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.

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".

 

 

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.

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.

"...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.

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 Cyrus, defended 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.

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.