Monday 29 December 2014

Two Thousand and Fifteen: Self Love and Saying Goodbye to the Shrinking Violet

New Year's Resolutions are seemingly an opportunity to look within yourself and meticulously examine every one of your flaws. You're in bad shape, you're not working hard enough, you're spending too much money - you need to change. You need to strive to better yourself. Your jeans are only getting tighter. You'll never get a promotion at this rate. This has to be your year to get...better. Somehow.

I'm no different. I'm on this misery-go-round of self criticism constantly, and I know it's unhealthy; but when it's so ingrained into your psyche, it's tremendously difficult to stop. Almost daily I will question my writing ability or look at my cellulite in the mirror and miserably wonder "will it ever...lessen?" before giving the Galaxy a second thought. It's like I've been cast in this wonderful movie that might do very well in the box office but instead of jumping at the opportunity and learning my lines, I'm starting to wonder if I should just be the understudy, instead. Am I good enough for this role I've been given? Am I up to the task?

But this year, I've decided I want things to be different. I want things to be positive. I want to be the happier, fulfilled leading lady - not the reluctant understudy who frets about cellulite on her thighs and people liking her blogs. So instead of begrudgingly forking out for an eye wateringly expensive gym membership or devising a long term budget plan, I'm going to resolve to be kinder to myself this year. I'm going to want to stick to these resolutions, not curse myself for ever writing the bloody things.
  • if in doubt whether to get a glass or a pitcher, always choose the pitcher
  • learn to smile at rude customers
  • wear heels more often for optimum sass levels
  • wear plum lipstick more often for optimum sass levels
  • wear anything that increases the likelihood of achieving optimum sass levels
  • do not beat myself up for being an introvert - I cannot force myself to be anything else
  • buy more green smoothies on the way to work
  • be vocal and unapologetic about the causes I care for passionately
  • listen to old favourite albums and continue to be delighted and enthralled like it's the first time I heard them back in 2007
  • be perpetually inquisitive, ask more questions
  • do not accept half formed answers
  • apply for the jobs and internships that terrify me
  • never apologise for selfies, capture every second of a "good self esteem day"
  • own each second of being inappropriately overdressed for an occasion
  • accept that I am infinitely better off without those who I can't please despite my best efforts
  • walk more, get the subway less
  • learn to love my eternally rosy cheeks, marvel at the money I must save on blusher
  • do yoga every morning
  • try to be a sunflower and not a shrinking violent in academic situations
  • surround myself only with people who will firmly pull the breaks on my anxiety, not accelerate it further
  • do not let any attractive boy pass me by, do not assume that he will not want to talk to me
  • write down every little detail of what I'm thinking
  • pack practical footwear in my handbag; I'll thank myself
  • spend an inordinate amount of money on beautiful underwear if it's what I absolutely need to feel comfortable with my body
  • stop with the monumentally unfunny self deprecating jokes, because I'm probably alright, really.
Happy New Year. Know that every blog hit you may have given me was appreciated and shrieked over. I hope that this year your jokes will be without self deprecation, your sass levels consistently high and your cocktail pitchers always full. Because you'll obviously be on your second or third one. You riot, you.

Thursday 11 December 2014

Sensitive Soul Soliloquys

My friends’ couches have seen tears of all varieties. As a rule, there will always be tissues in my handbag, but they’re rarely in aid of the “cold that’s going around” Almost daily, I have to apologise to somebody I’ve just spilled my verbal angst on – “I’m sorry, I know it’s not anything, really. I’m just a worrier!”

And then I have to give that half smile, half frown, pretend it’s not really the big deal my wheedling tones have suggested, silly me, change the subject, but how are you getting on? Because of course it could never really be a big deal - that Floraidh Clement, she's just a worrier. 
A "worrier", it certainly sums me up - god, it's almost like I want people to read this and think I'm even less attractive. Because that's really not, is it? There's nothing attractive about the consistent and furious texting into the phone keypad, the friends who so boldly offer their selves up as counsellors, attentive on the other end. There's nothing hot about how my voice raises an octave, takes on that uncomfortable strangled tone and starts to stutter. There's no passion killer quite like the flushed cheeks and furrowed brow; believe me, there's desire but it's not what you think - I need you to tell me that it's okay, I need you to tell me that I'm fine. I'm craving your reassurance, your level head to bring me back down to earth.

It's not just all worrying; in general, I'm a highly emotional person. I'm pretty sensitive. I cry quite a lot, not necessarily because I'm glum, but because there doesn't seem to be much of a logical correlation between my tear ducts and any given situation. When I'm up, I'm really up; when it goes the other way, it's exactly the same. My heart rules my head and I act totally on my emotions, rarely on "how things actually are outside of Flo's perceptions of things"

I bet it all sounds exhausting to be my friend. I don't doubt it; for some, my existence is just wholly exasperating. Recently, I have been the recipient of many rolling eyes, raised eyebrows and tuts. Mostly I shake this off - empathy, man - but sometimes it bothers me, because this is just how I’m wired. The friends who are understanding of the way I am are nothing short of angels, usually wielding M&S food and a spot on their couch for me to occupy for "as long as I need it".

To be truthful, I'm worrying about a lot at the moment, mostly about university. My once certain academic future is shaky as I've realised I don't love my degree subject as much as I so desperately want to. I force myself to try and work on it - turn my internet off, turn my phone off, turn everything in my life the hell off - but it doesn't happen, because I don't seem to feel any desire to make it happen.
 
But what do I do here? How do I change this part of my personality that is so intrinsic and ingrained into my psyche?

For a long time, I have often scolded myself, urging myself to toughen up; to find and flick some internal switch that toughens my skin and firmly shuts the emotional valve I allow to flow so freely. The more stoney-faced among us might look like the stick is so far up their ass that it's actually stuck to their tonsils, but at least they've probably not cried for at least a fortnight. Maybe I could learn a thing or two.

But I really do try to see the benefits of being this kind of person. As I've just said, it's not hot. It's a pain in the ass. I sometimes wish I were less emotional, less "in tune", more rational and more logical; a person with the kind of personality that would wear a trouser suit and sensible, lace up shoes. But on the other hand, my understanding of my own feelings means that I am implicitly careful when handling other peoples; I know how to tread delicately, which is a skill I feel many could do with harnessing. I know how to choose my words carefully; I would never want to inflict anxiety on somebody else, because I know through daily, first hand experience that it's excruciating to be addressed in ways that make you feel small. The only kinds of emotion I want to leave on others are positive ones - no matter who they are. And I will go out of my way to do so.

Is being sensitive such a bad thing after all? Perhaps not.


Monday 24 November 2014

Shot with (OK)Cupid's Arrow?

It's not very "cool" to admit, but I think the "Flo's Street Cred" boat has well and truly sailed into the ocean of "Dream On" now, right? So here it is: I'm a romantic. A senseless, foolish, weeping romantic. I am fucking tragic for a good love story. I'm the friend who goes doe eyed when you confess that there's somebody new in your life; your butterflies are contagious and I'll catch 'em as hard as you do. Every single time.

I'm an idiot for all of it; I use the term "idiot" because believe me, rarely does any good come from being this way. My life is essentially defined by this constant, furious struggle of keeping my heart in my chest, and not my sleeve.

This is why joining a dating website probably never occurred to me as something I should get into. I mean, can you think of any good love story in which the couple met via - the ghastliness of it... - some form of virtual medium? Christ, Romeo didn't "swipe right" to Juliet. Bridget Jones didn't get chatting to Mark Darcy on Tumblr one lonely, wine-filled evening. Peetah didn't favourite so many of Katniss' tweets that she finally confessed to Prim "I think the bread guy's quite keen"

But then one of my besties found the love of her life on OkCupid and let me tell you, my beautiful friend just glows, these days.

Anyway, her success made me reconsider my stance, since I currently have all the glowing potential of a blackboard and if anything, I quite like chatting to strangers. Plus, it's 2014; maybe Shakespeare would have been all over Tinder if he were still knocking about. Maybe it's what he would've wanted for me.

The process of creating my profile was a nightmare of course. At one dire point, the word "swazzy" was included in the first paragraph and I had confessed to having a massive crush on Woody Harrelson. But after an hour of fiddling over what kind of Flo I'd like to project to the online dating world, I can safely say I was hooked straight away.

I'll explain.

PROS:
  • I can browse potential men pals whilst looking like this!!
Man killer xo

  • The process of online dating is completely hassle free - no awkward chat if I don't want it, here. No need to doll up, no need for my friends to tell me he "doesn't seem into it - but don't worry! He's a proper dickhead anyway!" and no need to try and be anything but myself.
  • And if they don't like "myself"? Block. Block away. On to the next one.
  • One particularly cold evening, I spent half an hour in intense, passionate discussion with a bearded guy exclusively about the majesty of Matthew McConaughey - something I am always down for doing. 
  • I have also enjoyed genuinely great, funny, interesting conversations with numerous guys - the kind when I look forward to opening their messages - but y'know...Matthew McConaughey.
  • It's like having somebody hand my ego a hot chocolate whenever somebody "likes" me.
  • My friends and I now regularly sit together in an orderly circle, browsing through the app and cackling away; so it's made us closer, too. Cute, I suppose.

CONS:
  • You generally still go to bed after logging off with a notable lack of spooning partner.
  • In a sense, being scouted to partake in group sex is somewhat flattering, but ultimately not really on my agenda right now.
  • Nor is being asked if I'd like a sugar daddy.
  • Nor are any of the other obscene things people have propositioned me with online - and I'm no prude.
All in all, OkCupid success rating? I'm still working on my verdict. In the meantime, I actually (and possibly shamefully) posted a link to my blog on my own profile.

Hey guys! Still up for "liking" me now?

Wednesday 12 November 2014

Life Update #2: Flovember Rain

Have you ever tried Jager and Coke? You should. Few kinds of alcohol merit the term "delightful" as sincere praise but since pioneering this concoction myself, I struggle to find another word to use. Jager and Coke is essentially a party in liquid form - well, if your kind of party comprises of staggering behind the cashier desk at 10am the next morning, hands still shaking as you enter the digits and watching the shop go round and round. It might not be yours, but apparently it's mine.

Speaking of "shop", that's a thing now - "I was looking for a job and then I found a job". No longer are my weekends spent sitting at my desk in gross cotton knickers, desperately searching for the right words to finish a short story I should have realistically abandoned months ago. Instead, I have found myself working in the starry industry of retail, namely Superdrug. Indeed, these days I'm a small, thoroughly unimportant cog in the corporate machine, offering you beauty cards and Star Buys before you can mutter "I'm actually in, like, a bit of a rush?". I exist exclusively in the backdrop of your retail experience; literally, I am the poorly paid extra in the movie of your life. But in turn, you are an extra in mine; the difference being, your movie probably doesn't have any Jager and Coke in it. Are you convinced yet? Have you jumped out of bed to run to the nearest bar? I hope so.

But the honest truth is that I'm actually a bit shit at my job; no good on the tills, that is. Truly, I take the "pro" out of "proletariat"- ask my boss, who just this weekend exclaimed in surprise "I was just thinking, you've not had to buzz for me for around two hours now!"

Because, well, yes - that's an unusually long time for me to not need help. It's all the numbers and the adding up and the rounding up and rounding down. Christ, I'm an English student, numbers may as well be riddles. The place might be called Superdrug but I surely bring nothing Super to the whole situation. Should be called Sorrydrug for the amount of times I have to mutter it, embarrassed and resisting the urge to mention my A Level grades in a last ditch attempt to prove that my brain is not totally filled with Maryland cookies and the Kardashians.

And it isn't, it really isn't. I also successfully applied for a marketing internship for a jewellery business, which is a genuinely wonderful, worthwhile way of spending my only day off. I sit in front of a laptop next to a kitten called Beau and a bag of Haribo, scanning through social media and planning blog posts and marketing strategies. I have no witty tales to share from the experience so far but it is massively fulfilling. On Friday I walked out of the office with eyes twinkling like the necklaces they sell, already looking forward to what next week might bring.

Hmm, other things?

I went on a terrible date with a terrible boy in the name of journalism. That was pretty crap, but like all those with taste buds, I love Irn Bru sorbet and would probably endure hellish things to get some of it - and 800 words, of course. I also went on OkCupid as half-research, half-"if it's good enough for Anya..." and ended up speaking to numerous guys, some of whom live infinitely more interesting sounding lives than me, some of whom need to acquire something close to actual lives. I booked a holiday to Berlin. I smiled and laughed my way through a horrible time of the year, because that fixes most things - or so it seems.

Just like my dad fixed my broken window, so I will no longer lie awake at night and be forced to wonder if I'm taking on too much, if my hair is too dark or my current outlook on uni even darker.

Tuesday 28 October 2014

Girl Crushes: Because My Eyes Aren't Painted On

I wish it was less clichéd, but it really did start in the changing rooms at school.

One of my friends had the sort of figure I didn't realise actually existed outside of the silver screen. She was an early bloomer and had a real Marilyn "hourglass" shape, all curves at the chest and hips and thighs with the daintiest of waists. Her body was exquisite and almost unearthly; even when the rugby shirt and nylon shirts were worn for P.E. she was statuesque. I never thoroughly examined what it was I was actually feeling at the time - attraction, admiration, maybe even arousal - but one thing was certain; I could not tear my eyes away from this girl and her beautiful body.

Though I've not been in school changing rooms for years now (thank God), this kind of attraction to the female form has honestly only intensified. When an attractive girl walks by, I still struggle to tear my eyes away, forcefully resisting the urge to saunter up to her and blurt "I'm sorry, it's just that you are really bloody gorgeous" Women in magazines, women on Tumblr, women on the music scene; I regularly gawp at them all, usually whilst wondering how it could be humanely possible to look that beautiful.

Still, it's not exclusively along the lines of the superficial "pal, I've gotta say it - you are FIT FIT FIT" to the attractive strangers I encounter. Many of the girls I am fortunate enough to call my friends I feel similarly about; their strength, their wisdom, their talents and their magnificent peach of a bum. They just have fanciable qualities. To some extent, I am besotted with each of them; I don't feel that the fact I've only ever had boyfriends really does much to deny me accepting the plainly obvious facts.

But if this is how I feel, are boyfriends what I'm meant to have - or could it be that I'm gay?

Well, over time I've realised that's not the case - I identify as straight. Sure, sexuality is fluid and nothing is totally certain; for all I know, I'll meet a woman tomorrow who I'll want to run off to Vegas to elope with. But in the meantime, I can only see myself being in relationships with men - what can I say? I like a bit of stubble in my life.

Yet there's just something about women. I can appreciate the softer skin, the wider hips and more delicate wrists. They are just universally wonderful. But as time has gone on I've started to realise that it does go beyond the high school terminology of "fancying" them; it goes so much deeper. I think it's just sincere wonder and admiration for beautiful human beings, whether they are this way physically or on the inside.

And quite positively, whilst you are filling yourself with this admiration for womankind as opposed to envy or bitterness, it's easier to feel less resentment towards yourself. If you are able to see so much beauty elsewhere, sometimes it's easier to identify when it's a little closer to home; you might not know it sometimes, but you are allowed to give yourself credit for your own strength, wisdom, talents and magnificent peach of a bum.

In that sense, my changing room fascination blossomed into something meaningful and important which I carry with me every day in life; I truly believe that loving and appreciating other women was crucial in helping me to love and appreciate myself. And every thirteen year old girl checking out their friend in the changing room deserves to know that as soon as they possibly can.

Tuesday 23 September 2014

Dear Freshers,

Well, you look awful. If you ended up in bed with somebody last night, they’ve probably taken one look at you and made a run for it.  Is that vomit in your hair or is your brain literally leaking out of your ear? I bet it feels like it is. I bet you were drawn towards those one pound Jagerbombs last night like a moth in the dark to candle light. It’s alright, though. This blog is a judgement-free zone. But if you ever actually want to recover, I would advise you to stay out of the kitchen where you hosted pre-drinks for a while yet; the actual state of it will plunge you even further into the dark, gloomy pits of this hellish hangover.

But then, you might not fit that description at all. I might have found you clear headed and fresh faced, ready to face the day and to face the new life you’re embarking on, but without alcohol and partying. That’s alright - you don’t have to do that. There's still every chance you might feel pressured into doing so - "come on, just one drink! Don't be boring!" - but you just do whatever the hell makes you feel comfortable. A lot of people use university as an excuse to teeter out of their comfort zone – in heels they cannot walk in, usually – but there is absolutely nothing wrong with staying contentedly within it. I commend you for it.

Nonetheless, it goes without saying that with all this newfound freedom and drinks that will cost you less than a bus ticket into town, you may find yourself making a bit of a tit of yourself in the next few years. You might make some mistakes; you might put faith into people who perhaps aren't worth it, you might get your social life/academics priorities wrong, you might drastically overestimate your ability to drink those Jagerbombs. You might even sleep with your flatmate! (no, I don't care HOW fit they are - nothing good will come of that situation) But you're better off making these mistakes now. You will learn from them, so forgive yourself. I love a bleak Tweet about the foolish, ridiculous situations I seem to frequently wander into, but there's only so much social media self pity before you have to dust yourself off and say "fine. Whatever. What's next?"
 
Besides, you have your studies to focus on! Woah, did you forget? Ah, sorry - turns out those highlighters aren't just for drawing cute designs on your face.
Here's a tip: I'm assuming you chose your degree subject because you love it. Try and keep it that way, even if the chemistry seems to fizzle out now and then and you hit rocky patches (especially when you’re 500 words under the word count and you strongly suspect you may actually burst into tears if you have to think about a theorist again) The fact is that you're lumbered with this subject for the long haul, so you may as well find it worth the blood, sweat and tears. I know people who have already sussed that they’ve chosen the wrong subject for them and don't enjoy it at all, but they've decided it's just "easier to stick with". And you know what’s crap? I feel sorry for them. I feel genuinely sorry over the fact that they have chosen to spend the next three years working their sorry arses off for a subject they don’t absolutely love.
So weigh up if it's "love" or "oh my god, what have I done?" as soon as possible. If you think it through and decide your course isn’t for you, try and change courses. If that isn’t possible, I would go as far as to advise you to drop out entirely. See it as a blessing in disguise, re-apply and do something else for a year; find employment or even get out there and travel, if you can. If you think that university won't do much for you in general, don't see it as a "failure". You can learn so much more about the world through alternative means, because university is not the only way of receiving an education.   

Here I am talking about dropping out, when you've only just arrived. You're probably already overwhelmed - nope, I don't believe you if you try to insist you're cool and collected right now. You've just moved away from home and have been dumped into this pool of pissed up randomers who may be your best pals or the banes of your life. You damn well should be overwhelmed! But it will pass in time; freshers week is intense but as the semester begins and the conversations less clouded by whatever neon concoction is on offer at the student union, you will settle into the new pace of life. You might still have moments where you think "I'm meant to study...without being prompted? Christ, what is this meant to be?" (I definitely still do) but you may be surprised by how quickly you become accustomed to it.

Or you might not. Not a nice thought, huh? I know, but it concerns me that nobody else will say it to you and you'll only get the "best years of your lives!!!!" talk. People might still not want to own up to the fact, but university might not go as smoothly as you'd like socially; your flatmates might not be your kind of people and you might not meet the best friendship circle you were told you'd basically walk into immediately. That's not a fun situation to be in, believe me I know. Plus, the workload is a step up, the deadlines are usually tighter, the textbooks even thicker and yes, it could become hugely problematic for you. University is fun, sure, but it doesn't come without it's new obstacles.

So this is the most important point I want to make with this post: look after yourself and your mental health. Never feel ashamed, embarrassed or alone in feeling how you do. Do not be afraid to talk to somebody if you don't feel like everything is as hunky-dory as it feels it should be. This is actually the biggest regret I still carry from my first year of university. I was unnecessarily sad and anxious for so long because I felt too embarrassed to confess that I was struggling. Slumping into passivity will only prolong whatever the issue may be, so get in touch with your parents, tutors or a counsellor - most universities even have phone helplines. Seriously, this is actually one mistake you actually can't allow yourself to make. Please know that you are too damn important to compromise your own happiness. I mean it.

But I don't want to leave this letter on a solemn note, because - as I've now had the joy of learning for myself - you should spend the next few years feeling anything but solemn. You should be excited - there might be some nerves thrown in there, too, but you should be bloody well bouncing off the walls. Make sure you make use of the university societies; you'll meet people who you already have things in common with, which is half the battle, really, plus they may have great social events. Sports clubs, student media, choirs and amateur dramatic societies - anything that floats your boat, push yourself out of your circle and go for them. Always try and talk to the people next to you in lectures; they're willing for somebody to extend a hand of friendship just as much as you probably are. Don't shy away from the new opportunities and challenges that lie ahead of you; take your tail out from between your legs and run towards them.

Look after your friends, look after yourself and have a bloody brilliant time.

Now go for a shower and sort yourself out. Like I said - you really do look dreadful.
xxx


Tuesday 9 September 2014

Life Update #1: I've Lost My Keys

In my life I have always acknowledged that to some extent, I am kind of a dickhead. You might think I'm being a wee bit harsh on myself here but actually, I'm pretty okay with it. It is a realization that occurs to me like a football boot to bollocks quite frequently; for example, when I ignore everybody's advice to "slow down a bit" at predrinks, then I pass out in the birthday girl's bed an hour later and miss the night out. I realise it on the many occasions when I say too little when I should speak up, and when my filter suddenly disappears at times when maybe, I should pipe down a little. It happens especially so during Mighty Boosh marathons when Howard says something lame and my response is not to guffaw at the screen, but to nod and wistfully think "y'know we'd probably be great pals if you were a real person?"

To be honest, the "you're a dickhead, Flo" realization is hitting me again right now. I have just finished eating Indian food with my dad, who has since popped off on the Subway back to his hotel. I would like to be doing what he'll be doing right now - lying in bed, full and content, like a pregnant penguin - but instead I'm sitting by myself in the library. I'm locked out of my flat. Lost the bloody key. I've lived there ten days.

It is surreal typing that though - "my flat". Unlike "my halls" it's got this wonderfully adult quality to saying it; it signifies having my shit together, paying actual rent to a landlord and cooking actual meals and even doing a bit of dusting now and then. Saying "my flat" beats "my halls" any day. Check me out - I bought bin bags for my flat today. And kitchen roll. Because I'm an ADULT in MY FLAT. That's what we all do, right?

You'd think that would be the case. But I don't think real adults lose their keys.

So I feel more of a pretend adult right now, really; kind of like a toddler in nursery school playing in a plastic kitchen whilst the real adults smile and utter through gritted teeth "oh, she's really..energetic?!" Sadly those nursery school days are even further behind me now, since I turn twenty in over three weeks. I'm not looking forward to it. Once you turn twenty, you have to accept the fact that you actually are a sullen witch and it really isn't just those pesky teenage hormones. Saying you're twenty years old has no wonderfully adult quality; just the regular kind - "I miss the days when I didn't have to care about the shit like kitchen roll".

In other news that doesn't make me feel like I'm pretty much going to fail all the basic tasks life naturally gives me, I now have a column for qmunicate! Considering I had roughly twelve Twitter breakdowns over my application, several crisis talks with my mum and maybe one too many "consolatory entire packets of Maryland cookies" after getting a bit upset over it, this has undoubtedly been the best thing to happen to me in my first year of university. Proclaiming that something is a "dream" of yours always sounds a bit naff, but since learning I could coherently string a sentence together, writing a column has been...well, yes. A dream of mine. "Triumphant" is a good word to sum up how I feel - like Mary the cow from that advert ("she's always wanted to be a horse...")

It came at an especially good time too, since my blog inspiration has been a little low recently and when people know that you write there seems to be this pressure to...always write. Write and be funny, write and be thoughtful, write and write and write.

Moral of the story: lose your keys, start writing.

Sunday 10 August 2014

Danke Schon und Auf Wiedersehn, Deutschland

Right now I’m sitting in my bedroom as I’ve always hated to see my numerous bedrooms over the years. It is stripped bare, the walls are blank, unsettlingly free of mess, and toxic fumes of cleaning fluid are heavy in the air. This bedroom is painfully impersonal. It doesn’t feel like my bedroom. It is simply “a” room.

The future of this room is uncertain, and the forces lifestyle is one full of uncertainties: where will I be this time next year? Will my dad be at home? Will I live in a different house? Who’s leaving? Who’s staying?
These questions are regularly up in the air. But for me, there is always one constant certainty - Germany is my home.
But it’s time to pack up our bags and move again, which brings me to the next certainty; every day from now on, I am going to miss Germany.
I will miss the bakeries and the ice cream parlours on every street corner. I’ll miss the unfailingly warm summers at the outdoor pools and freezing cold winters spent on the ski slopes. I’ll miss the Christmas markets. I’ll miss cycling everywhere (cyclists rule the pavements in this country, not pedestrians). I’ll miss the German traditions; whilst I’ve never been quite sure what exactly they are or why they happen, any excuse to dress up and get drunk is fine by me. I’ll miss the German cities which are so vibrant and rich in culture with beautiful, intricate architecture. I’ll miss the nightlife, however pricey it may be. I’ll miss the summer evenings walking through Gutersloh or Bielefeld and the brief, happy realisations of “how lucky am I to be here?” I’ll miss my friends who are people in the same boat as me, not quite from anywhere, never quite sure where they’ll be next. I’ll miss living within the military community intensely – every single last thing about it.

I’ll even miss natives’ somewhat dismissive attitude to queuing.                                                     
Though this time there will definitely be no moving back, I have moved away from Germany before and I know how it's going to be. The first few weeks are hellish as it doesn’t seem to sink in that you’re not ever going to be returning. You feel like you’re on some strange, extended holiday in somebody else’s empty house for a little while. But one day something hits you and this is how it is now, you think. You need to move on. After that it starts to become manageable, the old memories you still long for are pushed into the back of your mind as new ones are created. Yet now and then, something will take you back; the scent of a certain food; an old photograph capturing a different time with gleeful smiles that reveal the world was kind to you and life was carefree; a school jumper with the distinctive crest; when it’s a scorching hot day and you wistfully think “god, I’d love to be at an outdoor pool”.

Moving away from a place you dearly love is like grieving not for a person, but for a life you once had. I was blessed for this one and I will never forget these incredible ten years in Germany.
Whoever lives in this bedroom next will be lucky to have it.

Tuesday 22 July 2014

Come Dine With Me: A Story of Love and Scoreboards

Come Dine With Me is the best show on television. I don’t want to argue about it. I am not prepared to listen.

Because the thing is, I am in love with Come Dine With Me. I am properly, unashamedly in love with it. The show is the Brad to my Ange; the Kanye to my Kim. I often cosy up with Come Dine With Me after a long day and find myself basking in a warm, besotted glow, like I would with an actual human lover. Also like an actual human lover, it reminds me that even when essay deadlines loom and the cupboards are not stocked accordingly with Haribo, the world is simply not all that bad – how can it be when Ricky from Sunderland roars like a lion when he laughs? Or with the fact that Pam from Brighton keeps a scorpion carcass in her DINING ROOM?! For SOME RIDICULOUS REASON?!
So my feelings are strong, very strong; that much is clear. A love so intense can only blossom through some serious chemistry. The secret is, Come Dine With Me wooed me by indulging my ultimate past time: people watching – or it’s truthful name, being incredibly nosey. 

It leaves me chuckling every time. I love seeing people in their natural environment, doing things their way, no matter how odd their ways are; watching them flap over the fact that the napkins do not look exactly like swans, attempting to laugh off the fact that the cat has actually just taken a dump on the worktop or violently insisting that everybody will eat the steak they are preparing their way because it is their damn dinner party. Classy and stylish Come Dine With me is not. But Come Dine With Me is people being their fascinating, bizarre and often worrisome selves, and that's what keeps me running back to it.
My favourite part of the whole show is when a contestant boldly introduces "entertainment" to their evenings, such as drag queens, discos, DJ sets or - my personal favourite - "now, I would like you all to try your hand at some love poetry!" The results are frequently hilarious and cringe worthy. Take the older, conservative men awkwardly attempting a tiny two step shuffle to Party Rock Anthem in a suit that is clearly too formal, or the gobby lady who's had a little too much to drink, is hiking her skirt up and getting very carried away with Highland dancing; surely this is far more entertaining than Gino and Mel Do Lunch, which I have only ever been able to watch blankly.

Speaking of other cooking shows, you might presume that I myself am a "foodie" since I enjoy Come Dine With Me so much and it is - arguably - primarily a cooking show. This is not the case. I wouldn’t spend my television watching hours fawning over Nigella as she rustles up something “oooh, soooo lovely and scrumptious!” with her glossy hair and ample cleavage spilling over a baking tray. Nor do I find Gordon Ramsay’s crazy swear-fests particularly entertaining. Truthfully, I would skip any of Jamie Oliver’s shows purely because they rather annoyingly remind me just little my body has to thank me for. But what makes Come Dine With Me so unique is the way it depicts the preparation of food as what I personally understand it to be: a massive hassle. A pain in the arse. Never all that smooth sailing. Makes you sweat and swear a bit. A bit awkward.

But it's not about cooking, is it, really? Come Dine With Me is about the mini domestic drama of every episode, coupled with Dave Lamb's commentary laden with sarcasm and pure piss taking at the contestants, who's every move will inevitably merit a verbal swipe of some description. People will make total arses out of their selves, whether it is by taking the competition that little bit too seriously or by making clearly outrageous comments to their other contestants. Of course, these poor souls are selected on the basis of how much trouble they are likely to rustle up, rather than the meals they'll prepare. Still, when popular TV is so often filled with images of people being so unnervingly talented, it's refreshing to watch a show that highlights the honest truth - it's never "just us", everybody can be a bit mental.
So take your X-Factors, Britains Got Talents and all the other popular prime time TV shows. You may be content with those, and I am happy for you. But I am content with Come Dine With Me. So happy, in fact, that Floraidh from Fife is gonna score it a "10".

 
 

Wednesday 9 July 2014

Public Displays of Affection: It's a No from Flo

This may be hard to believe, but I have not always been the kind of single girl who makes Bridget Jones look suave. There was a time when I didn't fill my days fantasizing over wholly unsuitable men, watching, re-watching and re-watching again the TV shows these men star in and idly wondering if I'm ever gonna sort out the cellulite that's appearing rapidly on my thighs.

I've had boyfriends, and I remember what it's like to be head over heels for them. I know how it is when you look at your new beau and envision rainbows and chubby angel babies and many nights ahead stuffing your faces together watching films that he will pretend to enjoy because he likes you that much. I remember how it is to lose sight of everything because you are blinded by love unconditional fondness and the idiocy that often accompanies it. I understand how that all works.

But I don't understand PDA.

If you did not know, PDA stands for Public Displays of Affection. Examples of PDAs might include cuddling on the sofas in Starbucks; kissing with almost violent urgency in the middle of dance floors in clubs; generally remaining tightly entangled in one another's arms even in company, that sort of thing. PDAs are essentially couples getting physical in public, whether they're just out and about together or in the company of their awkwardly spectating friends.

Contrary to what you may be thinking now, my dislike of PDA is not because I'm bitter that I don't have anybody to "eskimo kiss" over a McFlurry. I'm actually fine about that. Ask any of my friends who are couples; I have no problem being the companion who stares unsettlingly at them together and sporadically squeaks comments like "VLARGH! YOU GUYS ARE SO CUTEEEEEEE!!!!" or "YOU'RE A GREAT GREAT GREAT COUPLE!!!! I LOVE YOU GUYS!"

Hey, if it hasn't evolved by itself yet, I am even quite happy to get the ball rolling with ideas for their "power couple" name.

But you couples who engage in Public Display of Affection in front of us all: please know it makes me feel very uncomfortable. It makes everybody around you feel very uncomfortable; I can't think of a single time a couple has gone all "Allie and Noah" in front of a group of pals and we've unanimously reacted with "awww! How lovely! Tongues and all eh?" PDA drags everybody else in on something that should be kept intimate between you two. Behind closed doors, it doesn't matter what crazy shenanigans you get up to - but in front of them, you should know a little better.

One thing that strikes me about couples who really put go to town with putting on a show in public is wondering why they feel the need. If I were honestly happy and secure in my relationship, I wouldn't feel the need to make it seem official by attaching myself to my boyfriend's hip and planting a big smacker on his lips every time I need to leave for a second. Something to prove, perhaps?

Also, it isn't terribly considerate to the single people in your presence. Even if your love life is going swimmingly and your new partner always "has a little something on their lips, let me check - ha ha ha!" that doesn't mean it is not going disastrously for somebody you're with, who may see it as a painful reminder. As somebody who foresees having to buy a small dog to dress up in a tuxedo once a year to re-enact the wedding I'll never have, I actually don't appreciate seeing the sort of thing I will probably miss out on. It just isn't considerate to anybody.

This doesn't mean I'm totally against all PDA, period - hand holding is sweet. Hugs from the right person can be the boost you need on a bad day. A peck on the lips is a pick up. If you've not seen the person you would drunkenly dedicate "Halo" to at a karaoke night in a long time, chances are there is little to restrain you from jumping on them, where ever you are. These things I can all understand.

But as for everything else, I'd like to propose a new meaning behind PDA: Please Don't, Actually. Because when it comes to public displays of affection, well yes - please don't, actually.



Sunday 22 June 2014

When The Princess Met The Portaloo - My First Festival

“Nope nope nope- somebody’s taken a shit on the floor”

Before I went to the Isle of Wight festival last weekend, I’d never said those words before.
Portaloos served as the single greatest reminder that human faeces come in a wholly disturbing variety of colours, consistencies, sizes and smells. I shit you not (hohoho) I thought I’d pretty much seen all of the gory horrors that the bowels could ever possibly have to offer from three years of communal living - I hadn’t. I saw worse, and they weren't always where they belong.
But of course, I eventually learnt this was festival living. It is living with the human condition in its most candid form; the human without Herbal Essences, a mirror or a pillow to rest their heads on (and with a sore neck, from resorting to using a vodka bottle instead).  
From the beginning, everybody said I wouldn't be able to hack it. At the time I would feign total outrage - "I'm not a bloody princess, it's no biggie, it's just some camping dude!" - but quietly accept that they were probably right. I am a girl who just really likes her home comforts.
That fact became startlingly clear on numerous occasions over the weekend. Firstly, I had kind of assumed that the British weather would hold out for me. Come on! I'd travelled all the way from Germany to get there! It wouldn't rain, that would just suck. Fair enough, it was mostly sunny over the weekend but during one night the rain fell mercilessly onto my tent, which didn't put up much of a fight. The tent was a one man affair, the manufacturers obviously assuming that anybody who camped alone must be pretty tough - what's a little rain, eh? Well, as the tent collapsed and I lay there with only a thin, cold sheet of material separating me and "nature", I started to realise a little rain could actually result in quite a lot of discomfort. And awful smells.
Speaking of smells, by Day 2 I was beginning to emit some pretty terrible ones, myself. Come Day 3 I was spraying dry shampoo all over me in a desperate attempt to give off something a little rosier than sweat, cider and some vague shame. I began to dream of baths and the aisles upon aisles of exotic soaps, shower gels and fragrances that you never pay much attention to in TK Maxx at the time.
My shameful camping amateurishness aside, the most important and wonderful part of the whole weekend was the music. Seriously, for every moment I spent wide awake at night wondering exactly what kind of insect had just flown into my ear or noticing just how matted my hair was becoming, the music made all of it totally worth enduring. Honestly, in those crowds you forget that you're living in squalor and look like an extra in Les Mis and become entirely immersed in the brilliant things happening in front of you, instead. Over the course of the weekend I saw Boy George, Rudimental, Biffy Clyro, Calvin Harris, the Pretty Reckless, the 1975, John Newman, the Specials and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. As somebody who hasn't been to many gigs, I didn't play it very...cool and aloof about the whole thing, shall we say. I was bloody dazzled by everybody and everything.
The Specials got many a fan girl scream out of me during their set. Despite fairly ticking along in life these days, they interacted brilliantly with the crowd, asking us to show some hate for both UKIP and Luis Suarez (I had to tell my friend who that was, by the way - I am an awfully sporty person, as you all know) Biffy Clyro were also particularly great, even though I'm not a big fan there was no denying they put on a great show. Simon Neil also referred to them as "Biffy FUUUUCKIN' Clyro" a lot too, which I found endearing. Quite amusingly, I got chatting to some friendly Glasgow Uni graduates next to us in the crowd during their set who asked if I went to the Hive - Glasgow uni students, I will let you decide how you think I answered that
Moving on, despite spending the duration of the show a) close to passing out from dehydration b) delirious from the heat of thousands of bodies around me c) unwittingly nestled under a randomer’s armpit, the obvious highlight of the weekend for me was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who are one of my all time favourite bands. We were stood around two metres from the stage, so we could literally see the sweat gradually forming on the band members, eeeek! I croaked along to every lyric; I screamed every time the chords of a new song were played; I died a thousand little deaths each time I convinced myself that Anthony Kiedis was looking at ME, literally DIRECTLY INTO MY EYES; and I fell into loving, devoted silence every time Flea said something inspiring to the audience (every time he opened his mouth).
So what did I take away from my first festival experience, aside from a new found appreciation of toilet bleach and an intrinsic distrust of "really good!" portable straighteners? Well, not to prioritise looking like Kendal Jenner over being warm and comfortable is right up there. I spent many an hour scouring the shelves for waterproof mascara, but not enough of them finding actual waterproof clothing. My faded denim jacket did look quite edgy and rugged, yes, but it wasn’t keeping me warm in the evenings, and nor were my specially purchased elephant earrings. If I could pass on one nugget of wisdom acquired the hard way to any festival rookies, it would be this: purchase pillows over pretty dresses. Dress for the purpose of “warmth”, not “wow, I look edgy, dude!” Buy products that will make your life comfortable, because in the end, everybody will eventually look like they've gone through some traumatic experience - but they'll have some bloody brilliant stories to tell.
But the main thing I took away from Isle of Wight is just how truly wonderful the experience of live music is. My general history of live music has been limited to listening to live albums on my iPod in bed at night. This is completely unlike the insane, elating experience of being part of this huge audience who are just as dizzy with excitement as you are, watching the artists at their most raw and truthful right in front of you. "Mesmerized" didn't come close to how I felt watching the sound, lighting, choreography and music all coming together. I’ve been pretty geographically unlucky in the sense that I've always lived far away from major music venues, so to see so much of it in one weekend? I got the biggest wake up call to what I'd been missing out on.  

I would do it all again. Portaloos and all.

Sunday 11 May 2014

"...why do I give valuable time/to people who don't care if I/live or I die?"

Me? I've never been one for just "putting on a brave face". I certainly put on a face - make up! The answer to every problem! Darling darling darling, MAC before Prozac - but when bad things happen, or I'm confused and can make no sense of the world and people who inhabit it and there just seems to be no hope, at all...I tend to give into urge to crumble.

This is no hyperbole. When a situation arises that could evoke misery, I generally sieze it. When an opportunity to mime and wail along to "Lovefool" in the mirror pops up, I grab the hair brush. If a sad song comes on when I'm in the back of the car and it is relatable to my predicament in some way, I will look out the window, mournfully, like I am in a music video, and it is what the director wants.

What I'm trying to say is - I'm sort of not in a happy place, at the moment, and I can't seem to break out of this little bubble of discontent and disappointment. Things have happened, words have been said - I needn't disclose any proper details. The new shades of ruby that now weave through my hair have failed to make me more fiery and less of a wuss in life. I am still no more of a "lionheart", bold and gallant in the face of adversity (or a particularly shit boy - oh dear, did I disclose something?) but still a rabbit, still overwhelmed when caught in headlights, still getting upset easily, and far too deeply.

There is a sadness sinking in my stomach, my fighting spirit is going down with it and like an idiot, I've failed to resist that happening.

So what is the point of this blog? Usually I have a clear focus that has been pre-planned and researched with the precision of an invading army, but today I have simply opened up BlogSpot and let my fingertips flutter on the keyboard without thinking through things too thoroughly. Even now, I am looking at the title of this blog - a Smiths lyric - and knowing I will wake up at some point tonight, freeze in horror underneath the quilt and scold myself for at least an hour. "You are a melodramatic cow. Everybody thinks you're a loser. You probably will end up as alone and bitter as bloody Morrissey himself. Get a real diary or something" oh, this will happen. It will.

But in all honesty, the only real point of this post is to "write something and feel better". That is simply it.

Yes, I just needed to write this down. I needed to find what I couldn't find in tears, angry Tweets I typed too quickly to consider and brutally sarcastic texts, and I have found it. I'm feeling better already. I have let those negative feelings consume my good energy and beat me once, today. But I will not let them do it again.

If you are experiencing something similar, I hope you will do the same.

Tuesday 22 April 2014

Two Year Birthday Blog

Today marks two years since I thought "nah, revision. Can't be arsed" and tried to navigate BlogSpot instead; two years since I decided to write my thoughts down, and not get out much as a consequence. It is my blog's "birthday".

My on-going fear when it comes to discussing my own blog is sounding totally insufferable. In the wonderful vast virtual galaxy of blogging, I barely register as a "particle", let alone a full on "star" or anything remotely notable. Nonetheless - and yes, I'm wincing this as I type it, just as much as you will when you read on - I'm still kinda...sorta...ugh, okay, proud of it.

Yes. I am proud. My face is all puckered up and I'm aware I may be wondering into "insufferable" territory with that statement, but this is the one creative endeavour I've stuck at without eventually giving up and accepting "these things should be left to Sylvia Plath".

That said, even with a moderately successful blog, I'm definitely still no Plath. I make awful spelling and grammar mistakes regularly. I look back on many posts and cringe, scolding my past self for whatever was going through her addled head at the time. Making sense of my thoughts and articulating them in a way that doesn't bore, irritate or lecture my reader is sometimes difficult, and I don't always get that right.

But sometimes - at least - I hope I do. This is where it becomes very clear that blogging has changed my life. It changed my ambitions, the way I perceive myself and the world around me. I would recommend it for a number of reasons:

  • You will become a better writer. You will eventually be picking up on things that couldn't be taught in any classroom. Blogging doesn't "tell" you what will make your writing interesting and exciting on a Powerpoint presentation at two o'clock on a Friday afternoon when you're fed up of this shit and just want to go home; your writing will improve gently at its own accord, with time and with practice. You might not even notice, but it's a happy inevitability.
  • You will become a better thinker. Recording your thoughts means that you'll delve more deeply into the matters of your life and the worldview that shapes them.
  • Your life becomes more intentional. Once you begin to write thoroughly about your life and the thoughts, feelings and emotions which shape it, it becomes more clear who you are, where you're going and if you like what you see. You essentially begin to watch yourself "grow" and spread your roots; looking from my first ever blog to now, it's pretty obvious I've come on a long old journey. I quite like the direction it went in.
  • You will develop better life habits. To write a blog, you need discipline, commitment and devotion; all assets that could be considered pretty useful to embrace.
  • The pure joy that comes from a kind comment; no matter how brief. Even better, when a reader mentions that you've wrote something they can relate to - in my opinion, that's the biggest compliment. You feel less isolated, the reader feels less isolated, everybody's winning. How rad is that?

In the past two years, I have penned an open letter to everybody's favourite not-really-that-controversial pop star Miley Cyrusdefended a woman's right to dress in as little as she likes, complained about my boobs in a post with what I used to think was the wittiest title ever, , opened up about my disenchantment with university life and the effects this had on my mental health, documented my rather unusual upbringing as a military child and discreetly suggested to you not to bother getting a nose job...to name a few topics.

I don't know what will inspire me in the next two years, but I can't wait to find out.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLOG. You have made your mama feel a little less useless and given her a voice many of her peers thought didn't really exist at the time. And for that, she will love you always.

Tuesday 25 March 2014

My Massive Nose and Me

Before I hit my teens, I never really noticed the size of my nose. This is surprising, since those who have personally met me will know that it is somewhat easy to notice.

I have a very big nose.

I'll paint you a picture. If noses had personalities, mine would be brash, probably pretty cruel and determined to steal the spotlight. If people were noses, my nose would be Ann Widdecombe: large, would be very out of place in a televised dancing competition, potentially lovable for all its imperfections but let's face it - nobody would go out of their way to catch a glimpse of it.

Then I hit my teens, and I knew I couldn't ignore this uselessly large vessel plonked rather inconveniently on my face any longer. After careful consideration, I noted two options. The first was to simply cry and wait - wait for a nose job whilst being in a permanent fit of tears between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. The other was to just...ignore it. Focus on other things such as education and growing a nice bum, like Beyoncé. Develop a talent, preferably sporting so boys would think I was fitter. Become funny, so people would too busy laughing at my pithy one liners to notice that my nose was a good 7cm in front of the rest of my body.

As you can see, thirteen year old logic didn't leave me with many choices. It did not take long to suss out that crying makes you look even more of a wretched hag and highly unapproachable, so the first option was ruled out immediately. The second was also somewhat ambitious; nine years have passed and I still have the bum of a pre-pubescent boy, I gave up on sporting because P.E. kits just weren't very "me" and I suppose my sense of humour was never universally appreciated (and shockingly still isn't).

But it didn't matter, in the end, because I found a figure that made me feel very much alright about having a big nose. A figure that made me feel as though it didn't matter that my nose made me look pretty unspectacular. My real breakthrough came in the shape of my crooked nose queen, my big snozzled soul sister: Ashlee Simpson.

For those of you who don't know who that is and had perfectly content teenage years because I suppose you've always looked like a fucking goddess, Ashlee Simpson is Jessica's sister of the Daisy Duke fame. She had a short lived and rather tame musical career in "pop punk" with singles such as "Boyfriend" and erm...not too sure, don't remember, which says it all really. But anyway, Ashlee was on the scene when my pre-teen self was on a total downer over her looks and struggling to find herself - and just like me, Ashlee had a generously sized nose. She was successful and looked so beautiful. I found this to have a profoundly hopeful impact on me.

That did not last. I still remember the day when I discovered that Ashlee - the supposed cure to my insecurity - paid to get her nose broken and reshaped into something a bit daintier. I was a bit older at this point but no less gutted. Like me, she did not have the perfect nose I so desperately desired. She did not look as conventionally beautiful as other pop stars, yet still made her own mark. But she still got rid of the flaw that we shared instead of embracing it and that almost symbolised the end of hope for me.

I got over it, though. The one consolation that brings me joy to this day is how downhill it all went for old Ashlee post-nose job. She hasn't had one hit single since "Boyfriend". She's married then divorced Fall Out Boy bassist and Total Hot Dude Pete Wentz.


You take away the nose and what's left? WHAT'S LEFT, ASHLEE?!


And the trend stands for other celebrities who may once have been previously looked up to and admired, just like I did with Ashlee. Even in my wildest dreams, it makes me feel as though #KeepTheBigBeak is a campaign that could actually take off. Take Ashley Tisdale - does anybody actually know what she's done career wise since High School Musical? Not to mention Joan Rivers - maybe at some point in her life she was likeable, but it was never post-rhinoplasty, and now she says terrible things about other celebrities to make a living. Plus, let me tell you one thing about that Rebecca Adlington -

Oh okay, she won an Olympic medal for Great Britain. Whatever.

Tuesday 11 March 2014

In Defence of Selfies: It's YOUR Face

My friend has a theory. It might not be backed up by scientific evidence, nor has she phrased it very articulately, but judging by the pained expression she's pulling, she's pretty serious about it anyway.

"Selfies.." she begins a tone that warns there is no room for debate. "Selfies are for losers. Like, I don't understand. Why would you want to have a picture of yourself clearly not having a life? It's just so 'Year 9'"

As a self confessed selfie fan, her theory unhinges me somewhat. Sitting meekly with a head full of counter arguments but no guts to voice them aloud, I ponder my own current Facebook profile picture - a selfie. The self conscious pre-teen voice that lay dormant within me suddenly jerks back to life with a fretting monologue; is that...a universal thought? I worry. Or is it just her? Oh god, I don't know. But the thing is, my hair is pink and my lashes look long and my lips are the good shade of red and for a change - for a really pleasant, welcome change - I quite like how I look in that picture.

This is said selfie. I was a nerdy Nicki Minaj. Now I'm just nerdy again..


Looking back now - hundreds upon hundreds of selfies later - I realise that's actually the whole point; you should like how you look in pictures. You should at least try to. Whether that picture was taken with your webcam at home because your hair looked alright or when you were riding that elephant in a bikini with your mate in Thailand, if that's the little snapshot of you that you wish to present to the world then crack on. It's your face.

But you might not have the most straightforward of relationships with that face. It could be a tumultuous one; a love affair one day, then hitting a rocky patch the next and wanting to cover it up with a balaclava, for the rest of your natural life if possible. You might not have the kind of face that cameras love, and your goddamn friends always seems to capture you at your worst angles - double chin and all.

Now here, here is where the true beauty of the selfie lies.

With a selfie, you are in control. You can actually determine if your Facebook friends can see that double chin or not! Your hair can be perfectly coiffed; makeup tastefully applied; skin glowing; your best angle captured and projected for the world to see. Surely, this is empowering. I know when I take a successful selfie where my double chin is artfully concealed and my generously sized nose is less obvious, I get a little self confidence boost. They don't come around very often, so why should I be made to feel bad for them?

Plus, consider your surroundings. In day to day life, images of supposed "perfection" are thrust at you from all angles regardless of if you've got the strength to shrug them off or not. Achingly beautiful women and men with looks that could stop traffic modelling clothes on shop windows; club promoters so effortlessly stunning it feels as though the effort you've made for the night wasn't worth much, after all; actors and actresses on movie posters outside of the cinema - again, with head turning, heart racing looks that are difficult to ignore. Why shouldn't you try and do what you can to fit that bill sometimes if it gives your self esteem the little raise it needs?

Today, Glasgow - my current "home" - was ranked 37th for cities in the whole world with the most selfies taken. After initial concern that I accounted for at least half of them, I realised just how strangely brilliant this news was. Perhaps the beauty of trying to find your own beauty via a selfie is not just passed off as exclusively for "losers" after all. I'm so glad of it. Because in that smile or pout towards your phone camera is an attempt to love yourself, and as somebody who continues to fight in an eternal struggle to do exactly that, I could not encourage selfies any more.
 

 

Monday 3 March 2014

I Am A Chubby, Irritable Seal

Every four weeks or so, I become a bit furious. As my skin gains a few more spots, foundation stops being a "once-in-a-while" thing and becomes an "absolute necessity or you'll frighten the infants of Glasgow". I pack make up wipes in my hand bag, in case I see something vaguely poignant and burst into bitter, inexplicable tears. Showering twice a day is acceptable, to get rid of the floods of grease woven through my hair. I make open, frequent noises of exasperation to the general public - tuts and sighs, mostly. My jeans become a bit tighter. I frown a lot.

Have you figured it out yet?

Yes, these are all signifiers of mother nature's monthly "gift", though answers on a postcard as to who came up with that metaphor - "gift" infers something pleasant and unexpected, but a period is highly unpleasant and anticipated with nothing but contempt. Sure, I'm not pregnant and I'm pretty pleased about it, but I do now deserve these five days of hell?!

How I currently look and feel.


Now, I'm not usually one to moan about being a girl. Regrettably, I can only empty my bladder sitting down and do occasionally wonder what the magical peeing mobility men have is like...but aside from that, the "being female" experience gets a big thumbs UP from me. I love to perpetuate what is my own personal definition of femininity and I love to celebrate other women's, too; but dude, I really, really don't love periods.

For a start, I don't love unreasonably intensified emotions; I'm impartial to a good weep every now and then, but crying at the mere sight of baby's smile, a particularly unforgiving hangover or a friend's mildly inspiring story of buying a top she quite liked in Topshop is just a waste of precious mascara. Not to mention the anger; suddenly when your hormones are heightened, so is your ability to rage at absolutely anything. Even the most mild mannered and pleasant of women can experience these tinges of wild, unjustified wrath. I would say I've been properly, fist-shaking angry at least three times today. Why? I don't want to tell you. Because my reasons are absurd.

When asked how a period physically feels, my friend Becca sombrely replied with "death". Since I've never, y'know, died, I can't confirm if that's a fair judgement, but I can admit that the pain is pretty dire. Period pain is not just the occasional twinge in your stomach. It is not something that can be easily cured with your mother's old remedy of "rubbing your tummy and having a poo"; it is a sharp, constant ache in your abdomen that can make any movement painful. That said, some women claim to never experience period pain as they "exercise regularly" - you should wave your fist at those women on their healthy high horse, all the way from your sweaty pit of a bed.

Furthermore, periods do not make your hair shine, nails stronger and skin glow like a lighthouse. They do the complete opposite. Obviously I can't speak on the science behind it all, but around this time of the month is when your skin becomes prone to spots the size of Ben Nevis popping up all over your face. As mentioned before, grease also appears in your hair. For me though, the worst part is becoming bloated around the face and belly due to water retention (or something?? Not sure?), which makes it incredibly hard to have any kind of body confidence - already quite a hard thing to achieve even in the slimmer times of the month. Currently, if you lightly slap my belly, it will jiggle around a bit for around a good second and a half, which does not ordinarily happen. I'm quite pissed off about it.

Fortunately, there's a major catch in what I've just described for the menfolk of the universe: you are gleefully free from it all! As well as being able to pee where ever you like (amazing! AMAZING!!) you are more or less consistently of the same mind frame, which must make it difficult to understand life with oestrogen, extraordinarily priced tampons and walking around with a towel between your legs.

Sere are some wise tips from me - a mere, incredibly hormonal woman; boys, tread carefully, even when she's being irrational. Love patiently, even though she's pretty hard to love when she's throwing the TV remote at you. Compliment generously, though actually, her bum does look a bit big in that. She might not be great right now, but it's a biological thing; and like Marilyn said, if you can't handle her at her worst, then you don't deserve her when she's back at her bloody fabulous best when this month's episode is all over.

Sunday 26 January 2014

"When You Don't Love University" - Eleven Days Later

By and large, the response to my blog "When You Don't Love University" gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling, like weeing in the bath.

It was the first blog I've ever posted that's got over 1000 views! I could take this as ya'll enjoying my troubles or people genuinely relating to it. Thirty two messages later and I'm glad to be fairly sure it's the latter.

My initial fear to even publish the post was eclipsed by the array of emotions that followed once I plucked up the courage to put it out there - both the good and bad. My little heart was warmed by the amount of people saying they had enjoyed reading it, and even that I was "brave" to post it (I am as meek as a Chihuahua at a Lamb of God gig in most wakes of life so this was a very, very big deal for me). If you were one of those people to reach out and respond to my words: thank you. You played an instrumental role in restoring my faith and hope...and I fear that's more than an attempt at being deep. You night have ruined my mascara that day but for the first time ever, I am so glad that you did. I don't even want to punch you for it.

However, whilst I was partially pleased that it wasn't just me who had been figuratively shat on by their expectations, another part was appalled. It was heart breaking to hear that so many people had felt the same way but hadn't told a soul, letting their problems boil up inside of them like some kettle of doom (?). It's almost unnerving how you can never really assume who suffers in silence. To be honest, I would never have expected some of the people I received emails from to do so. Another reminder that we all have our little struggles despite appearances - the real reason we should endeavour to be pleasant and warm towards everybody, I think.

If you are one of those people - or indeed you felt similarly but didn't email me, in which case, why the hell not? Come on, if you read my blog then we're automatically homies - what I'm about to urge you, I want you to hear me loud and clear. Don't hear it as a cliché that's easy for me to say, hard for you to act on - I probably know that better than you do.

TALK TO SOMEBODY. DO YOURSELF A HUGE FAVOUR AND TALK TO SOMEBODY.  Do not sit and wallow behind a computer screen, writing melancholy poetry on Tumblr, listening to Scar Tissue far more than a person should in one day. Your problems won't disappear. I know that, too.

Look - famously, I am a big wimp about roughly 75% of my life and if I can face my problems head on, you probably can too. So talk. Talk to your parents, your friends - the ones who won't start telling you how great their life is after you've spilled your emotional guts, lord I know they have the audacity to do that. If you want a non-judgemental ear who really knows their stuff, seek out your university counselling service. Ignore any stigmas of seeing a professional to help you make sense of things; Lily bloody Allen once admitted she's worked with a therapist. And she's a proper ballsy chick.

You could even write about it. That's when it clicked for me. (although be a pal and don't start a blog, eh? I don't wanna compete for who has the better blog, because in my head, that's what it'll somehow morph into. I really don't wanna do that)

Wednesday 15 January 2014

When You Don't Love University: A "Big Big Big" Deal

Today, I'm going to write about something that I've been avoiding writing for a long time.

I've known it would be good to write about, because it might help others who are also quietly in this predicament feel less alone. But it has taken a long time for me to accept that this was the predicament I have inadvertently landed in.

Today, I'm going to change that.

The predicament I wish to talk about is something I've been made to feel ashamed is happening, as it goes against the societal grain. This predicament is simple: university has not been the most fantastic, exhilarating, life-changing experience I was promised it would be.

That isn't to say that it hasn't been any of those things at all. I'm fully aware that people will read this and be like "pah, gutted! I'm having the time of my life. University for me has been PERFECT, soz for your woes Flo" and yes - I have had some brilliant times here, my English Lit course caters brilliantly to my needs and as indicated by my blog about the city, I remain to be besotted with Glasgow itself. However, it hasn't been all smooth sailing for me.

To start from the beginning, my flat mates and I are not the best buddies I was guaranteed they would be - our relationship is by and large a 'working' one. You are generally told that your flatmates will be your first guaranteed circle of pals, but this just wasn't the case for us. I was placed in private halls which - truthfully - I haven't found to be particularly friendly, in comparison to the other halls actually owned by the University of Glasgow. But with the building I live in being the first port of call and that letting me down, it's been challenging to throw myself into socializing elsewhere. Usually alone.

A few months on and everybody seems to have found their niche and I am usually found floating in between them, never particularly fixed to one group. I am not exactly companionless and there is always somebody to go out with, but to feel like you don't fully belong anywhere with anybody pushed me to a real low ebb.

By the end of the first semester, my willing myself to believe that everything was fine, great, amazing had disappeared. I couldn't go even for a few hours without crying over the smallest things. Though I'm well aware that it isn't REALLY the biggest issue in the world, I remember when I discovered that a flat mate had eaten an entire packet of my bacon - I cried for around 3 hours and felt awful for having to ring my mum for her to bring me to my senses. Most days, I could hardly bring myself to get out of bed - I couldn't see a reason to. The worst part was that I felt like I did not have somebody at my university close enough for me to really confide in them without them judging me, or even becoming offended. Looking back on it, I probably was a bit depressed.

It is the beginning of semester 2 now and I just can't go back to that. That wasn't very Flo of me, y'know.

There is a lot of stigma attached to those who don't absolutely love university - what with the "best years of your life!" line thrown at you by every elder you come across. This is why it took a lot of soul searching and "come on Flo, don't be a dick" for me to finally write and publish this. I like to think that maybe I'm not the only one with this little speed bump, and hopefully others might read it and feel less alone.

Finally, it can feel like a long, bastard wait for somebody to reach out to me, but the assertive military child in me isn't quite ready to sit back and accept that as my fate. If there isn't anybody to reach out, I have to get there first. Generally in life, I am an optimist and I always, always hope for good things, even when it feels like this hope is slipping away more quickly than I could ever grab it back.

'If clouds are blocking the sun, there will always be a silver lining that reminds me to keep on trying.'

Thursday 2 January 2014

Life in Glasgow: Forget What You Heard

"TRAINSPOTTING IS F*CKING SET IN F*CKING EDINBURGH!!!! NOT GLASGOW!! JESUS CHRIST!!!!! WHY SAY THAT?!" I screamed at my understandably alarmed work colleague - and not for the first time, either.

It was the end of the summer, and I'd achieved the results I needed to go to the University of Glasgow. I was ecstatic and just couldn't stop casually dropping it into the conversation, like everybody else who had just got into their first choice university, I'm sure. However, not everybody was so quick to reciprocate my joy. There were many raised eyebrows and shifty looks, with tones in voices changing from gleeful to a bit concerned in a second. Every single time this happened, it would feel like my achievement was undermined, somehow, and suddenly my going to an excellent university wasn't that important. Which - if you're wondering - feels like somebody's just taken a dump on all of your aspirations.



Having now lived there for 4 months, I can confirm that Glasgow has the perks and downfalls of every other UK city. It has terrible areas that I know nothing but their reputation and I don't want to know any more. People who pace the streets with knives...errr, aren't always necessarily going to be chefs. Drunkenly stumbling out of a club on Sauchiehall St and loitering around in a mini skirt probably isn't going to attract a friendly passing gentleman. The risks of walking around alone at night are high and you'd be out of your mind to do so. I can't just leave my bag somewhere and assume it'll be there when I get back. Not everyone's gonna help me out.

But come on - these are not features typical of only Glasgow itself. These are the unfortunate but natural dangers of any big city, and it's frankly ridiculous to think otherwise, especially if you make these assumptions without having visited the city. But as the locals would say, keep yir wits aboot ye and you can't go far wrong. Also, surely, if you've proved your intellectual worth by getting into a top Russell Group university, you would know  all ofthis anyway.

I'm yet to speak to another first year who hasn't gone a bit mental for Glasgow, voted the European Capital of Culture in 1990. There's a lot to go mental for; the West End with its gorgeous boutique bars and cafes, the complete buzz that comes from getting the actual subway (!), the picturesque green scenery of Kelvingrove Park that many would think could never exist within a city, the way you could go for weeks and never need to go to the same club twice. The locals have been nothing but friendly and helpful in my days of being a Poor Little Lost Fresher; countless times have I had to stop a passing stranger to ask for directions and each time they've stayed until I was completely sure of where I was going, even whipping out an iPhone to physically show me on the map in one instance. Plus, whilst being the best shopping destination outside of London probably isn't ideal for the ever-dwindling student loans, nobody seems to be complaining about it.

Coming to Glasgow remains to be the best decision I've ever made, even when the deadlines are piled on top of me like an especially stressful game of Jenga and with the occasional craving for a bit of countryside air. But long before the UCAS process had even began, I knew I had to move to a city. I didn't want another little 'bubble' or a small community where people knew me and I would never have anywhere to hide. I didn't want to ever feel like I had explored everything there is to explore. The anonymity and excitement that city life guaranteed was what I desperately craved and every day I'm glad I chose Glasgow to finally experience that.

"Besotted" doesn't come close to how I feel about Glasgow and I'll still be acting like a tourist and chirping about how my uni looks like Hogwarts until long after I graduate.


George Square, central Glasgow
Hogwarts/University of Glasgow, West End
Merchant City, central Glasgow
Ashton Lane, West End
Buchanan St, central Glasgow