2. "In Germany they came first for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time, no one was left to speak up." - Pastor Martin Niemoller
Last week, it felt as though I was close to death.
Maybe not a pleasant way to start a blog entry, but true nevertheless, and that’s no exaggeration.
At 2am on Monday morning, I was taken to hospital.
I was in agony. So much so that the pain was indescribable. It wasn’t like anything I had ever experienced before, and as someone who has been dropped on their head as an adult, I have felt pain.
Not only that, but I was alone, miles away from my family, and scared.
Scared because I though that I was actually dying.
Again, agony.
Four days later, still in a fair amount of pain, I was released back into the wild.
It was only a kidney infection. However, the pain was that bad that I can only imagine that giving birth is comparable.
Anyway, the main crux of this blog is to praise the care I received while in hospital.
Not the care I received from the Doctors, however; they merely visited me once every day, hit me on the back and asked me whether it hurt.
Well, of course it hurt! That was why I was there and not at the pub!
The care I received from the nurses, on the other hand, was incredible.
Everyday, they made sure I got my medication, was fed, well, made my bed and were at my beck and call at every hour should I need anything.
The only time I did press my alarm was to ask for another blanket as I was cold.
Indeed, I am reminded of a previous blog about nursing, in which David Cameron argued that nurses ARE the NHS. (http://rosalindmash.blogspot.com/2007/01/future-of-nursing.html)
After my recent experience, I wholeheartedly agree.
But it makes me wonder WHY they are paid a relatively tiny amount in comparison to Doctors when they do a much greater deal of work and undertake a larger proportion of the care of patients.
The NHS and the government should begin to give nurses more recognition for the work they do, because without them, this country’s health service would not have a leg to stand on.
Since starting my new job as an editorial assistant/sub-editor, the weird and wonderful uses of language no longer shock.
I’ve certainly become immune to the fact that there are people, fluent in the English language, who are completely unable to WRITE in the English language.
At first, I was astounded, bemused, confused by the amount of people who cannot even string a simple sentence together.
The cat sat on the mat.
Even a 3-year-old can do that!
I think that it reflects badly on our teaching regimens and skill development initiatives that people are unable to write in the language they have known since birth.
Perhaps its just sheer laziness? Or the fact that many people know that poor old me will have to trawl through there work, trying to figure out what the hell they are trying to communicate.
Oh well…
Here’s something I wrote earlier. January to be precise:
The N18 - a number synonymous to many Westminster students living in Harrow with drunken idiots, aggression, sleep and being stranded in Sudbury.
Yes, the N18 is the night bus which serves to aid intoxicated students traveling from Regent’s Street to Harrow in the early hours of the morning.
I too have traveled this route. I can’t say it has ever been particularly pleasant, so it makes me wonder whether it is a safe way to get home.
At a meagre £1.50, the night bus is very friendly on the purse strings. I can’t imagine how much it would cost to travel in a taxi. Perhaps a taxi would be much safer though…
My most memorable experience of the night bus this year alone was in January. Having had a fun night out, my two friends and I boarded the bus at Regent’s Street. The bottom deck is always packed, so upstairs is frequently the answer if you require a seat for the long journey ahead.
As soon as I reached the top deck, I heard the sort of voice that makes you dread to be alive at that time of night - and makes you question whether you will actually make it home alive.
“This seat’s taken! I is restin’ my legs!”
(Oh. My. God.)
“No-ones sittin’ ere yeah?!” I think to myself, ‘Don’t make eye contact. If you don’t look at her you will be fine.’ I didn’t look. I didn’t want my teeth knocked out, so I continued to stare at the back of someone’s head in sheer fear for the entire journey. I can still hear her voice grate through me as though she was jabbing me in the head with one of her fake nails.
“When is Harlesden?! I has to get off blad!”
Doesn’t she know correct English? Fair enough, I’m a Geordie and possibly have the worst grammar in the world, but this was just plain disgraceful. She terrorized the top deck of the bus for what felt like hours. For a while, I truly thought that the N18 would be my final resting place.
I prayed.
My prayers were answered. We had reached Harlesden.
Then the short, blond, skinny white girl passed me and ran down the stairs. Every passenger on the bus breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a nervous laugh. What were we so afraid of? I could have had her in a fight I think… apart from the fact that I’m adverse to violence in any form.
Let it be said though, that the night bus does not instill a wealth of safety in its passengers. And what must the poor, sober bus drivers think?
"What in the name of Fyodor Dostoevsky is the world coming to?"
That was the thought that rushed through my head when I read on the BBC news website that a helpline has been set up for Harry Potter readers who may get distressed as a result of the new book's outcome.
A helpline?!
Are they for real?
Surely the Bard himself would be spinning in his grave if he was aware of the depths of the barrels that supposed English literature is scraping?
I just don't understand how one series of pathetically written drivel can have had such an impact on the world.
Not to mention the idiots who CAMP out to ensure they get a copy of it. And this idiots are grown adults.
I'm in awe at the ridiculousness. The stupidty. The fact that JK Rowling has managed to make so much money.
The subject of global warming is omnipresent in the media and political agenda these days, but what is it exactly?
Is it the description for a legitimate phenomenon caused by years of pollution and man-made devastation to planet Earth?
Or is it an exaggeration of climate change, which the government and media alike have spun out as another initiative to get everyone to behave as they would like them to?
According to the fountain of ‘knowledge’ that is wikipedia – something I’m sure journalists the world over refer to from time-to-time – Global Warming is:
“the increase in the average temperature of the Earth's near-surface air and oceans in recent decades and its projected continuation.”
Furthermore…
“The term ‘global warming’ is a specific example of the broader term climate change, which can also refer to global cooling. In common usage the term refers to recent warming and implies a human influence. The United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) uses the term ‘climate change’ for human-caused change, and ‘climate variability’ for other changes. The term ‘anthropogenic climate change’ is sometimes used when focusing on human-induced changes.”
Interesting stuff.
Personally, I hold meteorologists responsible. Also known as weather men/women.
Every morning before leaving for work, I check the weather on the bbc website to work out what I should wear, whether I’ll need a coat, an umbrella, which shoes are going to be most suitable etc.
Stupidly, I continue to believe that what the bbc’s bevy of meteorologists are telling me is true, despite the fact that they are continually erroneous in the predictions.
The most notable event in recent weeks was sitting in work all day, expecting dry weather, only to be greeted with the most heinous thunder and hail-storm known to man in the history of meterology.
A slight exaggeration I will admit, but how could they get it so wrong.
It is through flawed reports such as this that I base my main theory on – that the weather reporters are responsible for global warming.
No wonder the weather seems to be going to extremes if the people trained to let us know what is happening cannot even do that correctly.
It seems that more and more celebrities are turning to God in their hours of need, whether it be from a stay in prison or to find a new man, for example.
What annoys me the most, however, is that most of these ‘zealously religious’ people haven’t actually shown such godly behaviour in the past.
Think about it: raucous partying, Kabbalah-worshipping, dangerous behaviour, media-suggested addictions etc etc – you get the picture.
But where does all this fit in with a Christian lifestyle and are these people actually sincere?
I truly doubt it.
Now, I’m not going to be hypocritical and pretend that I’m a good, saintly, practising Catholic because that would be an utter lie.
On the other hand, I like to think that I’m aware of the whole PR thing that many celebrities play.
Surely its just for media attention? To receive endorsement for their past follies and new way of life.
To get their new book in the top ten bestsellers, or to beat the Beckham’s at perfume selling.
I’m not going to write about the foibles of the wavering reality television programme, but rather, I refer to my own Big Brother, who is possibly one of the freakishly smart people I know.
I use the term ‘freakishly’ because he is, in fact, a fountain of knowledge without even trying to be.
This has always riled me to a certain extent because he never seemed to have to work very hard at school, but still managed to get amazing grades and exam results.
I, on the other hand, am comfortable with the fact that I am not always the brightest button in the box and so, have had to work relatively hard to get where I am today.
I think that’s enough praise and criticism for one blog, however. So to the point…
Since Brother is the ‘guru’ of knowledge, yesterday he introduced me to the wonders of Barbara Kruger.
I’d never actually heard the name before, but when I googled her name, the images which revealed themselves were instantly recognizable.
In fact, one of her images lies somewhere on a postcard in my Newcastle home after being purchased in the Tate Modern when I was 16.
‘I shop therefore I am’ it informs. So true.
Kruger’s work is filled with quirky statements such as these, set in white on red overlaid on black and white photographs; often of well-known images, such as Marilyn Monroe.
To me, they seem to be statements referring to society and perhaps the inherent sexism Kruger faced growing up in America during the latter half of the last century.
I may be wrong, but that is just what I think. Freedom of speech, right to express and hold opinions yada yada yada…
Waiting for a friend at Oxford Circus yesterday evening was possibly one of the single most horrific experiences in the history of waiting.
Central London at the best of times, never mind rush hour, is an asylum of fast-moving, rude people. I can’t deal with it – neither physically nor mentally.
People push and shove. And they get in my way. Perhaps my lad-back pace is sometimes a little too laid-back for London life?
I often feel as though I’ve been thrust into the bowels of hell where Lucifer and his minions continually pester me. And get in my way when I’m going places.
Don’t get me wrong, I love living in London. I just wish there was less people sometimes!
Anyway – Oxford Circus yesterday evening…
Not only was there a copious amount of people, but also there were also some idiots collecting for charity.
I call them ‘idiots’ because they were dressed in grass skirts and coconut bras. They were also male. And they would not be quiet!
“I’ve been standing here for 12 hours – I’m tired!”
I haven’t been home since 7.30am. I’m tired.
“Give me your coppers and five pence pieces and you’ll go home feeling a little better about yourself.”
No I won’t. I’ll give you five pence to shut up though.
“If you’ve seen anything more hideous today, then you don’t have to give me any money.”
Thank God for that. I see something more hideous every day – my reflection in the mirror first thing in the morning.
Don’t mistake what I mean by this though – I am not an uncharitable person. I just don’t like to be nagged and generally support the same charities I feel passionately about.
Unfortunately, Help the Aged is not one of them.
Why should I help the aged?
It is in my humble opinion that the aged are of no use to society when they reach that ‘aged’ age. I’m not entirely sure what age that is though…
I have great plans to be cryogenically frozen however, and then I will never have to deal with being ‘aged’, or allowing idiots to collect money on my behalf.
In all seriousness though, the prospect of being old scares me; not being able to do things for myself, being feeble, not having my own teeth. God forbid!
And it’s not just the getting old part. It’s the getting older part as well.
I’m only 22, yet I continually examine my face, worrying about fine lines. Who’s the idiot now?!
More so, getting older means acting more mature. Where has my childhood gone?!
It is no longer acceptable to ‘play’. As an adult, it is often frowned upon and I hate that.
Why can’t I play?
The reason children are so content in comparison to adults is because they have ‘playtime’. They can be silly, foolish, laugh, giggle, paint with their hands, paint with their feet, imagine…
Who wants to give up all of that? Is Help the Aged going to resolve these problems?
Disclaimer: I don’t really hate old people. It’s a rainy day in June and I’m tired. I’ve been sitting at a computer screen all week, so just give me all your money and I’ll stop moaning…
The world is a busy, busy place. Despite training in journalism and the amount of newspapers I read – not a lot at the minute, admittedly - I often forget that so much can happen in a short space of time.
Part of the world of journalism is to follow the agenda and give the public the stories they want to hear about, whilst selling as many copies of your newspaper or drawing the attention of as many viewers as possible.
In this respect, so much goes on in the world that we just don’t know about. Sometimes too, they are things that perhaps we don’t want to know about.
Children and young adults go missing, shops get robbed, cars crash, human rights are abused.
All such mundane things, right? Perhaps.
Perhaps it’s just too much for us to take in. Should we have to be given bad news all the time? Can’t journalists tell us something good?
What if there isn’t anything good to tell?
Yesterday, walking through the glorious streets of Harrow, I was handed a leaflet from a member of the Tamil Community Centre.
“The most violent place in Asia at the moment is Sri Lanka, and the state has not taken any serious steps to bring it under control.”
These words immediately leap out at me, grabbing my attention and drawing me into Sri Lanka’s story.
According to the International Human Rights Day Statement, published in December 2006 on the Human Rights blog, Sri Lanka is incredibly violent at the moment.
The state blames the Tamil people for creating the violence in the country, who in turn blame the government for the overuse of its military and paramilitary forces. There is talk of a war from both sides.
Despite worldwide criticism of, and various inquiries into abductions, disappearances, extrajudicial killings and torture, there is still a lack of hope that the violence will relent.
According to the Human Rights blog, the violence in Sri Lanka has been aggravated by the collapse of the rule of law for a significant length of time.
“The policing system suffers from an institutional collapse; the judiciary is faced with a serious crises; the government lacks the capacity to carry out its normal functions of protection. Meanwhile, the enforcement of strict emergency regulations will only aggravate the violent situation, and there are no local or international initiatives to address the problems plaguing the country.”
The assistant secretary of state for south and central Asian affairs, Richard A. Boucher, said of the crisis:
“We remain very concerned about some of the killings, the killings of aid workers, killings of people at various places in the island that have occurred in the last year or so… We’ve seen reports of intimidation, reports of government power being used on newspapers and journalists; and then, of course, we’ve seen killings and violent acts committed against newspapers and journalists.”
A lot going on everyday in the world. Big Brother, anyone?!
It might sound strange, a 22-year-old girl from the northeast of England, paying tribute to someone from a completely different generation.
However, there is a very good reason for this.
I finally finished Cash’s autobiography earlier this week, after struggling through for the past five months.
It wasn’t a struggle because it was badly written or uninteresting, but rather because my brain wouldn’t work.
Halfway through, I just couldn’t read anymore. Not just that, but anything.
Not any other books, stories, newspapers or magazines.
I fell out of love with reading, you could say, and this was an incredibly disastrous occurrence.
I love nothing more than delving into a good book and getting lost for a few hours. So, to be unable to do that was really difficult.
I knew why I couldn’t read anymore, but I didn’t understand it. It was as though a part of myself had died.
My love of literature had died and I was devastated.
Anyway, I’m veering from the point of my blog now, which is paying tribute to Johnny Cash of course.
As I said, I’ve finally finished his autobiography and what a read it was!
I found a strange affinity with a lot of parts of his story.
Just to set things straight though, I’ve never been addicted to drugs in the way he was, I’m not as musically talented as he was and nor did I grow up in the southern states of the USA 50 years ago!
However, when it comes to what Cash writes about grief, then I can identify.
Having experienced grief a few times in my life, I found the following passage so poignant to how I felt, and still feel at times:
"Losing Jack was terrible. It was awful at the time and it's still a big, cold sad place in my heart and soul. There's no way around grief and loss: you can dodge it all you want, but sooner or later you just have to go into it, through it, and, hopefully, come out the other side. The world you find there will never be the same as the world you left."
I’ve always felt alone in my grief. My pain. My heartache.
But the above passage just reminded that everyone feels exactly the same when dreadful things happen.
Yes; different people react in different ways. There is no set course for how grief will affect you. How it will utterly change your life and your outlook on life.
One thing I have learnt, from what Cash wrote and from my own experiences, is that you do come out the other side – even though for so long it was virtually impossible to see that other side, it is there.
And when you climb through, even though the world is a completely different place - emptier too in some respects – the incredible amount of strength and wisdom you gain will never leave you.
Just to finish off, some lyrics from the man himself (although it is a cover)…
If you could read my mind, love, What a tale my thoughts could tell. Just like an old time movie, 'Bout a ghost from a wishing well. In a castle dark or a fortress strong, With chains upon my feet. You know that ghost is me. And I will never be set free As long as I'm a ghost that you can't see.
If I could read your mind, love, What a tale your thoughts could tell. Just like a paperback novel, The kind the drugstores sell. When you reached the part where the heartaches come, The hero would be me. But heroes often fail, And you won't read that book again Because the ending's just too hard to take!
I'd walk away like a movie star Who gets burned in a three way script. Enter number two: A movie queen to play the scene Of bringing all the good things out in me. But for now, love, let's be real; I never thought I could act this way And I've got to say that I just don't get it. I don't know where we went wrong, But the feeling's gone And I just can't get it back.
If you could read my mind, love, What a tale my thoughts could tell. Just like an old time movie, 'Bout a ghost from a wishing well. In a castle dark or a fortress strong. With chains upon my feet. But stories always end, And if you read between the lines, You'll know that I'm just tryin' to understand The feelin's that you lack. I never thought I could feel this way And I've got to say that I just don't get it. I don't know where we went wrong, But the feelin's gone And I just can't get it back.
... with a little understanding. You can find the perfect blend!
If rumours are to be believed, the BBC will soon be losing this perfect blend - much to my horror and indignation.
And I'm sure this will also horrify the masses of students and old people whose lives are made meaningful by this Australian soap.
Speculation is rife that the BBC is not looking to renew its contract to air Neighbours.
Instead, it is up against ITV 2 and Channel 5.
This would indeed be a televisual atrocity and treason on the part of the BBC.
Neighbours is a national institution.
How will students cope without it?! We won't be able to judge the correct lunchtime, teatime and nap time.
The world will come to a stand still. There'll be nothing to do. We'll have to actually do 'work'. God forbid.
I for one am completely against such heinous crimes.
Having been a Neighbour devotee since the tender age of three, I cannot possibly imagine life without the Kennedys, the Robinsons and good old Jelly Belly.
I shudder to think.
The BBC must be stopped!
Neighbours is more than just television; its a way of life. If the BBC do indeed scrap it, there will be public outcry. Riots. An apocalypse.
Travel journalism. User generated material! I'm so bored. His voice makes me more sleepy. I don't care. Who cares about spa towns of Britain? Who cares how they evoke the past? Spain is nice. I like it. I wish I could still speak fluently. Why does he have to like spain though? Spain is my country. Russia too. And Norway. I am the world. It is mine. My oyster.
So much left to do, but when can I do it all? Can I do it all? I want to do it all but what if I can't do it all? Fear. Scared. Worry. Anxiety. Too much anxiety. Unable to sit still. Unable to concentrate.
He's reading a story. A story about his travels in Spain. I DON'T CARE.
The back of my neck hurts. I've been awake too long. Tiredness bleeds behind eyes.
Raspberries are tasty. Grey sky. Mongrel dogs? Who cares?!
I wish I had more Malteasers. These chairs are not comfy. I wish I was better at creative writing – better poet. There's a boy who I like but he is not here. Vodka. Want. Russia is my country. I want to go, know, see, learn, speak. Hideous place. Not there, but here.
Flowers pretty springtime. Where do sunflowers grow?! Is he talking about travel writing or the history of pesticide and drugs? Bubbles bursting. Race riots. Ability to entertain and bring in serious issues. I am not entertained.
My serious issue is me. I am an issue. Anxiety worry depression boredom lack of concentration need a drink metallic mouth insomnia fidget. I can't sit still
Food and travel. I like food. Malteasers, cheesecake, bananas, blueberry muffin b b b b My appetite escapes. I want food but I don't want food.
He says he travels a lot. Lucky him. No need to rub it in. give me money – I will travel. Travel the world. My world. My oyster. To the moon and back. Man on the moon. Neil Armstrong. Strong arms. I have weak arms. Drained and exhausted.
Audio and video for mainstream media websites. Business travel. New York! New York! The big apple. Is it red or green? Royal gala or golden delicious?
He's STILL talking. I must keep writing thinking doing. If I stop, I could pass out.
He's trying to kill me. Vendetta. He knows I don't care and he is talking (taking?) his revenge. Revenge. A dish best served cold. How cold? Frozen
Is stream of consciousness good? Virginia Woolf Richard Hill Rosalind Hill. Write think think write Good for the soul. Let it all out.
I'm scared. The future. Its painful. I can feel the pain. Feel the pain of people I care about.
Lies. Lies disguised as honesty. Honesty is the best policy. The best? Ignorance is bliss. Bliss? Honesty hurts. Ignorance hurts. Lies hurt.
Everest – snow conditions bad. Could I climb Everest? How long would it take? I don't even know where it is. THAT is ignorance. Not bliss.
The Guardian. A guardian would be nice. To be looked after cared for protected. I wish I didn't care. Maybe too much care. Care is painful too. And drugs. My mind is messy. Messy metaphor munching mind matter and making matters more messy than metaphorical madness. Mmm mmm mmm mmm m m m m m Madness. Diary of a Madman (madwoman?) Gogol Dostoevsky Stevenson Jekyll and Hyde Doppelganger Double split personality schizophrenic Child inside wins.
Elevated music. Low rent occupation. What is he saying? Africa in the new century. Heart of Darkness. My heart of darkness. Black dark heart struggling to beat. Heart attack aorta ventricle vein capillary artery Art Artful voyeur? Seamus Heaney Billie Holiday Good Morning Heartache Good afternoon
Travel writing can be a lonely experience and can lead to drink. Experience of both Loneliness and the consuming alcohol Consume consume consume and DESTROY
Travels in Russia and Siberia. Jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds upon.
Change. I keep being promised a change. I can't believe anymore. I doubt fear worry. 13.40pm there's still 20 mins left of torture
Is there a point anymore? This career tortures me I want to write but they give me rules to follow. Why do I have to follow the rules? Rules and regulation generate corruption and boredom. Bored bored bored bored bored I want to live but I am being bored to death Need for escape There's silence in the room. Have I died? Or just sleeping? Oh sleep! Precious precious sleep – how it is missed! I think this is the most notes I've ever taken in a lecture.
I speak to my mum every day. And recently, we’ve been emailing almost every day as well.
You’d think we’d run out of thinks to tell each other, but you would be wrong.
There’s always something to talk about with my mum. She is a fountain of knowledge.
Recently she reminded me of a Greek myth which I had learnt about many years ago. When I was in primary school, to be exact.
Anyway, I just thought I would share it…
Pandora’s Box.
Pandora was the first woman in Greek mythology.
Zeus ordered Hephaestus to make her as part of a punishment to mankind for Prometheus’s theft of the secret of fire.
Zeus was enraged by this theft and swore vengeance for man trying to obtain the secrets of the gods.
Hephaestus worked hard and created a clay masterpiece for Zeus.
Athena, goddess of wisdom, breathed life into her, taught her to weave and clothed her.
Aphrodite, goddess of love, made her beautiful.
Hermes taught her to charm and deceive.
Zeus was pleased with the creation, but had made her as a trap for Prometheus’s brother, Epimetheus.
Zeus named the woman ‘Pandora’ and sent her as a gift to Epimetheus, who had ignored Prometheus’s warnings not to trust Zeus.
Epimetheus fell in love with Pandora and married her.
Zeus, pleased that his manipulative plan was working, gave Pandora a beautiful box as a wedding gift. However, she was never allowed to open the box.
Pandora often wondered what was in the box but she was never left alone to be able to open it.
She began to wonder more and more what was in the box - she didn’t know why someone would send her a gift that she could not see!
It became very important to find out what was in there.
She could stand it no longer.
One day when everyone was out she crept up to the box, took the huge key, put it in the lock and turned. She lifted the lid.
But before she had a chance to look, the room had been filled with dreadful things.
Disease, despair, malice, greed, old age, death, hatred, violence, cruelty and war.
She slammed the lid down, keeping only the spirit of hope inside.
Mrs. H’s Moral to the Story:
To this day sometimes when things are really bad the only thing we have left is hope.
Hope was the last thing out of Pandora's Box following all the evils and tragedies of life - no matter what happens to you the hope of better things will sustain you.
It is the last gift in that, no matter how bleak things appear, hope is there in that you know it will pass.
I’m not a misanthropist, but I do not like people sometimes.
People get in my way and this makes me angry. Can’t people see me coming?!
They should.
And then they should get out of my way!
Especially when I have a boiling hot cup of tea in my hand!
Said boiling hot cup of tea was in my hand when I was strolling to a lecture down ‘The Street’ at Harrow Campus yesterday.
It was like a jungle trying to manoeuvre my way through the throngs of students and lecturers. Also randomly, policemen and a multitude of people with cameras.
Every single one of them getting in my way.
I left the refectory after buying my tea and suddenly, there was a wall of people crowded at the top of the stairs.
My anxiety exploded and I could literally see myself covered in tea.
Climbing the stairs tentatively, I attempted to guard my tea and squirm through the jungle.
Alas, the animals in the jungle got in my way. Not because they were walking, but rather, standing and talking.
Not moving. Getting in my way.
I finally made it through alive, without a burn in sight.
Then came ‘The Street’.
For some reason unbeknownst to me and my intrepid companion, there were a few people with video cameras and digital cameras.
I ponder why, but mainly worry about people getting in my way.
They bang into me. Don’t they have any consideration for people with hot drinks?!
“They wouldn’t like it if I split my tea on them!” I exclaim.
For a while I consider throwing it at someone as my rage continues to boil as hot as my drink.
Thankfully for them though, I made it to my lecture alive.
Moral of the story? Other people ruin everything.
And in case you haven’t noticed by now, I do not like it when people get in my way.
It wasn’t even midday before I was sitting in Caffe Nero, labouring over a nice cup of tea.
The day had already got off to a bad start.
I had woken at 5.30am after a night of restless ‘sleep’, tossing and turning.
I eventually dragged myself to shower at nine, only to be greeted by the screeeeeeeching halls fire alarm when I got out.
There was no way I was going downstairs! I was stark naked!
“I’ll just have to fry!” I thought.
Then, the wankers who run and work in my halls (yes, ‘wanker’ is appropriate) denied me the only pleasure I have in my life, and certainly one I look forward to upon waking…
A Nice Cup of Tea.
Admittedly, I’ve become a little obsessed (addicted?) with tea of late.
I’m not allowed to drink, and I’ve supposedly ‘given up’ chocolate and sweets for Lent.
Supposedly.
Henceforth, the NCOT (Nice Cup of Tea) has become a firm staple in my diet recently.
I truly believe that it is the drink of heaven.
But seriously, it does hold the solution to all of life’s problems, great and small.
“I’ve broken a nail!” – have an NCOT.
“I’ve failed my exams!” – NCOT.
“My brother is an idiot!” – NCOT.
Like I said; all of life’s problems!
But where does this wondrous drink come from?!
And why is it that to be a fan of tea is considered quintessentially English?!
Well, I decided to investigate and turned to the fountain of knowledge that is wikipedia…
The Science Bit. Tea is made by steeping leaves, buds or twigs from the tea bush in hot water for a few minutes.
Obviously.
There are four basic types of true tea: black tea, oolong tea, green tea, and white tea.
The term ‘herbal tea’ usually refers to infusions of fruit or of herbs that do not contain any of the tea plant.
The tea plant itself generally grows in tropical climates, and apparently prefers acidic soils. Not being a scientist or geologist, I have no idea what this means. Sounds good though…
Tea is great. It is a natural source of caffeine and has almost no carbohydrates, fat or protein!
It also contains a type of antioxidant called catechins. The Chinese. The origins of human use of tea are described in several myths, but it is unknown as to where tea was first created as a drink.
One popular legend from China tells how the Emperor Shennong, known for his wisdom and scientific knowledge, believed that the safest way to drink water was by boiling it first.
One day he noticed some leaves had fallen into his boiling water.
Shennong took a sip of the brew and was surprised by its flavour and restorative properties.
Whether or not this and other legends are based on fact, it is true that tea has played a significant role in Asian culture for centuries as a staple beverage, a curative, and a symbol of status.
The Chinese have enjoyed tea for centuries, with the earliest records of tea drinking dating back to the first millennium BC. Tea Spreads To Europe. It is believed that tea spread to Europe during the 15th and 16th centuries, quickly becoming popular with the rich in France and the Netherlands.
English use of tea dates from about 1650.
The high demand for tea in Britain caused a huge trade deficit with China.
Using seeds smuggled from China, Britain managed to set up tea plantations in parts of India.
This created the modern tea industries of Assam tea and Darjeeling tea.
Britain also tried to balance the trade deficit by selling opium to the Chinese, which later led to the First Opium War in 1838–1842.
As a result, Great Britain established Hong Kong as a colony, largely to facilitate the trade of tea. World War II and Beyond. During World War II, tea was rationed.
I feel that this would have been horrific.
After the war however, Tetley launched the tea bag and it was an immediate success.
The convenience of the tea bag revolutionized how we drink our tea and now the traditional tea pot has given way to making tea in a cup using a tea bag.
And that, my friends, is the marvel of tea.
I’ve certainly learnt a lot and feel that it is about time for yet another NCOT…
The last few months and the last week in particular have eventually caught up with me. I’m not really sad anymore though. I’m not stupidly crying for no reason.
Instead, I think I’m in a state of shock. Stunned at recent and past events, and a little scared for the future.
My brain still doesn’t work though. Some days people talk to me and it just goes straight through me.
‘What?’ I ask in a daze.
I don’t know whats going on half the time. Don’t understand. Its all so confusing.
Its all so hard and just need a return to normality.
Slowly and surely though, I can see it coming.
This morning even, something clicked.
I read my horoscope courtesy of the magazine at Westminster News Online and Mystic Ed Hammond (I think he is actually psychic):
“Having narrowly escaped death last week it is time to embrace living. Don't do something amazing, the world is full of idiots doing amazing things, just do something that makes you smile.”
And then this song came onto my I-Tunes, as if heralding the whole need for ‘normal’ that I so desperately want…
Down down, you bring me down I hear you knocking down my door and I can't sleep at night
Your face, it has no place No room for you inside my house I need to be alone
Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you I don't care where you've been or what you plan to do
Turn turn, I wish you'd learn There's a time and place for everything I've got to get it through
Cut loose, cause you're no use I couldn't stand another second in your company
Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you I don't care where you've been or what you plan to do
Stone me, why can't you see You're a no-one nowhere washed up baby who'd look better dead
Your tongue is far too long I don't like the way it sucks and slurps upon my every word
Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you I don't care where you've been or what you plan to do
I am the resurrection and I am the light I couldn't ever bring myself to hate you as I'd like
I am the resurrection and I am the light I couldn't ever bring myself to hate you as I'd like
So generally I do not have one favourite book, but rather lots of favourite books for different reasons.
Books that make me laugh to books that make me cry, books that send shivers down my spine to books that act as a comfort and give me strength.
The last one might sound a little strange, but depending on what events are going on in my world or the type of mood I’m in, I can always rely on a book to escape to – to take my mind away when the going gets tough or to inspire me.
One such book is Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.
Admittedly, I’ve only read it a few times and never actually chose to read it at first. It was given as a set text as part of my English degree and I only first picked it up around a year ago.
To be honest, I thought it was complete rubbish at first but as you read on, you really get into Tess’s story.
Tess is from a poor family but is forced to claim kinship with the wealthy D’Urbervilles and seek a portion of their family fortune.
Unfortunately, it is upon meeting her ‘cousin’ that Tess’s downfall ensues.
Without spoiling the book, Tess is the epitome of a wronged woman – marginalized and made to be a scapegoat by the masculine world in which she lives.
Despite being written in the 19th century, the experiences of Tess and the themes in the novel are universal – something that people everywhere will have experienced at some point in their own lives.
Something that you can relate to.
Tess constantly seems to hit rock bottom, yet amazingly carries on. Why? Because it’s all she can do. She doesn’t give up, but gets on with life’s trials and toils.
In a weird way, this is a comfort because no matter how bad I think life might be, it’s nowhere near as terrible as the life of Tess.
I spent last week in my glorious hometown of Newcastle – partly to celebrate one of my best friend’s birthday and see all my other mates, and partly so that I could get a copious amount of hugs from the infamous Mrs. H.
Returning to London was much the same as it was after Christmas – I didn’t want to come back.
Recently, I just haven’t felt comfortable in London. Not because I don’t enjoy living here or like the people I’ve met here, but because I always feel an overwhelming need to run home and get a hug. That’s obviously the seven-year old girl inside me!
So partly to satisfy my childish need for my mum to look after me, and partly to ‘seize the day’, I made a rash but executive decision to book yet more tickets home next week.
Not good at all for my ever-dwindling bank balance, but definitely good for the soul!
I’ve learnt a lot these past few months and I’m still learning.
I’m not talking about media law or feature writing, but weird life lessons – the kind you only learn when some major event happens and you realize how precious certain things and people are to you.
Certain people - my family and my friends.
In particular, friends that I haven’t seen in such a long time because its true that you don’t know what you’ve got until its gone and it hurts to have these kind of regrets in life. Regretting that you should have called someone or seen someone, even just text someone a lot more than you did.
So I’m going back to Newcastle for a University reunion – for my old housemate’s birthday and to see all my friends who I haven’t seen since last summer. To make an effort and seize the day.
I haven’t been sleeping too well recently – either it will take me a long time to get to sleep or I’ll nod off straight away but wake up ridiculously early. Either way, I’ll wake up countless times during the night.
So in a bid to rectify this and wear myself out, I’ve recently taken up running again.
Although there is the inevitable pain, sweat and tears, I actually enjoy running – it is probably the only time that I NEVER think too much. I can’t. I’m too busy concentrating on not slipping in the mud, running into someone or just toppling over altogether.
I’ve enjoyed running from an early age and all modesty aside, I used to be quite good at it. That is, before I got older and lazier!
I started running at primary school, when I was about nine. I remember because my school got new cross country tracksuits for the team which me and a few others had to model for everyone in mass one day. Classy.
I was always picked to represent the school at competitions, either in sprinting or in cross country. This continued into secondary school where the teachers made me do the 1500 metres all the time, despite my protestations that I preferred the 800 metres or cross country. They ignored me.
Then, I think at 16, I just stopped running. I don’t really know why – probably the whole thing with being a teenager?!
I regret this. Not only because ever since I started university the first time round I wanted to take it up again but was just too lazy and/or hung-over, and secondly because now I’m crap.
My good friend Kate Bermingham had a nasty experience with a nice run in the countryside over the Christmas period, and while running can be a horrific experience, I think that the urban landscape can be much more hospitable than the countryside.
But I think my main secrets for running success are good trainers and inspirational music; Rocky Balboa style.
Although, ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen is pretty fantastic and will suffice!
As part of my incredibly interesting work experience at Health Service Journal, and I’m not being sarcastic, I attended ‘The Future of Nursing’ conference today.
It was actually fairly interesting, with a lot of big-wig types from the industry making presentations about the challenge of nursing, the opportunities it offers and the need to develop educational resources for example.
And then there was David Cameron…
In his address to the conference, Mr. Cameron asserted that the Conservatives would be making the NHS a political priority.
Nurses are the NHS he said, and if the government can get nursing right, then they will get the NHS right.
Healthcare in Britain is constantly changing and nurses play a huge part in every aspect of that change
Cameron said he believed that past governments have tended to approach the NHS like a machine, thinking that it can be reorganized without consideration for the people.
The conservatives will pledge “no more pointless reorganizations. No more restructuring at the expense of the people who work in the system.”
Currently, there is disillusionment with target culture which is endemic within the NHS, he said. Healthcare workers should focus on patients and not on government targets
Despite this, Mr. Cameron also said that he wants the NHS to exceed European averages in survival and recovery rates. Surely this is a political target, even though he said that he wants to take the politics out of the day-to-day running of the NHS?
Cameron also had some interesting things to say about employment in the nursing field, which can be seen at BBC online.
So to conclude, today was fairly interesting. David Cameron is a good public speaker and really engaged my attention. He was also wearing a nice tie. It was green.
It took the best part of two hours to get home this evening.
Two hours.
I could have gotten half way to Newcastle in that time, had GNER not cancelled its trains in and out of King’s Cross.
The reason? Wind.
Now this may be a silly question, but how on earth is the British transport system to cope with the inevitable effects of global warming if the entire underground and many rail services go to pot because it’s a little bit blowy outside?!
Forget the threat of global terrorism, it seems that the most pressing thing that Mr. Blair’s government should ‘waste’ our money on is transport and climate change…
Just a thought.
(The picture is an artist's impression of the wind blowing the trees. Don't be confused by the jovial expression on Mr. Wind's face. He is really mean and full of rage. "Grr" was his only comment.)
