I have learned not to embody a fundamentally shit person.

In a few years time, I will perhaps regard these two years as the time when my niave former self found her true "self", got over her "self" and perhaps had a "self" esteem rise. So am I any closer to "finding myself" right now(and trying not to wince at how pretentious it sounds)? Well, you are shaped by what surrounds you. And as Aristotle said, you are what you repeatedly do. To answer that, I can confirm leaving my cacoon had been one of the best and worst experiences in my short 17 years, and I'm not all that sure what it's done for me.

Though the aptitude of my personal hygiene remains questionable (the weeks my sheets can go without a wash, the receipts lying accusingly on my floor, the mould I found under my bed recently), my domestic skills have improved infinitely. If I'm absolutely desperate and there's no suitable substitute, I will iron a top. If I'm not up for eating regurgitated meat, I will make my own dinner. I will shower without my mum instructing me to do so. I have made friends I've already assigned seats to for my somewhat distant nupitals. I've stopped caring about presenting myself in a way that wouldn't fit somebody else's definition of acceptable. The cold light of dawn enlightened me on who my real friends at home were, who could be bothered coming to see me, who was a friend or foe - and I learned to not get upset about the verdict, either. Managing my own finances, & saving money for a holiday too? All in a day's work.

The less rosy parts have included mood swings induced by a homesickness not even a phone call could stave off, and the silent resentment for my housemates if for one second I suspected they weren't feeling it like I was. I have made some terrible mistakes in the past year. I have said and done things that are so, so bad. I dismissed it as teenage steam-release at the time ("doesn't everyone go through this at some point?") before I realised not even being a teenager can excuse being...well, a bit of an actual dickhead. I also forgot about having a tolerable attitude to others, because I felt others weren't exactly tolerable of me - here's lookin' at you, 2/4 of my AS classes.

I considered going home on numerous occasions. Packing my bags, deeming it an "experience", but "it just wasn't working for me". Returning to my old life, back to Neverland, with people I knew and had known for a fair while - a safe familiarity, but not even a subtle step out of my comfort zone. But the thought of giving up on something I'd wanted so much seemed so feeble; coursework rage, homesickness, bitchy class mates. I couldn't face returning home and citing those - upon reflection - really rather poor excuses. "Coursework rage"? You want qualifications? You suffer a little. "Homesickness?" It's not like you've moved away forever. "Bitchy classmates"? They're treating you like dirt without getting to know you, and you're the one getting upset? Realise who has the issues here.

The going got tougher, so I did too. It has worked for me - it still does.

Like most artistic types, I'm quietly spanning out my life as a movie, in which I feature as the protagonist. I like to think my movie is an Arts Council-funded Brit flick, with a kooky soundtrack and tastefully dressed characters. It will be critically acclaimed without being commercially successful. I'll shrug off the baddies, have a struggle before overcoming the odds, and live happily ever after. I'm playing the part of the quick-witted sassy gal, who can let grumpiness get the better of her, but generally an alright egg.

Whether I'm doing the part justice remains to be seen - ask me again next year.

"Hey! My name's Oll..."

Written by Ollie Toms

PICTURE THE SCENE.

You’ve been persuaded by a friend to undergo a psychological experiment of some kind, though you haven’t been given any details. The friend appealed to your innate curiosity and similar interests, and you agreed, with a mix of equal parts enthusiasm and trepidation. You turn up at the address they gave you, and they’re waiting there, outside the house. You follow them into the house, and every door you open quickly shuts behind you with an unnerving finality.

Your friend stops by a large iron door and swings it open wide. It’s a small room with metal walls and a metal ceiling and floor. Metal surrounds you from all sides. The room is brightly lit, but there is nothing to look at. The room is completely empty. You turn to your friend, who gestures for you to enter. Hesitantly, you step into the metal cube. You know what to do, your friend says with a smile. Then they swing the iron door shut.

You quickly turn back and call for them, unsure as to whether or not they’re joking. The fact is you haven’t the faintest clue what you’re meant to do in this place. The emptiness unsettles you, and you feel extremely self-conscious and unsure of yourself. You feel as if you’re missing something obvious that’s preventing you from beginning what is evidently the task at hand. You begin to question your own intellect, the value of your existence. You begin to wonder if you ever did anything worthwhile with your life, anything worth remembering. You look into the vast expanse of metallic silver in front of you, and your reflection stares back, in its eyes a profound look of disorder and fear.

That’s how I feel, gazing pensively at my reflection in the monitor, as I attempt to write my first blog post.(Well, not quite. I exaggerated some parts. But I am a tad unsure of what to do.

The thing is: I love writing. It’s my passion and my refuge. It’s my obsession and my asylum. It’s appealing to me not only as a form of escapism but also as the surest way of immersing yourself within your own imagination, in a world that is completely unique and inescapably, utterly, yours. Having said all that, however, I find it difficult to write anything concerning myself, because, to be blunt, I’m not my all-time favourite subject. In fact, I’m not very interesting to be honest. My average day consists of college, followed by homework, followed by a short spell of piano playing, and then a few hours of Minecraft; then dinner, more Minecraft, and bed. Unless it’s a weekend, in which case, it’ll be just Minecraft.

And I’m not going to try and change that. I LIKE Minecraft.

What I will do is try and make what I say sound interesting – if I find that my thoughts and whimsical ideas are at least marginally more appealing than Vogon poetry, then I’ll be happy!

And I do have a fair few whimsical ideas. My mind is a smorgasbord of ‘what if’s and remarkable ideas and passionate opinions. Unfortunately, not many of these thoughts manage to find themselves at the forefront of my mind. Most just stay swimming around my subconscious like a hive of lethargic bees, surfacing only long enough for me to think “yeah, I should do something about that,” and then forget about them almost immediately.

So I thought it’s about time I got some of these ideas and views out of my head and into the open.

So

Hey! My name’s Oll. What’s up?

"The Last Of The Haussmans" - Powerful Performance, Less So With The Plot?

By Oscar Owen

The Last of the Haussmans, National Theatre, Review

“No one’s to blame for anyone else’s fuck-ups. We all fucked up. We all fucked up our own lives.”

Hello dear readers of the Uncensored Pen, I begin with this quote from The Last of the Haussmans, a play I have come to review. I’m Oscar by the way and while I haven’t officially been trained as a theatre reviewer I like to think I’ve seen enough of it and can waffle enough to make it sound like I know what I’m on about. It may not surprise you to know that this quote was not the one the National Theatre chose to advertise the play with. No, they chose instead some nonsensical nonsense about waking up out of a coma. You know the sort of thing I’m talking about; pretentious, bordering on the dull, not really offering any kind of insight into the play at all. And so I decided instead that this quote was the perfect one with which to sum up a play which is, in its simplest form, all about fuck-ups.

We have Judy Haussman, a remnant of the age of free love and flower power. Having dropped out of her high-society life and running away with her University Lecturer to become a hippy when she was still young, we see her in her still free-wheeling sixties. She’s slowly dying in her health and safety nightmare of an art deco house on the Devon Coast but god knows she’s not going to die without partying right until the end. Judy’s joined by her daughter Libby, a tired mother herself who, while trying to look after her difficult daughter Summer is also having an affair with the local doctor, Peter. After hearing news of her recent cancer surgery, estranged gay junkie son Nick also turns up, soon to be infatuated with young pool boy Daniel.

It’s a chaotic play from the outset, the tone of which is set the instant you walk into the theatre thanks to the gorgeous set design from Vicki Mortimer. Now, I must be careful, here, I admit, or this review will turn into a love letter to the set. But, by god, that set was beautiful. Centre stage was the house itself, a huge white construction, all angles and corners, which revolved around to give us a garden, patio, kitchen and living room all of which are as ramshackle as the last. Around this house are two arched pathways full of all manner of bits and bobs, ranging from kites to flags to dozens upon dozens of plant pots. The set feels like a family. It just surges with life as you can pick out any object and know that there’s a story behind it. It’s simply breath taking.

But yes, okay, the play wasn’t all about the set I hear you cry and no it certainly wasn’t. Last of the Haussmans heralds that indomitable star of screen and stage Julie Walters’ (Educating Rita, Billy Elliot, Harry Potter to name a few) return to theatre for the first time in years. And although she maybe doesn’t have much emotional substance to give, thanks to a difficult script, until the second half she owns the stage as the aging hippy Judy. Wandering about manically in a snoopy top and nothing else she is the pinnacle of uncontrollable energy. One of my favourite moments from her was her sudden drunken declaration to the people of Devon, “Want to see a bit of revolutionary pussy, Darlings?”. And yet, Walters doesn’t, as one may assume, steal the show. Helen McCrory (Harry Potter, and, among other things, famous for playing Cherie Blair multiple times) offers a portrait in human suffering as Libby so powerful and believable that you just want to run up on stage and hug her and tell her it’ll all be alright. And Rory Kinnear (who offered a superb Hamlet at the National last year) who portrays the drug ravaged, drunken Nick with a wit so fiery he had the audience in stitches nearly every time. From him, more than McCrory, you get the sense of the damage caused to the children of the hippy generation, summed up perfectly I feel in his line, “Nobody made me a junkie. Except maybe David Bowie.”

There’s also strong performances from the supporting characters of Summer, Daniel and Peter, although, to be fair to them, it’s hard to make much of an impression on the audience when you have three incredible actors in Kinnear, McCrory and Walters dominating the stage. There are problems with the script, only to be expected from first time playwright Stephen Beresford. And although it feels overlong (the entire last scene felt unnecessary) and the reasoning behind the financial loss of the house feels rushed, Beresford’s background as an actor means he knows how to write bloody good lines for his cast and the play is most certainly full of wit and charm. There’s even moments of real deep meaning, such as the “fuck-ups” line I began this review with which made me sit back in my seat and really consider my own life and choices.

Overall it’s a strong, enjoyable piece of theatre. Perhaps not going to be remembered for its story or script, but the performances will certainly go down in my memory for a long time. If you want a play with powerful acting which doesn’t require too much head-scratching in confusion then this is the thing for you.

Female Finger-Tappers

By Fraser Nickolls (http://www.frazzlecake.blogspot.com/)

Speaking as a bloke, I have to say that there are an awful lot of things about the 'fairer sex' which manage to completely flummox any male unwise enough to think too deeply about such issues. As a result, we simply skirt around these grey areas of knowledge, because the alternative would only result in screams of 'You wouldn't understand!' or 'I thought you understood me?', which are entirely undesirable - especially if it's your mum that's doing the screaming. This complete bewilderment may come as news to those of you of a female disposition, so allow me to present to you the snappily-titled:

Fraser Nickolls' List Of Girl Things That Guys Just Don't Get

1. Makeup
Guys have the same attitude to appearances as girls: Looking good is good. What isn't 'good' is for a girl to have slapped so much on their faces that it looks like they went for a mud mask at the local beauty salon and forgot to take it off. Around 99.9% of girls look better, more real, without foundation, blusher etc.. For instance, girls that cover their freckles with makeup; why? Freckles are awesome! Also, most guys think that freckles make a girl look cuter and prettier. As I mention in my own blog, 'Be happy with what you're given, you wouldn't have been given it if it wasn't good'. If you think that your eyes look too small; if you think that that mole on your cheek makes your face look lopsided; if you think that your lips are nowhere the shade of red that makes it look as though all your blood has congregated around your mouth, then all I can say is shut up, stop it and learn to love how you look. It's so-called 'imperfections' that we love- those little things that mark you out as an individual, as slightly quirky and therefore more noticeable.
Also, you tend to take inordinately long amounts of time putting your makeup on. We really don't have the time.

2. High heels
Never once have I, personally, ever felt the need to put on a pair of shoes that will raise me a head above everyone else, crush my toes, give me blisters and make me look like a newborn giraffe when I walk. Is it to make you look six feet fall, like those models off the telly, or so that you can step on someone's feet and therefore send them off to A&E? We don't get it, and what's more, most of us don't really like it.
Part of this is purely chauvanistic: guys don't generally like girls to be taller than them- we want to appear impressive and tall. This isn't my personal standing on the issue, but then again, my girlfriend is about 5 feet tall compared to my 5'10, so it's not generally an issue.
The other part is that, as I mentioned previously, most girls do tend to look a little ungainly in heels, especially those 7-inch stiletto things that taper down to points you could surely use for climbing a cliff of ice. We get the whole wanting-longer-legs thing, but looking like you haven't got full control of those longer legs just isn't good. PRO TIP: DON'T wear such heels if going out drinking unless you really know what you're doing. If you looked ungainly before, how d'you think you'll look with alcohol sloshing around inside of you? Significantly lacking in class, that's how.

3. Bathroom groups
Picture this: you're a guy. You're walking along the corridor with some girls. Then, with no prior warning, all the girls suddenly veer right into the toilets. Where'd they all go?, you'd think. Do I smell bad?, you'd think. No, turns out that girls just tend to visit the bathroom in small packs, like groupies. Or ducks.
The worst thing for guys about this curious natural phenomenon is the paranoia that sets in when you all suddenly disappear, whispering animatedly. Our standard response is to assume that you're whispering about how some other boy had said to you that our penises are significantly shorter than average. It's not nice.
By the way, if you actually go to the toilet, do you continue talking? That must be pretty awkward. Girl's toilets aren't like boy's urinals, where we can stand and openly discuss last night's football results whilst we relieve ourselves (which, I can assure you, we all do, all the time). Or are they? I must confess that I have never been in the girl's toilets, never having spontaneously grown a vagina, but from what I've seen in Waterloo Road, they are just rows of cubicles. Oh, and tampon machines.
I am forced to come to the only logical conclusion: you all think that you're going to get killed. Of course, murderers have little concept of 'boys' and 'girls' toilets… just 'murdering' toilets. Therefore, they will wait, hidden in the sink. One girl would get murdered. Ten would be too daunting. It's basic safety in numbers.
…That is the case, right?

4. Facebook photos
I assume that girl's attitude to Facebook photos is the same as the male's: to look good, to show the best side of yourself. However, there are so many things I could say that you're doing wrong at this point that I'm going to compile a sub-list.
Fraser Nickolls' Sub-List Of Dumb Girl Profile Pictures-The Duckface: Oh dear. Oh very dear. Why do you think that showing us exactly how much lip you have is attractive? It isn't. It makes you look like a duck. Men aren't attracted to ducks.
-The Sorority Squat: I don't understand. Having put on those high heels, you then attempt to look as short as possible, with the side-effect that you look like you're desperately in need of relieving yourself. it looks dumb.
-The Vest-top Lean: Yes, well done, you have breasts. Why d'you feel the need to deliberately semi-reveal them to everyone on your Facebook? It's like you're saying 'Hey, my face is up here!' You clearly took the photo with the intention of putting them on show, and yet act as if you aren't. Stop being so complicated! Our heads are hurting.
Why can't a simple smile suffice? Why do you have to contort parts of your body into stupid shapes for a 100X100 thumbnail on a newsfeed? Why do you… just why? We should be looking at your no doubt attractive face, your winning smile, your bright eyes -not your flexibility.


There are many other subjects I could touch on here, like the obsession with Justin Bieber that a lot of you seem to share (perhaps because, being a closet female, you feel an affinity with him?), or why a lot of really nice girls go out with total dickheads (do you feel like you've had enough of people being nice to you, so you decide to get with someone that'll treat you like shit?). But, alas, I am out of space here.

I hope that, on this point at least, we understand each other perfectly well.

Male Mysteries

I don't pretend to know anything about the optimal experience of being a bro, a bloke, a dude or a homie-g. As a girl, I'm genetically cut out for the daintier things for life, apparently. In between drinking tea from the finest china, wearing white dresses to dust off the shelves and picking flowers, I observe the behaviour of our co-species, and end up doing some serious head-scratching. Such animalistic, erratic displays of behaviour are mysterious; unanswerable. What the hell are you doing? WHY?

That said, I'm definitely not a man-hater. That's not me; I'm up for a co-existing society, even if it means I will do the exact same job as a man but get paid less for doing it (ha ha HA). I don't believe in the cliche that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. Yeah, men are mostly great, right?

Sure, but there's some things about you blokes that I just can't get on board with. I speak on behalf of myself, not the entire demographic of women.

Nobody is questioning your masculinity when you order pizzas.

So dull and uneventful was the summer of 2010, I spent it going to Pizza Hut almost every day, nonchalantly lining my veins with cholestrol and adding inches to the waistline. I went with quite a few guys, and they would each tut at me disappointedly when I ordered my trusty margarita. Obviously, it's not exactly the most reckless choice and earns me no bravado points - but it's tasty, simple and I will almost definitely have room for desert.

Guys, however, appear to have a complex about their choice of pizza. A pizza in a man's eyes is apparently a test of their testosterone levels - they will have it with every topping under the sun, prefably with BBQ sauce, and in no less than medium size. I appreciate the fact my food tastes are relatively simple - some might say "boring" - but having chicken, beef, pork, peppers, pineapple, onions and 3 cheeses sounds like a bowel evacuation waiting to happen.

The width and density of your pizza is not in direct correlation with your penis size - in fast food terms, getting a small margerita is the equivalent of an open expression of effiminacy. Where's the logic?!

Peeing Performances

Being of the female orientation, the privilege to empty the tank almost anywhere is one denied to me.
With men, your anatomy allows you to erm, whip it out, whenever you feel like it. Mostly, there's no code as to where and when it is appropriate to pee. As long as there's nobody within a few metres of you, it is a legitimiate area to do your business freely. Of course, this open display of relief could only stem from the fact that you're used to doing your thing infront of other men in the toilets; and if it's okay in the toilets, it must be okay for the rest of the world to see, too.

But I promise you - I PROMISE - nobody is getting glazed eyes over watching you pee. Do not treat it as a handy opportunity to flaunt your twang to onlookers. We are really not elbowing eachother out the way for a closer peek. 

Preferring Beyonce to Rihanna

Before I got a little more savvy, I believed there was no fool in this world who would not think B was anything less than the human  manifestation of perfection. Even if you weren't digging her look, you could give her talent credibility. Besides - a super-talented triple threat with hundreds of awards to her name, a "real" figure and being one half of the most powerful Afro-American couple in showbiz, what could dull this woman's shine?

Didn't Jessica Simpson already do the "washing the car" thing?

Rihanna. That's what - Rihanna.

The protege of Jay-Z is younger, renowned for her rock'n'roll antics, risque lyrics and ever-changing hair cut. But unlike B, she is totally willing to cast herself as this fetishized little plaything, ready to roll over and writhe around for the cameras.

I maintain this is because men are intimidated by the mighty Beyonce. She can do sweet and sultry in videos like "Sweet Dreams" and make your knees buckle with lust in "Dance For You", but she could also pop a cap in yo' ass in "Girls (Run The World)". The Destiny's Child days - well, forget about it! She'd have you for breakfast, and your little dog, too.

The Brooding Photo Poses

Picture this - you're at some old relative's wedding, and you're wearing a suit. If you say so yourself, you look dapper. People keep approaching you to tell you how well you scrub up, and don't you look so much like your father? You smirk at them sheepishly, but deep down, you know that hell yeah, you do look alright, actually.

People have brought cameras along to the wedding, to capture the smiles of adored relatives and the exquisite table arrangements. For some reason, they want your mug on their camera too. Instead of a smile, you tilt your head to one angle, suck your cheeks in ever so slightly to define your cheekbones, David Gandy style, and shoot the camera a look that says "I'm troubled and mysterious".

What the hell even is this?! Guys, what every happened to a smile in a picture? It doesn't have to be a toothy, unnerving number, but even a subtle tilt of the mouth and widened eyes makes you look infinitely more attractive. If we were to take a picture of a group of lads, and only one of them gave a little grin - our eyes would dart towards that guy. Oooh, who is that guy?

It's said guys think the same about girls in pictures; a smile is more likely to make us say "hey, can I get your number?" than a moody, vacant stare. We're not that different.





I got asked to write a blog about this lack of understanding between the two genders, and I will not ignore the cries of the people. To offer a balanced view, I contemplated somehow writing what guys can't comprehend with women. But hell, what do I know? In a desicion not taken lightly, I've roped in my trusty blogging steed Fraser to get his two cents in, offering a genuine male insight that us girls spend our lives trying to dissect. This will be posted on Floraidh's Uncensored Pen tommorow, so keep your eyes peeled on your news feed!

You can find Fraser's blog at http://www.frazzlecake.blogspot.com/

Why I Prefer Facebook To Twitter

Today is the Thursday 21st June, 2012. In this day, I have eaten chicken dippers, and they were delicious. I have extended a weary hand of friendship to many people, and this is uplifting. I may have just lost myself a job for an inexplicably bad reason, and this is disheartening. But what could be more definitive of the Thursday 21st June, 2012, than the sudden temporary demise of Twitter?

The punters of the global "Twittersphere" wept virtual tears. Facebook has since been inundated with woeful status', wondering what we as a human race could've done to deserve such treachery from what is dubbed as the Bruce Almighty of all social media. Mark Zuckerburg, hear this now, or learn it later - today, you've become nothing more than a back-up option. You're the dingy boat, because - for reasons unknown - the cruise ship has left the docks.

Personally, I never really latched on to the hype of Twitter, though many of my friends have. I gave it a good shot, wrote a few Tweets, I didn't exactly "take off" and my ego wasn't lightly caressed as it is when my status' get likes. Defeated, I made a swift return to FB. I'm not entirely certain this wasn't also because Twitter did not offer me what Facebook can; voyeurism.Shameless, filthy, apparently legitimated disrespectful breaching of other's privacy.

Here are some other reasons why Twitter can get Twatted (?):

- 140 characters to sum up a comment seems a bit bland to me - it's a limited platform. Through the medium of the almighty Facebook status', you could write a short story describing your day, from the harrowing desicion of signing a letter "yours sincerely" or "best regards", to the exact amount of calories consumed in your Pret A Manger sandwich, and why exactly it was bad for you. Your thoughts, observations and opinions can be told free of word limits and having to write "to" as "2". It's not gauranteed that your friends won't think you're a boring douchebag if you kick the arse out of it, but hey, haters make you famous, right?

- It doesn't quite have the artistic credibility as Bebo, but Facebook roundhouse kicks Twitter in the stakes of personal expression. You can modify your FB to become more of a reflection (if slightly exaggarated) version of you; you can include more detail about yourself and your interests through your profile, exclusively delivering a representation of you that Twitter could never hope to offer. The cover photo feature is a precise rendering of the more awesome, less tedious aspects of your life. On Twitter, you can upload photos, have a teensy profile picture, and that's the world wide web's limited comprehension of you. Thus, the crucial window of self-depiction is a narrow one.

- The ticker feature on Facebook. 'Nuff said - that voyeurism I mentioned earlier is apparently a bad thing about social networks, but it nurtures my own once more.

- People like to think of their Twitter account as some kind of virtual cocktail party, with the doors open to everybody and friendly bouncers who will offer you cigarettes. Your Facebook is more the VIP Drinks Lounge; only your nearest and dearest can come and live a virtual dream and get on dat hype ting with you. Er, hello - can we try and see the beauty in this for a minute please?!  A peek of your life becoming so exclusive is a good feature. Also, if faced in a real life predicament, I would definitely choose the VIP Drinks Lounge, but I suppose this won't ever happen.

- See this thing I'm writing now? This blog? I would not be able to - ahem - "advertise" it so easily on Twitter. I don't write it for my own two eyes and to marvel at my own witty observations and pithy remarks (joking), and presuming you guys aren't going to seek out my blog yourselves, it's all down to some self-promotion. There has to be hook to lure you in; damnit, I can't write a good hook in so few characters!

- As handwritten letters have become a thing of the past, we've now kept up with the modernity and use impersonal social networks to talk to our friends and family. This is particularly valuable to me with my family being overseas, so I'd hope to be able to do it quickly and efficiently, privately or otherwise. Facebook is the captain of my virtual social heart, once more; the Twitter thought exchange is - a reccuring theme now - very limited, as is the messaging service. Facebook offers efficient connectivity in a variety of methods, plus the ability to attach photos and even "Facetime". Twitter does not have some kind of webcam facility.

It was reported recently that Twitter has a following of 200 million users. Facebook  has 600 million users.

Consider that a case rested.

Elephant

Possibly the most celebrated perk of living in Germany is the lower drinking age. Though alcohol is definitely a Bad Thing and there's nothing big or clever about watching somebody pee in the middle of the street, it is a law I've chosen to sieze with both hands. I'm not yet 18 but I already know what bars I'd like to start and end the night with, what drinks I can and can't handle and which people I'd like to disassociate myself with when I go out like the plague, thank you very much.

The same applies to clubbing. When I moonwalk my way into a club, I moonwalk with an objective, open-minded sort of view as to how the night might turn out; even if the stench of sweat and booze on people's breaths is enough to induce a coma, I do not take offence to this. It is a club, after all, and who ever said these were places of sophistication and class? Even the vomit my nice suede heel just been submerged in - that's just part of the package, right? Light-hearted fun was never meant to be glamorous, every bona fide metropolitan clubber knows that.

But with promises of Elephant being "soooo f-cking awesome!!!", I forgot about the free-spirited views and laidback approach to club expecations. Having just enjoyed a few hours in Ringlok, where drinks are reasonably priced, the music appeals from everyone to the metal rocker's to the pop princess' with there being enough elbow-room to occasionally do the "windmill", I raised my hopes considerably and expected a somewhat classier affair.

Well, classy affairs require a small fortune, apparently! A burly, gruff bouncer greets us at the door, snarling at us in the way German bouncers do, and we're told we've gotta pay 10 euros for the privilege. "10 euros?!" I sneered at Amaury. "This had better be worth it". He laughed reassuringly, in the way German
 friends do when they think they're on to a winner with clubs in terms of fit birds and quality booze. Teetering on heels that I hadn't quite gotten used to, we stumbled up the stairs to find ourselves in the 2012 Moulin Rouge.

The lighting is dim, only illuminated by the neon colours of the bar and lights; in contrast to the warehouse form of Ringlok, the walls are adorned with funky contemporary art pieces and the windows burst with colour (not unlike a church, but the two are in no way comparable aside from that). And wonderfully, there is no smell of sweat and no vomit on my shoes!

As I was in bloke company, I had no choice but to begrudgingly "check out the talent" with them. "Talent" is apparently populous here - women who would not look out of place on a cover of Vogue Italia sprawl on the plush sofas, their limbs tanned and toned, rouched lips pursed, looking blase and irritatingly beautiful. As you do when you're people watching (and trying not to stare), I tried to delve deeper beneath the porcelain skin - what does she do? Is she a model/waitress? Model/student maybe? I would never know, but I was starting to consider the effects a nose job would do for my overall "look", and maybe I could join the demographic of "hopelessly wonderful-looking people" dominating the club. Sadly, this is somewhat optimistic if you are anything like me, and you have only the sexual prowess of a loaf of bread...

Unfortunately, the men and their "talent" failed to parralel the success of the women. Ladies, if you're looking for some hot eye-candy when you're out, don't get your best bodycon on for hitting this place. Though Elephant is crawling with female foxes (Did I just say that?), the only eye-candy you can expect to find has a pension, and hasn't seen their belt buckle since 1997. Sadly, for every two women is one balding man in an Armani suit with Hush Puppies, and this unlikely pairing only indicates one conclusion, one I thought only existed in Katie Price novels. Sugar daddies.

As a Hip Young Thing, this fails to impress me. The music isn't too bad; there is no instantly recognizable pop hits that emits the screams of young women and dragging the guys onto dance floors. Some DJ Tiesto style disco tunes blare and that's enough for a little shuffle, but nothing to take "I'M HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME!" pictures over. The fact the club is filled with young women clinging desperately to old men who resemble children in sweet shops is downright cringe-worthy viewing, and that's not just me speaking as a mere teenager who is yet to see "the horrors of the real world". An ideal up-for-it crowd is part of the fun; they're the ones that help to create the vibrant atmosphere you'd expect from a club in a city like Bielefeld.

I leave you on this note - if I were a drink, I'd be a lukewarm Stella Artois; trustworthy, within everyone's drinking ability and not strong enough to give everyone the boke the next morning. If Elephant were a drink, it'd be a Cosmopolitan; expensive, glamorous looking but may cause a bitter taste to settle in your mouth afterwards. So why the hell did you spend so much money for what looked so glamorous, but failed so spectacularly to impress?!

And that is why Nelly the Elephant is the only elephant there is room for in my heart.

(Lack Of) Prowess And Dignity

One unpleasant life lesson I took on board last summer was that boredom can render a person bed-bound. A sheer lack of useful things to do, people to do useful things with and bad television that surely isn't useful to anyone at all can result in only one way to pass time, and that's lying in bed aimlessly. I thought that wouldn't be the case now I'm older, wiser and more geographically/socially mobile in Germany - like boredom is a childish emotion that you eventually grow immune to. Sadly, this has not happened; now I have nothing to revise for or any immediate responsibilities, I have nothing apparently productive to do with myself. Lying in bed with nothing but my own crippling ego and sombre thoughts to keep me company seemed like the only solution - Floraidh vs. Time. Apparently doing housework would be productive, but I strongly believe that's an artful lie devised by my mother to make me "contribute". It's gotten to the stage where I walk to the NAAFI to get a Twirl (those who live in Germany will be shaking their heads at the pure ghastliness of it all) because it's a reason to shower and get dressed.

Yesterday though, I was due my time for another outing in the big bad world; with my brother's NRA being today, Finn needed a tie. Finn could have gone to Gutersloh to get a tie, there are plenty of places that would certainly sell ties in Gutersloh, but Finn wants to go to Bielefeld because it's got a Pizza Hut, and it's bigger. But mostly because it has a Pizza Hut.

Did I complain? Hardly; if I were a horse, I'd have broken out of my stable and drawn in the mud with my hoof - "I'm ready to go shopping now". A few amusing things happened - not by a universal standard, but by my own.

You know when you're just cruising down the street, you've got a little sass-walk going on and your hair looks cool, so you generally feel like a pretty fabulous chick? Yesterday this happened to me, the realisation that I did have my moments of being a straight-up goddess, and no, you can't have a picture taken with me. I went to Bielefeld to perform my sisterly duties and help my brother with finding a tie for his NRA; whilst he scoured the shelves of Peek & Cloppenberg, I had headed down the road to H&M after discovering that nobody in the right mind should pay over 40 euros for a tie.

I sashayed down Bielfeld's Bahnhopf Platz like I was Agyness Deyn working the catwalks in Paris, swishing my hair and hoping people were admiring my new sunglasses. But - so wrapped up in my own prowess, I was! - I managed to walk full-frontal into an elderly German man, who was understandably thrown by the whole charade. Though I'm not the most fluent German speaker, I scrambled to find the right words to utter some kind of apology; after a bit of self-deprecating, a little "I'm-mad-me!" kind of chuckle, all would be forgotten and I would forget I was such a dick as to walk straight into an old man. He would remember me as the girl who walked into him, and would eventually track me down to have a sentimental chat about my errors. He would leave me a note before he died. This would also be sentimental.

Instead, I uttered a very pithy "eungfh". He laughed and patted my shoulder, before walking off and giving me a wave like we were old buddies who had fought in the war together.

And now he follows me on Tumblr!

                                                          
In the same shopping trip that I'd based my day around, my mum downed an extraordinary amount of Diet Coke when we were in Pizza Hut; put it this way, if it had been an ice cold Heineken she was chugging in such a short amount of time, I'd have been genuinely impressed and would have cheered her on like a football hooligan. An hour later, her knees were practically buckling from needing to go to the loo so desperately. After embarking on a quest to find the nearest loo in which even a frail woman having a stoke in the middle of the street could not distract us (metaphorically speaking. This obviously didn't happen) we finally found one in a desolate restaurant on the third floor of a department store. At this stage, she was starting to tell my brother and I about her "not needing to go so bad since she was pregnant" - we crumpled our faces in embarassment. Some things you just can live without knowing.

It wasn't her relief that amused me, though; it was her sudden drastic change of behaviour and outlook on life afterwards that was both incredibly unnerving but quite funny. She started rapping to Eminem and Dizzee Rascal, Eminem and D12 at roughly around 120 decibels - in the middle of a busy shop, much to my brother's dismay (Finn is currently experiencing the teen "I must look as cool and mysterious and aloof as possible" stage and so endeavours to always look cool and mysterious and aloof, with not even our pesky mother to hold him back).
Lynne Clement was living it large, like a reckless teenager in a filthy underground rave. She declared herself as "Mrs Rascal". She did a little jig on her beloved "flatforms" right there, in the middle of Karstadt, like the 1980s had returned. Her sudden vitality for ghetto life and being nothing less than funky fresh  is faced by Finn walking away with his head down and his hands in his pocket. Like a mother trying to rein in her particularly hyperactive child, I tried tactfully tell her that her behaviour wasn't suitable for the public. She told me I was simply jealous, because I didn't know the words to any cool songs.. I tried to tell her, honestly, I did - but she really was a bat out of hell, perhaps even worthy of a slot on the Discovery Channel.

I'd never seen anything quite like it.

But like many amusing memories written down, you just wouldn't get it unless you were there at the time.

How To Go On Holiday AND Go To Heaven

Roughly 15 hours ago, I stumbled out of the Ryanair plane, poised awkwardly between wanting to throw up and wanting to skip with sheer glee, knowing that I'd survived yet another journey. As something of a nervous flyer, I didn't take particularly well to 5 hour journeys to and from Tenerife - to survive felt more of a personal triumph than the logical outcome. It's reported that there is a one in sixty-thousand chance that your plane will crash; but when a plane crashes a few days before you go home and you had a rather ominous dream the night before, that nugget of knowledge seems to burst up in flames somewhere. I don't like flying, and I treat those who do with suspicion....

Despite that one molehill - or, in my eyes, a mountainous terrain - on the greener grass, it was an awesome week after a stressful period of exams and a few friendship spats. The weather was warm without being stifling, and I've even acquired a tiny ghost of a tan! Though here in Germany and in the UK my skin would be scoffed at if I announced any pride at its new-found radiance, where I come from it'd be worthy of a celebration and a pint down at the local! I also finished three books, and I ate a lot of good food. I had no immediate responsibilities and whenever I had pangs of "Oh yeah, I need to revise that!", I could have give a wry little chuckle and remember hey, those exams finished two weeks ago. What's not to enjoy?

Unlike most holidays when I mostly divide my time between prancing around on the beach pretending I'm Kim Kardashian and then lying in bed groaning from my sunburn after being Kim Kardashian,  this time I actually learned a thing or two.

Firstly, I've always had this...I don't know, notion that all spanish women just always looked impecccable, regardless of their age or the state of the weather. Wether the sun is beating down a harsh 35 degree heat or the wind is blowing a gale, it's always seemed like the women of spain would still have every hair in place without a trace of smudged eyeliner (Unless it was artfully meant to appear that way) or lipgloss that doesn't sheen.

To give you a visual, here is what I used to think all Spanish women looked like:

And here is what they actually look like:

See the dilemma? My notion wasn't even that; it's a truism. I already look bad - I don't need all these Esmeralda's reminding me I'm the proverbial Quasimodo.

There's a lot to learn on holidays. Your journey to Spain/Greece/Corfu could also - more excitingly - be viewed as a journey of self-discovery. They bring out the impatience and lack of tact in all of us; intrinsic qualities we always thought we were too nice to actually have, but new surroundings mean they rear their ugly heads. The tables have turned; you might not be that nice after all! You could be an idiot, or - even worse! - boring.

DON'T: Be A Sun Slave

Slimmer legs, more defined abs, radiant-looking skin...these desired features are all promised to you, supposedly if you catch enough rays to gain a tan. These promises can define the purpose of coming on holiday for some people; a tan is the key to open the doors of becoming A More Attractive Person. Thus, these people that will spend every moment sunlight shines on them lying motionless on a lounger, soaking up the rays like a sponge.

If you are pale and your skin is the colour of month-old milk; sorry pal, but that's how you're meant to be, and it's what you suit best. If your mission in life is to have the complexion of a cast member of "The Hills", you are clearly not well-informed of the wonders of the modern make up developments. You are also worryingly in need of a Hobby, or A Life; seriously, is there more to existance? Yes, my friend, there certainly is.

DONT: Live The Reclusive Life You Live At Home

Dude, come on - that's not why you came here.

There are people who go on holiday, and go about their ways in the precise manner they do at home. As in, lying in bed on Facebook, refreshing their news feed and watching Jenna Marbles videos - the difference being they wear vests and board shorts, and the sound of talking and poolside music can be heard rather than rain pattering on window panes. It's essentially equal to spending Christmas Day in solitude; it's both laughable, and slightly pitiful.

As a professional boarding person, I speak from experience; a few people living in one place can lead to brewing a feverish hatred for one another, or maybe "cabin fever", in which one person may claim the others are dampening their creative spirits and - encouraged by the ghost of the person who did the same before - take an axe out to show them they "need to take their medicine". Well, this only happened in "The Shining", but it's possible (but for the sake of me getting a good night's sleep, I'm not saying any more about that). Get out of the hotel room and actually have a holiday from your mundane life back at home.

DO: Avoid Cultural Disputes

Though we're all guilty of laughing at those daft Germans wearing socks'n'sandals, the sad fact is that even the British are lured towards that mysterious fashion statement. This might be why you tend to get confused by who's-from-where when you go on holiday, unless you hear their voices. It's not the only signifier of somebody's nationality; infact, there are hardly any. This is particularly confusing in Tenerife, where everyone in spanish, when I live in Germany sometimes, and live in England most of the time (I know, it's crippling being culturally enriched!)

However, I've suffered a few social flops in the past week when my ability to distinguish between who-speaks-what-language faltered and ended with me scarlet-faced and trying to giggle self-deprecatingly...whilst willing the ground to swallow me whole. The secret is, you have to kid yourself everyone is English to avoid saying something when you know you're mature enough to rise above it, but want the opportunity to get away with something a little risque.

Look - I KNOW it's frustrating when you're in the dinner queue for a really tasty looking tuna steak and some tool has barged infront of you like they're Mr Bumble and you're the mere Oliver Twist, but biting your tongue here may spare you some embarassment. I'm no stranger to muttering a satisfying little "bitch" or "twat" under my breath, but I highly recommend venting your frustrations more quietly - calling somebody a "bint" and her then turning around and giving you a talk on respecting your elders is painfully embarassing (trust me, I know). To everyone present, you're clearly ignorant scum. So you've damaged your chances of the night ending with everyone in a conga-line, jazzing to the Loca-Motion and downing tequila slammers together - and where's the fun in that?!

DON'T: Be Rude To The Hotel Staff

They're just people doing their jobs. If they can't accomodate you and your family in a room with "purer" air conditioning or more flattering lights in the bathroom, it's probably down to circumstance rather than them bearing a bitter grudge against the Brits and wanting you to have a shitey holiday. It probably isn't their fault, so don't pout or put on one of those dreadful "I'm thoroughly disappointed" voices; this isn't even Holiday Ettiquette - it's being a tolerable human being. Get it together and be nice.

DON'T: Push In The Queues
Otherwise you might have some blonde British girl calling you a bint.

Frantic Assembly's "Lovesong" - Waterproof Mascara Recommended

"That was the story of our beginning...and this is the story of our end"

It is rare to find an audience of college students frustratedly trying to brush away the tears from their dampened faces at the finale of a show. Let's not kid ourselves; there's nothing cool, sexy or funny about a red nose and the inevitable panda eyes that follow. We adolescents prefer to attempt composure and indifference rather than openly express emotion - but an exception can certainly be made with Lovesong, where the themes of death and the person you are being eventually forgotten can certainly relate to any audience. These are perhaps the universal fears that strike a chord with all of us...

Writer Abi Morgan joined forces with physical theatre company Frantic Assembly to produce Lovesong; a bittersweet, haunting tale that spans the 40 year relationship of Maggie (Sian Phillips) and Billy (Sam Cox). It depicts both the blissful memories when the couple are still practically hazy-eyed from the acute shot of Cupid's bow, and the more turbulent times when Billy is crippling from the failure of his new business venture with a hard-hitting revelation from Maggie. It is a startlingly relatable, accurate representation of any relationship; tainted with highs and lows, tears and laughter; pain when trust takes plight, and the
irrevocable ecstasy found only in the arms of the person you love.

But perhaps most poignantly of all, Lovesong illustrates the "leap of faith" often taken to try and smooth out the obstructions the road of unrequited love often presents. The production is full of these risks the couple take together; from Billy taking his business Stateside, to trusting Maggie after her moment of weakness. It truly is a subtle reminder of the lengths even the most rational and calm-headed of us will do in the name of love; we would all take these leaps for that certain person.

The elderly Billy and Maggie are joined on stage by their younger selves, William (Edward Bennett) and Margaret (Leanne Rowe). Their prescences are weaved together with ease; at some points, Billy may direct speech at the memory of his younger wife, and vice versa. The movement also serves to mimic this effect; from the perspective of a girl who's own sorry dancing abilities only stretch to as far as the Cha-Cha Slide, even I can deduce the choreography is beautiful. It is minimalistic without being overly intricate, leaving the chemistry between the actors to convey the power struggle between love and the test of time. In order to extract some emotion - and often the tears and tissues - from the audience, Morgan has included some shattering one-liners and touching dialogue exchanges between the protagonists that even the most stoney-hearted may not be unaffected by. However, more comical moments provide some light-hearted relief that also depict the loving nature of Billy and Maggie's relationship, despite the darker times they face with Maggie's life becoming a ticking clock...

The emotion from the audiences that Frantic Assembly seek to evoke is not only produced by the dialogue and movement; the production elements also serve the purpose. The video projection onto the stage featuring the natural beauty of nature and freedom coupled with often melancholic acoustic notes do not help in the struggle to fight back the waterworks for the sake of social dignity. Believe me - and I self-conciously glimpsed around the auditorium ofen enough to know this - "there wasn't a dry eye in the house".

I couldn't reflect back on the show with any more fondness than I have now; even if at times the dialogue was a little vague - making the content slightly more difficult to comprehend - it is brought to life superbly by a delightful fusion of both younger and older actors. It disproves the myth that physical theatre must always be thoroughly intense and packed with flamboyant, dynamic actions; the more simple movements - particularly between the older Billy and his wife's former self - and interactions speak more about their relationship that could stretch beyond even Morgan's dialogue.

Some shows you will walk away from without feeling even a hint of emotion, that you may never really feel the need to talk about in great depth again. Lovesong - a tale of love and time - has made me remember my fears that one day I will be nothing more than a distant memory to someone; or worse, forgotten completely. But it also has reminded me to live life to its fullest; even if the odds are stacked against my favour. It has reinforced that love happens to all of us; and when it does, to accept it - and to accept the course of true love never did run smooth. Surely, those simple lessons from Lovesong can eclipse my fears entirely.

A weepy but wonderful night of theatre; if there's anything to thank my Performing Arts teachers for...

Why I Will Never Marry A Rich Man

When all's said and done, at the end of the day, when you look at it from a wide perspective: the prospect of having a wealthy over half is not a grim one. I can throw my hands up in the air and admit, I would not mind eventually settling down with a successful oil tycoon/businessman/some equally as impressive-sounding
job.Romanticized and unoriginal as it is, I do quite fancy being the working class girl saved by the kind of guy that has his own "team", now you mention it!

It sounds perfect - a plucky failing writer (how I see myself in 10 years time) saved by the glamorous rich man. I could be idle and unapologetically lazy, safe in knowing that my high-flying husband was bringing home the wonga to support his loving wife. I could do stereotypical rich-lady things, like claim to do "voluntary work" and go to "exercise classes" to fill my endless spare time. Obviously, I would be lying.

Luckily for mankind, I've already acknowledged that little old me will never snag a rich man clad in an Armani suit - that wasn't either stolen or is a fake ripoff, that is. I just don't have the charm. Or many, many other things...

These are some other valid reasons as to why I'm destined to marry another mere snotty-nosed chimney sweep:

1. I enjoy David Nicholls' books. Mostly because they are narrated by losers; Stephen McQueen is a failing actor, often playing a dead person or passer-by in little known TV shows - or worse, an understudy. Brian Jackson has just started university. He is ridiculed by his peers for his seemingly irrevocable enthusiasm for all things "general knowledge", yet continues on a spirited endeavour to win the heart of the beautiful ice-queen Alice. See? These guys are "losers", doing "loser" things.

Like a good cold-hearted bitch, I have a high old time chortling through these books by myself. When I read through these two particular books for the first time, my "critical voice" went something akin to this:

"HAHAHAAA. This is such a cracking read! Imagine being like this guy, hahahaha what a tool! What kind of arsehole comes out with stuff like THAT? Wow, I'm glad I'm not that guy! I'm much cooler than this guy, there's definitely room for Floraidh in this world, haha, oh yeah!...wait, WHAT?! Hold on a minute - why do these characters sound so much like me?!"

I drop my book - ahem, my KINDLE - bewildered, with only the shame coursing through my veins to stop me collapsing right there and then. After years of telling myself that some people do actually find me mildly funny, even if their giggles are either pitiful or at my expense, I am no more than the real life version of Brian Jackson. I spend an embarassing amount of time reassuring myself that my big day is coming, the luck is coming my way because hey, I'm a pretty cool chick and I surely deserve it; the truth is, I'm not entirely confident I'm not a bit of a loser, myself.

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": In "Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason", there's that scene where the dishy Mark Darcy has taken Bridget to the Law Council dinner. Bridget makes a bit of a fool of herself infront of Mark's fancy lawyer acquaintances, by voicing her opinions to the wrong people, drinking too much and dressing inappropriately. THAT IS THE STORY OF MY LIFE. 

2. When I watched "The Shining", I let down my once unfailing elegant disposition. Though I do try my humble best to hold myself as what can only be described as "regally" at all times, I did the embarassing thing - texted my dad frantically, before running to the toilet JUST to turn the light on. Just to check my room in the boarding house hadn't transformed into the Overlook Hotel, with all its sinister prescences.

Realising my guard was slipping between my fingers, I modestly tried to reassure myself whilst I watched it. Look, Flo: it's MCMURPHY! Your pal MCMURPHY, the GOOD GUY! Yanno, from "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest"!? Don't worry man, this guy isn't scary, you big WIMP! Even when he knocks down th-the d-d-door with that axe...

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": "The Shining" is NOT the scariest film in the history of cinema. In a world of Jigsaws, human centipedes and hills with eyes, this isn't the bad guy of the horror genre, here. So why do I act like it is - infact, why do I do descend into a quivering, illiterate coward with every horror film I see? Not suave enough. Must try harder.    

3. Megalomania is only another condition from which I cannot be saved from. I am under the false pretense that I have a lot of money to spend, always. I think I am little orphan Annie, who has been rescued by the wealthy adoptive parents, and is suddenly accostumed to a life of fine dining and luxurious clothes. Now, that isn't true - I'm a student. I admit my parents are generous with what they give me; one of the best phrases coined since parenting became a pseudo-science is "Give them enough to do something, but not  enough to do everything". BUT I WANT TO DO EVERYTHING, EVEEEEERYYYYYTHIIIINGGGG!

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": to be entirely truthful with you, I think this might put me in an advantageous position. It would probably cure me.
***
THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ELIGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": I'm a megalomaniac charity case who needs to be saved from herself.

4. Maybe it's a teenager thing, maybe it's a girl thing, or maybe it's just Floraidh going it alone, but I am inexplicably emotional. This is not limited to a few mere tears when somebody dies in a soap, or at a particularly poignant song. Even in what should be a happy scenario - like when I found out I got a boarding place at this college, or when I heard my GCSE results - I always bring the mood down that tiny bit by turning on the waterworks. Sometimes, I just cry because I have nothing else to do. It's not a proud existance, and maybe it is questionable that I half-enjoy it.

Apparently, there is no straight, logical correlation between the activity of my tear ducts and a predicament.

This doesn't just apply to the waterworks, which always arouse an awkward atmosphere as spectators wonder to theirselves why on earth that girl has broken down into inconsolable tears in Pizza Hut? When I'm in a good mood, I am in a good mood, if you know what I mean. I "leap" rather than "walk", I talk in "lyrics" rather than "every day language", and it drivespeople up the wall. I can't just be quietly pleased or content; this is big, big news.

(FYI, I didn't just weep at "Beaches"; these were loud, heavy sobs that were heard all over Harsewinkel)            

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE":  Did Carrie Bradshaw win the heart of Mr. Big by crying herself to sleep in his arms every night, and he just thought it was "cute"? No. I suspect this does sound a bit bipolar and suspicious; I'm not THAT bad, it just makes for entertaining reading. But anyone who cried at Gavin and Stacey's wedding probably does need to have a chat with theirselves, in all fairness. This does not exude the kind of calm, soothing aura required to stabilise my hardworking - and wealthy- husband's emotions at the end of a rough day at the office.

5. I will never touch a pair of tights with suspender-print on them. Now, I'm not sure where the root of the mystique surrounding these tights originates from, but it suggests that they are, infact, the only sure-fire way to capture a man's attention. They say "money can't buy taste", so even a man with money is probably not immune to the charms of the suspender-print tights.
Because I'm haughty and concieted, I think they're trashy looking.

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": It doesn't even matter any more- Why d'you wear these, girls? Why!?