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…
Pulp like to Help the Aged.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Wonders of the World
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?!
www.humanrightsblog.org
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?!
www.humanrightsblog.org
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Johnny Cash: A Tribute to the Man in Black
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.
Johnny Cash, 1932-2003.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Everybody Needs Good Neighbours...
... 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.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Lecture Stream Of Consciousness
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
Soviet bureaucracy
Communism socialism Marxism
Dogmatic corruption – rife, universal, encompassing
Communism fascism nationalism Catholicism, any ism. Idealism. Democracy-ism. Journalism.
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.
The creative stimulation of BOREDOM.
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
Soviet bureaucracy
Communism socialism Marxism
Dogmatic corruption – rife, universal, encompassing
Communism fascism nationalism Catholicism, any ism. Idealism. Democracy-ism. Journalism.
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.
The creative stimulation of BOREDOM.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
There's Always Hope...
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.
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.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
People!
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.
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.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Tea-rrific!
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 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…
Saturday, March 10, 2007
I Am The Resurrection
I’m worn out. Exhausted. Drained.
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
‘I Am the Resurrection’ By The Stone Roses.
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
‘I Am the Resurrection’ By The Stone Roses.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Book of The Day!
I love to read. A lot.
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Potty Problems?
As with every day, Mother Nature tends to call now and again.
Recently, I ‘paid a visit’ in the ladies on the second floor of our beloved J block at the University of Westminster’s Harrow Campus.
I sat down and was quietly doing my ‘business’ when I noticed a sign on the back of the door which read:
I could just be a trifle pedantic and petty, but could someone please tell me the best way to ‘minimise use’?!
As far as I am concerned, if I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go. Should I really risk my life and hold it all in for five hours every day?!
Recently, I ‘paid a visit’ in the ladies on the second floor of our beloved J block at the University of Westminster’s Harrow Campus.
I sat down and was quietly doing my ‘business’ when I noticed a sign on the back of the door which read:
I could just be a trifle pedantic and petty, but could someone please tell me the best way to ‘minimise use’?!
As far as I am concerned, if I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go. Should I really risk my life and hold it all in for five hours every day?!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Seizing The Day
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 ne
ed 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.
And to get a hug from Mrs. H of course!
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 ne
ed 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.
And to get a hug from Mrs. H of course!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
On Running (Part Two).
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!
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!
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Future of Nursing.
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.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Answer Is Blowin’ In The Wind.
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Friends Reunited
When I was younger I heard someone say, "You can never go home again". I have never really believed this.
Coming back to Newcastle means seeing my family and of course, my friends.
These are friends that I grew up with, went to school with, first got drunk with and celebrated A-Level results with before we all went our separate ways.
I've always tried to keep in touch with a lot of these people - they are all brilliant in their own unique ways.
I don't always get to see most of them as much as I would like though. Some have moved away, some have varying work commitments and others have started families of their own - something completely remote to the world in which I revolve.
Recently a friend of mine, Daniel Bolger, got a lot of us together, including people I haven't seen for years. It was so strange to see everyone again.
Louise - my best and weirdest friend from High School.
Jenny - the girl I sat next to in GCSE Maths.
Liam - a musical genius and my drumming idol.
Gemma - my favourite playmate in Primary School.
Ryan - my High School crush for a long time.
Ruth - the RE teacher's daughter.
Of course, there were many more - such an eclectic bunch of people. People I'm proud to say I know.
Daniel too. A maths graduate from Cambridge University, an incredibly talented musician and a great person.
On November 26, Daniel was reported missing from his home in Cambridge.
On Thursday December 7, Daniel's body was found in the River Cam.
It is a tragedy that it was only an event as devastating and as crushing as this which brought my old school and college friends together.
I often regret not keeping in touch with many of the people I was such good friends with all those years ago.
I will always regret not keeping in touch with Dan as much as I could have.
My friends are so important to me. They make up a second family - people I turn to when my parents, brother or sister can't help.
I know that these friendships will be eternal. The amount of time between seeing each other might inevitably increase with age but one thing I am sure of is that they will always have time for me.
Coming back to Newcastle means seeing my family and of course, my friends.
These are friends that I grew up with, went to school with, first got drunk with and celebrated A-Level results with before we all went our separate ways.
I've always tried to keep in touch with a lot of these people - they are all brilliant in their own unique ways.
I don't always get to see most of them as much as I would like though. Some have moved away, some have varying work commitments and others have started families of their own - something completely remote to the world in which I revolve.
Recently a friend of mine, Daniel Bolger, got a lot of us together, including people I haven't seen for years. It was so strange to see everyone again.
Louise - my best and weirdest friend from High School.
Jenny - the girl I sat next to in GCSE Maths.
Liam - a musical genius and my drumming idol.
Gemma - my favourite playmate in Primary School.
Ryan - my High School crush for a long time.
Ruth - the RE teacher's daughter.
Of course, there were many more - such an eclectic bunch of people. People I'm proud to say I know.
Daniel too. A maths graduate from Cambridge University, an incredibly talented musician and a great person.
On November 26, Daniel was reported missing from his home in Cambridge.
On Thursday December 7, Daniel's body was found in the River Cam.
It is a tragedy that it was only an event as devastating and as crushing as this which brought my old school and college friends together.
I often regret not keeping in touch with many of the people I was such good friends with all those years ago.
I will always regret not keeping in touch with Dan as much as I could have.
My friends are so important to me. They make up a second family - people I turn to when my parents, brother or sister can't help.
I know that these friendships will be eternal. The amount of time between seeing each other might inevitably increase with age but one thing I am sure of is that they will always have time for me.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Trains, (No) Planes and Automobiles.
This past week I've done the King's Cross-Newcastle route three times.
Something I can always expect is an uncomfortable journey - usually caused by crap seats.
There is no feasible way to ensure comfort. I always get neck pains and find it easier to slouch but this in turn causes back pain...
I started thinking of this blog at 10:15pm on December 14. I expect to arrive in Newcastle at 1am and I'm Having a truly joyous journey.
Sense the sarcasm.
Having set off with 'enough' time to catch the train, I was met with horror just outside Baker Street, where the tube stopped for 20 minutes.
I have never prayed so hard to be on time in my life and almost cried as hope seemed to fade.
Thankfully, I made it into King's Cross with 30 minutes to spare. Phew!
Little did I know, but a further disaster awaited...
The usually very helpful people at GNER had managed to mess up my tickets which the 'Fast' Ticket machine refused to spit out. Nightmare.
I join the queue and I wait.
I continue to wait.
I approach the counter and explain my problem.
"Call Telesales using the red phone at the end of the desk," I'm told.
The phone looks like some sort of political hot line from the Cold War. And that's exactly what it was. Cold.
I rejoin the queue.
I approach the counter.
I explain the problem. Again.
After waiting and crying like a complete neurotic, the lady eventually prints me a new ticket.
Five minutes to departure. Shit.
I run. People get in my way and my blood boils. But still I run and by some miracle (it is Christmas after all), I get on the train and slump into my seat.
Time to relax. Or so I thought...
I really hate it when all you want to do is sit back, chill out and have a peaceful journey home, but two hyperactive five-year-olds ruin it for you.
Surely at 10.30 at night the little cretins would be too worn out to create untold amounts of noise?! Not so.
They giggle and they scream, causing me to frown like a disapproving old lady.
Normally kids don't bother me, but right now I'm tired, irritable and in a right foul fettle. So much so that if I had magic powers, my eyes would definitely be shooting daggers at all and sundry!
I have over two hours left of this agony.
All I can do is pray that the brats actually manage to wear themselves out and fall asleep, providing me with the much longed for peaceful atmosphere in carriage E of the 21:00 GNER service to Newcastle.
Well, it is nearly Christmas and sometimes miracles do actually happen...
Something I can always expect is an uncomfortable journey - usually caused by crap seats.
There is no feasible way to ensure comfort. I always get neck pains and find it easier to slouch but this in turn causes back pain...
I started thinking of this blog at 10:15pm on December 14. I expect to arrive in Newcastle at 1am and I'm Having a truly joyous journey.
Sense the sarcasm.
Having set off with 'enough' time to catch the train, I was met with horror just outside Baker Street, where the tube stopped for 20 minutes.
I have never prayed so hard to be on time in my life and almost cried as hope seemed to fade.
Thankfully, I made it into King's Cross with 30 minutes to spare. Phew!
Little did I know, but a further disaster awaited...
The usually very helpful people at GNER had managed to mess up my tickets which the 'Fast' Ticket machine refused to spit out. Nightmare.
I join the queue and I wait.
I continue to wait.
I approach the counter and explain my problem.
"Call Telesales using the red phone at the end of the desk," I'm told.
The phone looks like some sort of political hot line from the Cold War. And that's exactly what it was. Cold.
I rejoin the queue.
I approach the counter.
I explain the problem. Again.
After waiting and crying like a complete neurotic, the lady eventually prints me a new ticket.
Five minutes to departure. Shit.
I run. People get in my way and my blood boils. But still I run and by some miracle (it is Christmas after all), I get on the train and slump into my seat.
Time to relax. Or so I thought...
I really hate it when all you want to do is sit back, chill out and have a peaceful journey home, but two hyperactive five-year-olds ruin it for you.
Surely at 10.30 at night the little cretins would be too worn out to create untold amounts of noise?! Not so.
They giggle and they scream, causing me to frown like a disapproving old lady.
Normally kids don't bother me, but right now I'm tired, irritable and in a right foul fettle. So much so that if I had magic powers, my eyes would definitely be shooting daggers at all and sundry!
I have over two hours left of this agony.
All I can do is pray that the brats actually manage to wear themselves out and fall asleep, providing me with the much longed for peaceful atmosphere in carriage E of the 21:00 GNER service to Newcastle.
Well, it is nearly Christmas and sometimes miracles do actually happen...
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Call For Articles
I've just spent the last four hours trying to complete my one features page for the next issue of The Smoke.
I did not finish and I'm literally pulling my hair out!
Not to worry though - its not that great a features page!
But, if any Westminster students have any features they would like to see in The Smoke after Christmas, I will not say 'no'!
Also, I'm really interested in any travel writing as well as anything else - send me an email: smokefeatures@gmail.com
This is all.
I did not finish and I'm literally pulling my hair out!
Not to worry though - its not that great a features page!
But, if any Westminster students have any features they would like to see in The Smoke after Christmas, I will not say 'no'!
Also, I'm really interested in any travel writing as well as anything else - send me an email: smokefeatures@gmail.com
This is all.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
12.05 University of Westminster
The main film studio, Harrow Campus.
Brightness. Big metal lights with big, black shutters glare.
“What you doin’ there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
The Essay.
Laughter and murmur.
“Anne sent an email”
Clink clink. Metal on metal. Screws unwind and come loose.
Tap tap. Bang.
“What kind of thing do you get analysed on for our essay?”
“What you mean?”
Mumble mumble. Inaudible sounds.
“Detail, detail, detail.”
Cone Head.
Lights glare.
PVC and a cone head. Red finger nails and a huge hooked nose – he looks confused. Is this normal? Everyone acts normal. They know what they are doing.
“Can I steal this chair?”
Cone head rolls the red chair away, wheels giggling on the floor.
A blonde girl wraps her hair around her fingers and talks about bread.
Cone head roams the room. Uncomfortably. The bread is fascinating.
Bang bang.
“Don’t move. We’re ready.”
“Are you guys filmin now?”
“I’ll sort you’re ‘ed out.”
The red finger nails caress the cone head.
Voices lower, inaudible murmurs.
Rustle rustle.
Cone head glides across the room, his black PVC cloak swooshing with his every movement.
“Does your nose get in the way of drinking that?”
“I need some sort of straw.”
“Imagine doin’ coke with a nose like that!”
Cone head admires his nails: “At this moment I couldn’t be much happier with life. It expresses my inner joy.”
“He was meant to be a Jew wasn’t he?!”
The Girl in The Green Jumper.
“Does anyone mind if I go out for a cigarette?”
Feet pace. Tapping sounds. Tap tap. Tap tap.
A zip. Rustling in a bag.
“Cunningly disguised as work”
The girl in green rolls a cigarette, tobacco falling to the floor. She taps her cigarette on the faux wood, cheap plastic table. A sound faintly heard.
She rustles her tobacco pouch and plays with a lighter.
Click click. It works. A yellow flame rises from its red encasement and she leaves.
Gaffa Tape.
The purple curtain drapes itself over a white wooden board.
“Where’s the rubber bit that needs to be on there? We need gaffa tape.”
A light goes out. A little less brightness in the black room.
“Hang on! I need to get some gaffa tape!”
“We need to take this camera off and reattach it.”
Clap clap. Clap clap. Click click.
The music of hands against thighs and fingers snapping.
The boy in the red t-shirt paces, his jaw clenching as he chews gum.
Money and keys jangle in pockets. Feet slide and scrape. Sniffing stuffy noses.
“Right down on the floor.”
The lines of ancient gaffa tape are right down on the floor. A mesh of wires snake around one another in a central heap.
“Anyone seen the roll of camera tape round ere?”
Bags rustle and feet scrape.
Gaffa tape. Everywhere. Everyone has gaffa tape.
“Where’s the fuckin line?!”
Focusing.
Scrape, screech. The chair moves.
Yawns and sighs.
Papers rustle.
“Is it focused?”
“Yes”
“What about now?”
“No”
“Tell me when it looks focused.”
The Shirtless Boy.
“The light readings”
Glaring. Bright. Blinding.
A boy sits in their focus. Shirtless. On his knees.
“What do you want me to do?”
Squeak. The chair again.
The boy squirms.
More lights. Brighter.
Laughter. Murmur. Fingers tap and pens roll.
Patter patter patter. Feet wander the room.
“Stand by on set!”
Silence.
“Action!”
The boy under the lights stares at his hands.
Darkness, except for a faint glimmer of light from the corridor.
Tap tap tap tap.
The relentless tapping pursues its cause.
“Cut!”
Brightness. Big metal lights with big, black shutters glare.
“What you doin’ there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
The Essay.
Laughter and murmur.
“Anne sent an email”
Clink clink. Metal on metal. Screws unwind and come loose.
Tap tap. Bang.
“What kind of thing do you get analysed on for our essay?”
“What you mean?”
Mumble mumble. Inaudible sounds.
“Detail, detail, detail.”
Cone Head.
Lights glare.
PVC and a cone head. Red finger nails and a huge hooked nose – he looks confused. Is this normal? Everyone acts normal. They know what they are doing.
“Can I steal this chair?”
Cone head rolls the red chair away, wheels giggling on the floor.
A blonde girl wraps her hair around her fingers and talks about bread.
Cone head roams the room. Uncomfortably. The bread is fascinating.
Bang bang.
“Don’t move. We’re ready.”
“Are you guys filmin now?”
“I’ll sort you’re ‘ed out.”
The red finger nails caress the cone head.
Voices lower, inaudible murmurs.
Rustle rustle.
Cone head glides across the room, his black PVC cloak swooshing with his every movement.
“Does your nose get in the way of drinking that?”
“I need some sort of straw.”
“Imagine doin’ coke with a nose like that!”
Cone head admires his nails: “At this moment I couldn’t be much happier with life. It expresses my inner joy.”
“He was meant to be a Jew wasn’t he?!”
The Girl in The Green Jumper.
“Does anyone mind if I go out for a cigarette?”
Feet pace. Tapping sounds. Tap tap. Tap tap.
A zip. Rustling in a bag.
“Cunningly disguised as work”
The girl in green rolls a cigarette, tobacco falling to the floor. She taps her cigarette on the faux wood, cheap plastic table. A sound faintly heard.
She rustles her tobacco pouch and plays with a lighter.
Click click. It works. A yellow flame rises from its red encasement and she leaves.
Gaffa Tape.
The purple curtain drapes itself over a white wooden board.
“Where’s the rubber bit that needs to be on there? We need gaffa tape.”
A light goes out. A little less brightness in the black room.
“Hang on! I need to get some gaffa tape!”
“We need to take this camera off and reattach it.”
Clap clap. Clap clap. Click click.
The music of hands against thighs and fingers snapping.
The boy in the red t-shirt paces, his jaw clenching as he chews gum.
Money and keys jangle in pockets. Feet slide and scrape. Sniffing stuffy noses.
“Right down on the floor.”
The lines of ancient gaffa tape are right down on the floor. A mesh of wires snake around one another in a central heap.
“Anyone seen the roll of camera tape round ere?”
Bags rustle and feet scrape.
Gaffa tape. Everywhere. Everyone has gaffa tape.
“Where’s the fuckin line?!”
Focusing.
Scrape, screech. The chair moves.
Yawns and sighs.
Papers rustle.
“Is it focused?”
“Yes”
“What about now?”
“No”
“Tell me when it looks focused.”
The Shirtless Boy.
“The light readings”
Glaring. Bright. Blinding.
A boy sits in their focus. Shirtless. On his knees.
“What do you want me to do?”
Squeak. The chair again.
The boy squirms.
More lights. Brighter.
Laughter. Murmur. Fingers tap and pens roll.
Patter patter patter. Feet wander the room.
“Stand by on set!”
Silence.
“Action!”
The boy under the lights stares at his hands.
Darkness, except for a faint glimmer of light from the corridor.
Tap tap tap tap.
The relentless tapping pursues its cause.
“Cut!”
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Just a thought but...
I was shocked to read in today’s Independent that Janjaweed’s scorched earth policy sees no signs of slowing down, never mind coming to a stop.
After terrorising the people of Darfur, the militia has now crossed the border to reign terror in Chad.
Innocent and defenceless men, women and children have been burnt to death as their attackers shout “This is our land now. This will become the second republic of Sudan.”
Although I’m probably repeating something I wrote in an earlier blog, I’m still bewildered at how easily and quickly events like this take place. How they are even allowed to take place.
UN peace keeping talks concerning have halted once again while the Sudanese government has a think about how many troops they will allow to enter the region. That is, if they allow any troops to enter at all.
According to the article in The Independent, at least 23 villages in eastern Chad have been attacked since November 4.
To my mind, the actions which the Janjaweed militia is executing, with what seems like implicit support from the Sudanese government, are actions of
genocide.
They are explicitly targeting an ethnic group and murdering them as we look elsewhere.
This might be really daft, but I simply do not understand how it can be allowed to happen following the lessons we supposedly ‘learnt’ from Rwanda, Bosnia and the Holocaust.
After terrorising the people of Darfur, the militia has now crossed the border to reign terror in Chad.
Innocent and defenceless men, women and children have been burnt to death as their attackers shout “This is our land now. This will become the second republic of Sudan.”
Although I’m probably repeating something I wrote in an earlier blog, I’m still bewildered at how easily and quickly events like this take place. How they are even allowed to take place.
UN peace keeping talks concerning have halted once again while the Sudanese government has a think about how many troops they will allow to enter the region. That is, if they allow any troops to enter at all.
According to the article in The Independent, at least 23 villages in eastern Chad have been attacked since November 4.
To my mind, the actions which the Janjaweed militia is executing, with what seems like implicit support from the Sudanese government, are actions of
genocide.
They are explicitly targeting an ethnic group and murdering them as we look elsewhere.
This might be really daft, but I simply do not understand how it can be allowed to happen following the lessons we supposedly ‘learnt’ from Rwanda, Bosnia and the Holocaust.
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